Not an Ordinary Baronet

by G. G. Vandagriff

  How did that horrible man know about Ginger? How did he know about William?

  Chapter Seven

  Days passed, and the Excise scout did not observe anything of interest at Portland Bill either on the land or the sea. To Bertie’s considerable surprise, however, he did receive a letter from Lady Catherine in London.

  Dear Lord Herbert,

  I trust you will forgive the temerity of this letter, but I thought you should know that at least one of the smugglers is in London. I have reason to think he is the man who shot at me near Fortuneswell.

  He accosted me in my own mews, warning me to say nothing about who I might have heard or seen in the caves. He spoke with a West Country burr and did not sound like a gentleman.

  I still do not know why the voice I heard in the caves seemed familiar. It may have been only a turn of phrase that rang a bell, so to speak. On the other hand, my attacker’s voice was one I do not recall ever hearing before.

  I trust your visit is going well and that the chief constable may soon catch the smugglers.

  Sincerely,

  Lady Catherine

  The letter alarmed Bertie considerably. Because it was thought “fast” for a well-bred young lady to write to an unmarried gentleman, he did not confide the contents to anyone. His worries for Lady Catherine increased tenfold.

  As it stood, the chief constable still suspected Bertie of being the Gentleman Smuggler and insisted that he remain in Portesham until his innocence was proven.

  The situation chafed Bertie fiercely for many reasons—principally because he could not get to London to stand personal guard over Lady Catherine. The only thing he could do was to write her another letter.

  Oak House

  Portesham, Dorset

  Dear Lady Catherine,

  Your letter caused me great alarm. We still wait with no success for the smugglers to make their move. This is why the man who attacked you is still at large. I suppose he could be anyone you met in Dorset. With the smugglers still undiscovered, it galls me to think of him going about so openly.

  I am still in the chief constable’s sights as the villain who shot at you, so I cannot come to the capital as I long to do. I urge you to be on your guard.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Sir Herbert

  Fuming at his uselessness, Bertie decided he would also write to Lord Robert, informing him of the unresolved situation in Dorset. It would be up to him to guard his sister.

  * * *

  Meals were becoming quite irksome to Bertie with the presence of Miss Gilbert. However did she and Lady Wellingham become such great friends? She had such a trivial mind and was so awkwardly flirtatious that it quite put him out of patience.

  At luncheon, she remarked, “Penny has been telling me that you entertained Lady Catherine and Lord Robert Redmayne. I understand they have a home in Fortuneswell near here. Could we not go visit?”

  “I am afraid they are no longer here,” said Tony. “They have gone back to London.”

  “Surely not!” exclaimed Miss Gilbert. “Even I know that is the last place Lady Catherine would want to be right now.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Bertie, annoyance sharpening his question.

  “Surely you have heard of the scandal!” said Miss Gilbert.

  “Really, Mary . . . ,” protested Lady Wellingham.

  “Scandal?” echoed Bertie.

  “You really are cut off here!” remarked Miss Gilbert. “Even I read of it in Northamptonshire. Of course, we subscribe to the Morning Post . . .”

  Now Bertie was losing patience. “What scandal?”

  Miss Gilbert leaned forward, her large eyes bulging. “She was engaged to Lord William Cumberwell. Surely you remember that! He’s the son of the Earl of Leicester, the wealthiest man in England!”

  Bertie’s spirits took a dive. How could she ever be interested in a quite average baronet after a man such as Lord William Cumberwell? They had been at Oxford together. He was a devil of a good fellow, in addition to everything else.

  “You say ‘was,’” said Bertie.

  “That is the scandal! She cried off, and he immediately affianced himself to her very best friend, Miss Sybil Anderson! Lady Catherine left town immediately and buried herself here.”

  “How very odd,” said Lady Wellingham. “Miss Anderson is a little dab of a thing. Pretty, but hardly beautiful in the class of Lady Catherine.”

  “Does it not make you wonder what happened?” asked Miss Gilbert, her eyes sparkling with inquisitiveness.

  “I am certain the newspapers are full of explanations,” said Beau dampeningly.

  Miss Gilbert did not take the hint. “So they are. They all seem to agree that Lady Catherine must have discovered them together. Can you not imagine how painful that must have been for her?”

  Bertie decided he disliked Miss Gilbert. She was not at all sympathetic to Lady Catherine, only titillated by the gossip. She was not engaged or married herself and was pleased that Lady Catherine now shared her situation.

  As for himself, he was surprised how much sadness he felt on Lady Catherine’s behalf. No wonder she had looked so tragic. She had lost her best friend and her fiancé. The scandal of it could only add fuel to her unhappiness. It would take a strong heart to stand up under those challenges.

