But Leonora wasn’t listening.
She’d managed to remove most of the vines from the plaque.
The pond was dedicated to the memory of a child, whose birth and death dates were only fifty or so years in the past. And possessed of a depressingly small number of years between them.
The child had died long ago, but all Leonora could see was her own babe. Fully formed and so achingly sweet. A little girl, who’d not even lived long enough to draw her first breath.
Her eyes stung from the effort of holding back tears.
When she didn’t answer him, Freddy stepped up beside her so that he could read the little memorial. “Just a wee one,” he said softly, placing his hand over hers where it rested on the death date. “Darling, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I really was speaking of all those other people.”
But she was beyond that now. It seemed that every time she began to visualize a way out of her prison of loneliness, some reminder that she was not quite worthy appeared.
Whether it was Freddy’s dislike of managing a ducal household or the memorial to a child who’d died before Leonora was even born, the message was the same.
No family for you.
“I’m not angry,” she said, regaining her composure. “I was simply bothered by this small child’s memorial. Such a short life he had. It is sad. That’s all.”
He made a noise that sounded skeptical, but to her relief, he didn’t press her. “I imagine my cousin didn’t even know this plaque was here,” he said, helping her remove the rest of the vines from the stone. “It is rather like Gerard to buy something then not pay the least bit of attention to it. It’s the owning he likes, not the caring for.”
“He’s not unlike most men in that,” she said wryly. She stood and brushed her hands off on her skirts, and heard Lady Melisande calling her guests to where the army of footmen and maids who’d followed discreetly behind them as they trekked to the folly had set up a table laden with a feast far too sumptuous to be called a picnic.
“Shall we?” Frederick asked, his expression seeming to ask more than that.
Her heart constricting in her chest, Leonora put her hand in his and allowed him to lead her to the table.
Twenty-one
After the picnic lunch, which Freddy had found a trifle extravagant even for his cousin, the partygoers trekked back to the manor house. Leonora, whom he admitted with a touch of masculine pride hadn’t gotten a great deal of sleep the night before, retired for an afternoon nap, while Freddy wandered down to the library in search of one of his cousin’s uncut three-volume novels.
When he stepped into the room, however, he found that Gerard was there, albeit not immersed in a book. He was in a discussion with Lord Payne, which stopped abruptly as soon as Freddy opened the door.
“Don’t mind me,” he said, beginning to back out again.
But his cousin held up a hand. “One moment, Lord Frederick, if you please. I was just about to go in search of you, so this visit is fortuitous.”
Curious despite himself, Freddy stepped in and shut the door behind him, sensing that whatever it was that Gerard wished to discuss was not something that should be open to public scrutiny.
“How can I be of help?” he asked, taking the seat beside Lord Payne, who had stretched out his trunklike legs before him. “I must warn you that I cannot let you drive my team as promised because my leader strained a fetlock on the journey here.”
Gerard, who’d been watching him with what Freddy could only describe as a speculative expression, touched his forefingers together. “I do not wish to drive, cousin,” he said. “Besides I’m the leader of the foremost driving club in England, I’ve no doubt driven better horseflesh.”
Freddy decided it wasn’t the best time to inform his cousin that he himself didn’t have a spare carriage and he considered himself to be a fine specimen. But then he wasn’t the leader of the Lords of Anarchy. He supposed that sort of responsibility would weigh upon one.
“Then you must tell me,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll be happy to oblige if I am able.”
And if it’s legal.
“You have no notion of how happy that makes me,” Gerard said with a chuckle that sounded just the slightest bit sinister. Or perhaps that was just Freddy embellishing for his own amusement. His mind did that sometimes.
“We need you to do something as a club member,” Lord Payne said with a grin that revealed he’d partaken of the spinach pie that had been served at lunch. Rather than inform the other man, Freddy let it pass, considering that he still bore the bruises from their last encounter. “Something that you will perhaps find unpleasant.”
Since Freddy had found very little about being a member of the Lords of Anarchy to be anything remotely resembling pleasant, he was not surprised to hear it. “I will simply have to hear what it is and then make my decision.”
Gerard laughed again, this time harder. “Frederick, I vow, I find your conversation to be most amusing. Indeed, I don’t remember you being such a pleasant companion when we were lads.”
Perhaps that was because Gerard had spent much of their boyhood running after Freddy and his brothers, begging them to let him play with them, he thought ruefully. He wondered idly if their treatment of him as a boy had had some impact on the man he’d become. Then again, it was impossible to know that sort of thing. After all, he’d spent a fair enough time begging his brothers to let him in on their games and he’d turned out all right.
“I beg you will tell me what it is you ask,” he said, tiring of the suspense. “I am not a great fan of secrets, I must tell you.”
“Very well,” Lord Payne said, showing that bit of spinach again. “We have a task that must be done. And since you are the newest member of the club, it falls to you.”
“Ah.” Freddy sighed. So it was to be some unpleasant chore. Perhaps riding back to town to ask some unsuspecting fellow to pay his dues. Though come to think of it there had been no mention of dues. “Well, I feel sure it will be something I can do. Though I must warn you that I will not leave Miss Craven here alone. I take that part of my duties to her quite seriously and I would not like leaving her here in a house where she is unfamiliar with most of the other guests.”
