Zoe snatched up a quill pen and pulled out a sheet of writing paper. "Elsie, if I write a note to my brother, is there someone you could pay to deliver it?"
Receiving no answer, she turned in the chair. Gorton, very pale, stood staring at her wide-eyed over hands that were clasped to her mouth. Zoe put down the pen and went to hug the woman. "My poor friend, I know how much I ask of you. But, I swear, Elsie, truly this is a matter of life and death!"
Gorton wet her lips and croaked, "If—if I get caught, Miss… I'll be turned off without a character—surely! I—I'll starve!"
It was a grim, and very possible result. Zoe said earnestly, "If you get caught you can always say that you were only obeying me. And—and that it was not your place to refuse my orders. But—oh, Elsie, I promise you faithfully, when I leave this horrid house, I will take you with—" She did not finish the sentence.
From nearby there came a familiar howl.
Gorton gave a squeal of fright.
Zoe felt the blood draining from her cheeks.
Had Lady Buttershaw given orders that Miss Grainger was not to go out because she had questions to ask Miss Grainger? Did my lady mean to demand that she be told where Travis Grainger might be found? And if—as she must—she refused to give that information… What would they do to her?
She heard again Peregrine Cranford's dear angry voice '… a dainty, timid little flower, setting herself up in opposition to a fire-breathing dragon…'
She was not a dainty little flower. And she was a good deal more than timid; she was a rank coward. Her attempt to be a spy had been a nightmare, and she had seemed to spend most of her time shaking in her shoes and ready to faint from fright. The prospect of the terrifying Lady Buttershaw shouting at her, bullying her, perhaps, heaven forbid, beating her, made her eyes grow dim and her breath come in shallow little gasps.
There came a brisk heavy tread in the passage outside. A hand was lifting the latch of the door.
Gorton leapt to her feet and rushed to open the press and fumble among the gowns, whispering, "Oh, gawd! Oh, gawd help us!"
It was a prayer Zoe echoed.
Chapter XV
"No doubt you misunderstood," said Cranford, holding open the door that the footman attempted to close. "I wish to see Miss Grainger. Did you give her my card?"
"As I said before, sir," responded the footman, his stiff demeanour reflecting disapproval of such ill-mannered behaviour, "Miss Grainger is—not—at—home."
"Which covers a multitude of sins. Do you mean she is not at home to Mr. Cranford? Or do you mean she is gone out? No, do not try and push me away, else I'll forget my manners!"
He looked quite capable of it, thought the footman. You had to be careful of gents with that particular glitter in their eyes. Smit, was this Cranford cove, and when a gent was smit, there was no telling what he might do. In an attempt to soften the rejection, he lied, "Miss Grainger is gone out, sir."
"I'll wait."
To the footman's great relief, a rescue party in the form of Mr. Arbour and a lackey advanced ponderously across the entrance hall. "I do not expect their ladyships until very late tonight, Mr. Cranford," said the butler. "However, an you would care to leave a message…?"
Cranford looked grimly from one to the other. Realizing that Zoe might not wish to receive him, he had scrawled a hurried "Miss Grainger—I have some news for you!" on the back of his calling card. He'd been left to cool his heels on the doorstep until the footman had returned to deny Miss Grainger and make it clear that he was expected to leave at once. He knew that however much Zoe might despise him, she would be eager to learn if his "news" concerned Travis. The unlikeliness of her having refused to see him took on an ominous significance. He was sure that both these fellows were lying, but he could not very well demand to be allowed to wait until "very late tonight." He therefore declared an intention to return in the morning, and walked out into the rain.
Crossing the street, he stood with his back to the enclosed gardens and looked up at the mansion. Undoubtedly, he was being watched, and without turning his head, he said softly, "Tummet…? Are you about?"
A rustle of leaves and Tummet's growl, "Abaht to take root, Mr. Cranford! Is the cats-a'purring?"
"I collect that refers to rats stirring, rather than felines purring, in which case I fear they may be. Tell me quickly. Did any of the ladies leave the house today?"
"Both the lady nobs done. Yussir."
"Was Miss Grainger with them? Be quite sure, now."
"That she were not! Lay me life to it, I would, mate. The two la'ships went out a hour or so back. One come home."