  Much as he wished he could ease her pain, he knew that a mere baronet with only a gentleman’s average means would have little appeal to a marquess’s daughter who had been engaged to the heir of the wealthiest man in England. He wished he dared write her another letter, but it would only add to her unhappiness to realize she was being gossiped about as far away as Dorset.

  Miss Gilbert continued to monopolize the conversation, speaking of other matters, all drawn from the scandal sheets. Bertie held his tongue in check, but he wanted badly to give her a set down.

  Finally, Tony introduced the topic of horses, which always served. Soon Bertie was drawn into the conversation, talking about the horses he was training in dressage at home. Miss Gilbert was at last silenced.

  * * *

  The day was fine, and Bertie was desperate to get away from Miss Gilbert, who had asked him to partner her in whist. He was past caring about the strictures Lord Manning had placed upon his movement. Bertie decided to take Lady Strangeways’s mixed Scottish terrier, Mr. Hale, out for a run. The estate opened up onto sheep-dotted hills that were excellent for rambling. The little dog ran joyfully at his feet. Finding a stout stick near the path, Mr. Hale ran to Bertie with it clasped in his jaws.

  After he had wrestled it away from the friendly mutt, he tossed it ahead. This was the beginning of their walk up and down the gentle hills.

  Now at least he knew what Lady Catherine’s heartbreak was when he had seen her weeping into her handkerchief outside of Fortuneswell House.

  What was she doing now that she was back in London? Did she have many friends there? She obviously traveled in more exalted circles than his own, as he didn’t recall ever meeting her. He knew Lord William Cumberwell from Oxford. They used to play cricket together. The man was an excellent bowler, not a bad hitter, and a fair runner. Neither of them had been the star that Tony was, but they had enjoyed themselves.

  He could not imagine the Cumberwell that he knew treating a woman as Lady Catherine had been treated. He didn’t know Miss Anderson at all, but how could a woman exceed Lady Catherine in beauty? And she was brave! He could not forget the way she had handled her horse.

  Bertie could not bear to think of her with a broken heart. He longed to comfort her, to spirit her away to Oxfordshire, where he could introduce her to his friends and family. Heyford Abbey was a happy place. Marianne, his widowed sister, was a gifted conversationalist and could raise even his spirits when they flagged. Her twins, Warren and Marguerite—also known as Warrie and Gweet—were engaging and an amusing entertainment with their ten-year-old antics. Bertie had his horses he was training, and Lady Catherine had proven herself an accomplished horsewoman, hold
ing back her mount from tumbling over the cliff . . . Would she be at all receptive to his collection of Egyptian bits? Would she think his obsession with Egypt a complete oddity?

  Why was he daydreaming about taking Lady Catherine to Oxfordshire? Such a thing would never happen!

  To his annoyance, Mr. Hale started after a rabbit and ran off. Bertie whistled for him.

  There ought to be some way he could prove his innocence and get back to London, much as he disliked it in the winter. He didn’t know precisely what he could do to help Lady Catherine, but surely he would be able to do something!

  * * *

  A week passed, and Bertie was heartily tired of Miss Gilbert’s company when the chief constable informed them that a group of smugglers had been caught. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been able to put their hands on the gentleman involved.

  They had evidently been waiting until there was no moon. They had moved the contraband onto a boat. Followed by the Excise, they had rowed to another inlet and appeared to be waiting to offload their cargo, but their gentlemanly customer never showed.

  With many a curse, they rowed back to Portland Bill beach and were in the process of stowing the liquor once more when they were arrested and their cargo impounded.

  None of them professed to know the identity of the gentleman from London who was to have received their goods. They claimed that he had only appeared to them wearing a mask. None of them were able to pay the fine, since they had not sold the cargo, so they were being held in jail for an extended time.

  Bertie hoped that the man who had accosted Lady Catherine was now in lockup. He asked Lord Manning to interview the smugglers once more to find out what kind of mask the gentleman wore.

  “If I wear the same mask, will you allow me to go before the men and see if they can identify me?” Bertie asked.

  The chief constable agreed, and Bertie carried out the experiment. As he looked at the sorry bunch of conspirators sitting in the jail cell, he wondered if Lady Catherine’s attacker was among them.

  “This ain’t our gennulman,” said one of the prisoners. “He’s too tall.”

  Lord Manning released Bertie but made no secret of his continued misgivings. “If you weren’t a friend of Lord Ogletree, you would be going up before the magistrate,” he said.

  Worrying that the man might change his mind, Bertie packed up his belongings, took leave of his friends, and left that day for London.