“Your concern does you credit, cousin,” Sir Gerard said, doing that thing with his fingers again. “But I assure you that this task is one that will take but an afternoon. And you can do it here at South Haven.”
“Excellent,” Freddy said, relaxing a bit. He hadn’t liked the idea of telling Leonora that they would have to leave before solving the mystery of her brother’s death. “So, what is it, then?”
“You proved yourself to be quite accomplished when it comes to bare-knuckle fisticuffs,” Lord Payne said, grinning. Really, Freddy was going to have to tell the man about the spinach or it would turn everyone’s stomach. “We would like you to use those skills on Lord Darleigh.”
Freddy frowned as the other man’s words sank in. “You want me to fight Lord Darleigh? As much as I’d like to oblige, gentlemen, I must respectfully decline. Or haven’t you looked at my face today?” The bruise on his eye had turned bright purple.
“It’s not a request, Lord Frederick,” Lord Payne said. Or growled, rather. “It is an order. And you needn’t worry about Darleigh messing up that pretty face of yours. For he’ll be tied up while you have a go at him.”
But this statement did less, rather than more, to put Freddy at his ease.
“You’re asking me to beat Lord Darleigh while his hands are tied? So that he cannot defend himself?” He knew that the Lords of Anarchy were not the stuff honorable dreams were made of, but at least he thought they played in the vague vicinity of honorable. Not so.
“In God’s name, why?” he demanded. “What has Darleigh done to deserve such treatment?”
“That’s not important,” Payne growled. “It won’t make a difference. You’re not the one who makes the decision, Sir Gerard is.”
“Suff
ice it to say,” Gerard interjected, “that Lord Darleigh has earned the displeasure of his fellow Anarchists. By trying to leave us. And you really must know, cousin, ‘Once an Anarchist, always an Anarchist.’”
Freddy stared at his cousin, a sense of inevitability pressing down on him. One way or another, they would make him beat Darleigh, he knew it in his gut. But he would try to talk them out of it while he could.
“I will not do it, gentlemen,” he said calmly. “And I think now I’ll just go and inform Miss Craven that we should be on our way this afternoon. I apologize for leaving your party so soon, cousin, but I feel that it is necessary.”
“How would you feel if something untoward were to happen to your Miss Craven, cousin?” Gerard asked softly, his eyes narrowed as if he were sizing Freddy up to determine how far he could push him.
“What do you mean?” he asked silkily, his fists clenching against his thighs. “For I must warn you that if you are threatening Miss Craven, Sir Gerard, then I will be forced to demand satisfaction.”
Rather than flinch as any other man in his right mind would do, Sir Gerard grinned. “Are you calling me out, by God? I vow, you are amusing, Freddy, make no mistake about it. But let me assure you that if you do not do as Lord Payne and I ask, that is, use those brutal fists of yours on Lord Darleigh, I shall be forced to see to it that Miss Craven makes the acquaintance of any number of the gentlemen at this party. To such a degree that she might not be willing or able to marry you afterward. You understand that, don’t you, cousin?”
And before Freddy could smash his fist into his cousin’s grinning jester’s face, he found his arms pinned behind him by Lord Payne, who had moved more quietly than Freddy had guessed a man of his size could.
“I will kill you for this, Gerry,” Freddy said through clenched teeth. “Kill. You.”
“There, there, old boy,” Gerard said, unmoved by his cousin’s threat. “I will see to it that Miss Craven isn’t touched, so long as you do as we ask.”
“Come along, Lord Frederick,” said Lord Payne as he gripped Freddy’s arms. “We’ve got to get you ready for your fight.” And as Freddie was led through a door in the wall he’d not even known was there, he sent up a silent prayer that Leonora would, as his cousin promised, remain safe.
* * *
Despite her exhaustion from lack of sleep, Leonora found herself unable to settle down long enough for a true nap. After tossing in her bed for three quarters of an hour, she finally cried defeat and got up and got dressed again.
During one of their after-dinner conversations, Lady Melisande had boasted about the quality of horseflesh in the Fincher stables, so, knowing she hadn’t the concentration to read, Leonora decided to go investigate. Perhaps a few minutes with the animals would clear her mind.
And if Jonathan had been a frequent visitor to South Haven, perhaps he too had touched those same stalls, scratched the noses of those horses.
It was a fanciful notion, but after the memorial stone by the pond, she was caught in some place where the memories of the dead seemed to hover among the living.
Her shawl around her shoulders, she followed the path from the house to the stables, and was surprised to find them deserted. She was no expert, but weren’t stables supposed to be in constant motion? With grooms and riders and the like taking care of … things? In truth she had little notion of what went into keeping stables since she spent most of her time in London where the mews to their town house was shamefully small. But surely things were much more stable-oriented in the country?
The quiet, however, meant that she could investigate without having watchful eyes on her, so she took advantage of it. The smell of fresh hay and clean dirt met her nose as she wandered into the shadowed recesses of the building. In the first stall she saw a pretty bay mare who knickered, and tossed her black mane when Leonora reached in to pet her nose.