"Came home? Which one? When?"
"The one what's mad fer me guv'nor. Lady Buttershaw. 'Bout ten minutes ago."
Cranford's jaw set. "In that case, I want you to go at once and find something for me."
"Can't do that, mate. Me orders is to keep watch, and—"
"I am countermanding your orders. Besides, if I know you, Tummet, you'll be able to do what I ask with no difficulty, and be back here in jig time."
The man whom August Falcon referred to as his "pseudo valet" had known many occupations in his eventful life, and few things had the power to surprise him, but when he learned what he was expected to produce, he said an alarmed, "Strike a perishin' light! You never mean it, Lieutenant, mate! You couldn't never—"
"Probably not. But you could. Now I'll tell you where to put it until we're ready. Oh, do stop arguing, man, and pay heed!"
A lackey flung open the door to Zoe's bedchamber, and Lady Buttershaw stamped in, reticule on her wrist and her eyes narrowed.
Zoe stood, and waited with wobbly knees, and her breath fluttering.
"I am informed that you were annoyed because I thought it best that you not go out," bellowed her ladyship. "So you sit and sulk, do you? And are pale besides! Pretty behaviour! I will tell you that pallor and pouts are most unattractive qualities in a maiden. You may be grateful I had the foresight to desire you to remain at home. My friends and I encountered ruffians loitering, and the weather is inclement besides. How have you occupied yourself in my absence?"
Zoe tried to speak and had to cough to regain her voice. "I was writing a letter to my papa, ma'am."
The beady dark eyes darted to the little desk and the clean sheet of paper lying there. "You have no news to convey, I take it," said her ladyship dryly. "I have something for you, however. Can you guess what it is, I wonder?"
"I—er, no, my lady," croaked Zoe.
With the manner of a conjuror pulling a rabbit from a hat, Lady Buttershaw drew what appeared to be Travis' letter from her reticule and waved it aloft.
Zoe tried to look excited. "Is it from my papa, ma'am?"
" 'Tis not his writing. I have a keen eye for handwriting and would most certainly have recognized it. And since 'tis improper for a gel to receive letters from Unknowns, I think—I really think I must demand to know what it contains."
Staring at her, Zoe was so astounded by such barefaced hypocrisy that she was temporarily incapable of responding.
"Ah, but you are speechless with delight." The thin smile that seldom reached her ladyship's eyes spread across her teeth. "You may open it, but I require to know at once from whom it is come."
Zoe yearned to scratch the bony hand that thrust the letter at her. It was indeed Travis' letter, very neatly re-sealed. " 'Tis from my brother, ma'am," she said, and thought, 'As you know very well, you wicked creature!'
"But how charming. Filial loyalty is always to be applauded. Very well. Enjoy it, my dear gel." And with a stern admonition to Gorton that Miss Grainger's gown looked as if she had worn it while grooming the horses, Lady Buttershaw marched to the door. Gorton ran to open it, and she was gone, calling stridently for Hackham.
Zoe sank weakly onto the bed.
Gorton flew to kneel beside her. "She give it you, Miss!"
"Yes." Zoe broke the seal and her eyes travelled the page, half expecting it to be a re-worded for
gery. But nothing was changed. She'd been so sure the woman would have insisted on knowing where Travis stayed, and why he had been so mysterious in giving his direction. Instead, not one quesiton had been asked.
Scanning her face anxiously, Gorton asked, "What is it, Miss? Has it been altered?"
"No. And I cannot understand why I was not made to explain…" Zoe closed her eyes as the answer came. "Oh, how can I be so dense?"
"That you're not, Miss! But I am. May I ask—what your brother has done?"
Zoe smiled at her fondly. "My faithful Elsie. He has done nothing wrong. But he has brought a—a certain letter back from India. 'Tis a letter Lady Buttershaw wants very badly. I think she would stop at nothing to get it."
Her eyes round with dismay, Gorton whispered, "No one dare go 'gainst her! If your brother writ down his direction, she's likely got that letter already!"
"He told me where he stays, yes. But in a sort of code we made up as children. I was sure Lady Buttershaw would try to force it from me. I should have known better! She has no need to know where he is now. He says in this letter that he will call on me here. All she has to do—is wait."