“What a sweet girl,” she crooned at the big animal, and when the mare pressed her snout into Leonora’s hand in search of a treat, she regretted not coming prepared to bribe the horses with apples or lumps of sugar. “I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing the spot between the horse’s eyes—where the horse herself was unlikely to be able to reach for herself. “I promise next time, I’ll bring a treat. Perhaps some hay?” She grabbed a handful from one of the bales stacked against the wall and that seemed to please the horse.
“Now,” she said, speaking to the horse since there was no one else about to have this discussion with. “Do you suppose someone would be mad enough to hide something in here?” Her eyes scanned the interior of the stable, looking for someplace that would afford a nook or cranny in which to stow cut traces or a sawed-through bit of carriage siding.
Then, she saw them. Two wide doors, facing across the wide expanse of the center aisle. Wide enough to hide a coach?
Or maybe an unscathed curricle?
Her heart beating with excitement, she strode quickly to the one on the right and tried the door. It was unlocked, and when she opened the door, it was completely dark inside. Opening the door wider, so the sunlight could get in, she looked inside and was disappointed to find only saddles neatly stacked, and a wall of bridles, and other tack that seemed designed for riding and not driving.
Shutting the door behind her, she moved to the other side and realized just how wide this door was in comparison to the other. From the other end of the barn they’d seemed identical. But now seeing them close up, she noticed one was definitely much wider. Curious, she thought as she tried the handle of this door. It, however, was locked.
Cursing silently, she scanned the room for somewhere a key might be stored. And noted the little office on the other side of the stable. When she pushed into the door, there on the wall, neatly labeled no less, was a row of keys. Finding one labeled “carriage room” she removed the key and pocketed it lest someone wander in and ask what she was doing.
To her relief, the key worked when she tried it in the lock, and deciding this room needed a lantern, she carefully removed one from where it hung on a peg, already lit.
Barn fires were quite dangerous, so she was meticulous about not swinging the lamp or touching it to any surface.
Opening the door of the second room wider, she held up the lamp, which cast a semicircle of light onto the contents.
And gasped.
She remembered the red paint with gold trim from the day Jonny brought it home, the grin on his face as wide as the Thames and as bright as the sun.
Leonora had twitted him about how much of his allowance had gone toward paying for the vehicle that had been built for speed rather than for safety. And he’d assured her that it was as safe as the driver who handled her.
Brushing away a tear at the memory, she carefully shut the door behind her.
It was intact. This sporting carriage that Sir Gerard and his cronies had assured her more than once had been stolen by thieves was hidden in a dark corner of Sir Gerard’s stables and was very much intact.
If she’d had any doubts about whether her host knew more than he was telling about her brother’s demise, then this must surely put period to them.
Setting her jaw, she hung the lantern on a peg on the wall of the carriage room and methodically examined the curricle from top to bottom, tip to tail.
For this curricle was not only unblemished, it was in the same condition as it had been when her brother drove it home from the carriage builders that first day.
She wondered if he’d realized then that his enthusiasm for driving would one day get him killed. Even if he had known, she suspected, he wouldn’t have stopped driving.
For the one-hundredth time she wished that despite their grief she and her father had investigated things more thoroughly. She’d not even had the heart to examine her brother’s remains when they were brought back to London for burial. Nor had her father, who had declared he wished to remember his son as he had been while living. Not in death.
It could have been anything, she thought, sud
denly feeling overwhelmed by the possibilities. It was even possible—though hardly likely—that Jonny was alive somewhere and they’d buried some poor stranger in the Craven plot. She leaned her head against the stable wall and took a deep breath. What a waste. What an awful waste of a good man.
When she had regained her composure, she took one last look around the room, and noticed a flash of white in the corner of the box beneath the driver’s seat.
Curious. She stepped forward and lifted the seat to reveal the hidden compartment there where drivers stored personal items, like gloves, handkerchiefs, and she knew in her brother’s case, a bottle of blue ruin he’d bought in his salad days to add authenticity to the game of pretend that he was a driver on the stage line. The scrap of white cloth she found, however, was far too small to be a man’s handkerchief. And it was embroidered in the corner with the initial C.
Lady Darleigh’s first name was Corinne. Might she have left this here during a ride? Or perhaps Leonora’s brother had hidden it there. Either way, it was a clue, and one she needed to show Frederick immediately.
Carefully closing and locking the door to the carriage room behind her, she slipped back into the office to hang the key where she’d found it.
She was stepping out of the office when she looked up to see Lord Payne striding toward her.
“Miss Craven,” the big man said, a bit of green shining from between his front teeth, “you shouldn’t be wandering around by yourself. You’re likely to run into trouble.” He stepped closer, and if he intended to intimidate her, she thought, it was working. “I wouldn’t like it if anything were to happen to you.”
Swallowing, Leonora stepped back from the man. “I am always getting up to some mischief, Lord Payne. You must know that about me by now. But I will heed you for now. I think there might be a storm coming from the looks of those clouds.” She gestured to the horizon, where a very few dark clouds had gathered. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go have a bit of a lie-down before supper.”
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