"Oh—Lor'! Then—then you still want to try and send him that note?"
Zoe nodded. "He is ill. I must help him. Elsie—please—if I give you the note, can you get Cecil to deliver it?"
Gorton hid her face against Zoe's knee and trembled. Stroking her shoulder, Zoe said, "As soon as I can be sure my brother has my note, we will run away to my aunt in Richmond. She is a very kind lady. I know she will take me in. Elsie, I promise, when I leave, you will go with me!"
Gorton blinked up at her tearfully. "C-Cecil, too?"
Surely, thought Zoe, Peregrine, or Sir Owen, or perhaps Maria, would help her to keep her word. She said firmly, "Cecil, too!"
Struggling with the straps around his leg, Cranford swore blisteringly. He had returned home to find his rooms empty and no sign of Florian, nor the note he would usually leave if he'd gone off somewhere. "Just when I most need him," he muttered, pulling the straps tighter.
He'd sent the house messenger boy off to the Madrigal, with a note for Sir Owen, but there had been no response as yet. He stood and tested the foot and was heartened to find he'd evidently adjusted it properly, for it felt quite secure. It had better be!
By the time he'd checked his pistol and slung on his sword-belt, the boy returned with word that Sir Owen had not been at the Madrigal. He'd even asked for him at White's, "But he wasn't there, neither." And, yes, he did know Mr. August Falcon. "Everybody knows him," he said, with the suggestion of a sneer that vanished when Cranford's cold stare turned his way. "He was riding along the Strand," he vouchsafed hurriedly, "with Mr. Fowles."
Cranford stiffened. Fowles? Why the deuce would August Falcon consort with that vicious slug? He said, "Do you mean Sir Gilbert Fowles?"
The messenger boy looked dubious. "Dunno," he said with a sniff. "The one with all the teeth, what's got his own chair, and changes the side panels and the chairmen's coats to match whatever he's wearing. Proper high-stepper, he is."
Cranford grunted, and tossed him a coin. He would wait here no longer. Nor did he propose to waste more time in scouring the Town to find his friends. He wrote a brief note to Florian, then donned cloak and tricorne and went out into the fading and wet afternoon.
Zoe sat down at her dressing table, folded her hands in her lap, and made a strong effort to compose herself. It seemed an age since Elsie had left with Travis' letter and the bribe, a florin, which would likely seem a fortune to the fireboy. He was just a scrap of a lad, Gorton had told her, but she had once saved him from a beating, and out of gratitude he sometimes risked carrying a message to her beloved.
Their whole dependence was on the boy being able to smuggle Zoe's letter to the coachman, and impress on him that the letter must be taken at once to Mr. Andreeni at the Inn of the Silver Cat on King William Street. Gorton had said that if her Cecil couldn't slip away himself, he'd likely entrust the letter to a link boy he knew, and with that Zoe had to be content.
It had been her intention to send her brother to Peregrine, and not until she was already writing the letter had she realized that she had not the least notion of where he lived. He had mentioned the street once, but all she could recall was that it had something to do with chickens. Sir Owen Furlong was her next choice. Peregrine had mentioned that Sir Owen had loaned his house to friends, and was at present staying at his club, but—which club? Again thwarted, she had to discard Sir Owen.
Relations, or old family friends, might be watched. There was Maria Benevento, of course. Dear Maria had offered to help, and represented the ideal solution. No one would suspect Travis to be acquainted with her, and she could at once apply to Sir Owen for help. It seemed wrong to involve her in such a dangerous enterprise, but, unable to come up with an alternative, Zoe had overcome her scruples. She had written warning her brother that under no circumstances was he to come to Yerville Hall, but instead he must go to Miss Benevento at once, as the lady was a good friend and was, furthermore, acquainted with Peregrine Cranford.
She stood and paced about restlessly. She had done all she could. Now she could only wait and pray that Travis would receive her message in time. Pausing she looked once more at the clock on the mantelpiece. Only twenty minutes past three? It seemed as if it must be at least six o'clock! She whirled around when the door opened.
Gorton hurried in with a tray. "You never had any lunch, Miss," she said.
There was no need to ask how her mission had prospered; her face was alight with triumph. Running to her, Zoe whispered, "Cecil has my letter safe?"
"Better than that, Miss. The link boy set off half an hour since. Your brother is likely reading that letter this very minute!"
Suddenly, Zoe was very tired. Closing her eyes, she breathed, "Thank God! Oh, thank God!"
"Amen to that, Miss," said Gorton devoutly. "Now, you just eat up some of this nice cold meat and fruit Ay have brought you. Ay fancied you'd rather have lemonade than milk. Are you hungry, Miss?"
"I am ravenous!" declared Zoe, and devoted herself to the sliced beef and crusty buttered bread, while Gorton bustled about, gathering washing for the laundry maid. "If Ay dare ask, Miss," she said, "what do you mean to do now?"
Zoe looked up with the bright sparkle restored to her eyes. "I must wait until I am certain my brother has my letter. And then, dear Elsie, tonight, with luck, we shall be off to Richmond-on-Thames! We must drink to our success! Or we would," she amended, "if you had a glass!"
Gorton brought the water glass from the bedside table, and they poured half the lemonade into it and toasted each other merrily. Returning to her belated luncheon, Zoe exclaimed, "Oh, if you knew how relieved I feel! My brother is home at last, and Mr. Cranford must be pleased with me when he finds out Travis is safe at Miss Benevento's house."
Gorton finished her lemonade and asked curiously, "Is that where you sent him, then?"
"Yes. The lady has been such a good friend to me, Elsie. So kind. And so beautiful, do not you think?"
"Oh, I do." Gorton smothered a yawn, and apologized. "One of the two loveliest ladies in all London Town. Though I never thought I'd say that of two foreigners, Miss Zoe, least of all, a Frenchy."
"Do you mean Miss Katrina Falcon? I hear she is judged the leading Toast, but I'd understood she has only some Chinese ancestry."
"That's right, Miss. And a very nice lady, in spite of what people say." Gorton giggled. "Lady Buttershaw, you know, is mad for her brother."
"Yes, I know. But you are mistaken, Elsie. Miss Benevento is Italian, not French."
"Is that a fact? So that's why her name is different. I fancied 'twas just that gentlemen's names change when they inherit titles, you know. Do you suppose 'twas a second marriage, then? They must have the same parent on one side, surely, for my Cecil says that Miss Benevento looks very much like her brother."
"Ah, I remember she said she was most fond of her brother
. How came Cecil to meet him? Elsie…?"
Gorton pulled back her head and blinked rapidly. "Oh, dear! I am sorry, Miss. Cannot seem to keep my eyes open. I 'spect ''Tis all the… excitement."
"Yes, but you must not fall asleep now! Tell me about Miss Benevento's brother."
"Well, I've heard of him, of course. Everybody has. But I've never seen him. My Cecil did whilst he was in the Low Countries, and says that for all he's a Frenchy, he's a brave man and a credit to his country. I'm's'prised he would've gone… so high if he's… half'—her head nodded—"half-Italian."
Chill little fingers were creeping down Zoe's spine. "Elsie?"
Gorton snored softly.
Zoe stood, and shook her. "Wake up! Who is he? Tell me his name."
"What?" Gorton blinked at her drowsily. "Oh—you mean the Marshal."
"The… Marshall?" whispered Zoe.
"Mmm… He's got two first names… them Frenchies is so strange… Marshal Jean-Jacques…"
"Barthélemy?" gasped Zoe.
Gorton mumbled something, bowed forward on the table cushioning her head in her arms, and fell fast asleep.
Watching her with eyes dilated with horror, Zoe knew that she would be unable to awaken her. They must, she thought numbly, have put something in the lemonade. Elsie had finished her glass, whereas she herself had only taken one mouthful.
With a faint sob, she flew to the door. The latch lifted, but though she pulled with all her strength, the door would not move an inch. She beat against it foolishly and unavailingly, and shouted, then screamed demands that she be let out at once. And at last, slowly, wretchedly, she sank to her knees, leaning against the door and facing the hideous truth. Maria Benevento was Maria Barthélemy, sister to the great French soldier Travis had discovered to be aligning himself with the League of Jewelled Men. From the very start, the friendship between beautiful sophisticated Maria and countrified Zoe Grainger had been a ruse, designed only to lure her into betraying her brother.
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