  Chapter Eight

  Catherine dwelt a great deal on the incident in the mews. Though she still could not guess how the villain knew about Ginger, she thought perhaps he had learned of her former attachment to William from the gossip columns.

  Though his voice had not been cultured, the man obviously knew how to read and write. She had decided he was not gentry because of both his dialect and his rank smell.

  Eventually, she received a note from Sir Herbert informing her that the smugglers had been caught and were in jail. However, the “Gentleman Smuggler” was not among them. They did not know his identity, and Sir Herbert had been released only because they had insisted that he was taller than their customer.

  Even so, her fear of her assailant caused her to stay close to home. She hardly ventured out.

  It was more apparent, as days passed, what a friend she had lost in Sybil. Before their schism, they had seen each other several times a week to go shopping on Bond Street, visit Hatchards bookshop, or sample ices at Gunter’s. They had ridden together in the park of a morning and walked together in the afternoon. Sharing dreams and tastes, they had become the closest of friends. How could such a friend betray her as Sybil had?

  Had Catherine talked so much about William that Sybil had fallen in love with him by proxy? Or had they been seeing each other secretly throughout William’s courtship of Catherine? How could the woman have been so underhanded? She had always been a docile, devoted friend.

  Never one who enjoyed needlework, Catherine read—witty fiction, natural history, poetry, but not sermons or political treatises. Out in the early mornings on Rotten Row in Hyde Park with her brother, she galloped Ginger so that no one could stop to talk to her.

  The only visitors she would see were Miss B. and Lady Clarice. The plans for the East End readings were put in place, and finally the day came for her to begin the reading of The Mysteries of Udolpho. Her escort was to call for her at two p.m.

  Catherine dressed in a brown merino wool frock with an ivory pleated fichu and a matching brown pelisse. Her bonnet was warm brown velvet with a gathered lace insert that framed her face becomingly—or so her maid, Parker, said.

  She heard the knocker at two p.m. precisely. Stebbins brought her escort into the downstairs sitting room.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Catherine.”

  She was astonished to see that it was Sir Herbert. Heart leaping in surprise, she asked, “When did you come to London?”

  He removed his hat and gave a short bow of the head. “A few days ago. I am here to escort you to the East End.”

  “Oh,” she said, looking into his silvery-gray eyes. A thrill passed through her. And she was supposed to be blue-deviled over William!

  “I am glad you are dressed warmly. It’s cold out.”

  She preceded him to the vestibule, pulling on her leather gloves. Could she have asked for a better companion? Except for the Blossom House ladies, he was the first person she had seen since returning to London who did not peer at her with either anxiety or curiosity. In fact, there was something remote about him, as though he were purposely holding himself apart from her.

  “I thought you were to go straight from Dorset to Oxfordshire,” she said once they were settled in a smart curricle pulled by a particularly fine pair of blacks.

  Sir Herbert appeared not to have heard her. “Your assailant was not a gentleman, you said in your letter. Can you tell me anything else about him? I should like to assure both of us that he was caught along with the other smugglers.”

  She drew her breath sharply. “You think he may still be at large?”

  “There has to be a very good reason why he risked his neck to attack you, both in Dorset and here in London. The only punishment for smuggling is a heavy fine. The punishment for assault or murder is hanging.”

  Where had her wits been? She had not thought of this.

  “And you think that a man who would risk so much would not risk being caught with the other smugglers?”

  “Correct.”

  Catherine tried to recall the attack that she had, until this moment, been trying to forget.

  “Did you have any idea of his height?” the baronet asked.

  “He was not much taller than me. It was easy for him to whisper in my ear. I got the impression that his head was not too far above mine. He was also exceedingly muscular.”

  “That is a good start. Unfortunately, the description fits most of the smugglers.”

  “One thing may set him apart. He was able to read and write.” She told him of the note she received. “He had to have been smart enough to research the gossip columns.”

  “He must have had another source telling him of you and Cumberwell,” Sir Herbert said. “Only your first initial is used in the gossip columns.”

  She bit her lip. His thoughtful expression shone through the stark lines of his face. Sir Herbert was handsome in a different way from William. His face was fascinating, and it was a challenge to make out what he was thinking. Was he interested in her as a woman or merely as a damsel in distress?

  “That is all I can really tell you about him,” she said with regret.

  “Very good. Perhaps you will remember more in time.” He tossed a ha’penny to the sweeping boy at the crossing.

  A little addled by his closeness, she changed the subject. “Those are very fine horses.”

  “Thank you.” After a moment, he said, “I tried to call on you yesterday. Your butler said you were not at home to callers.”

  “I was not refusing you in particular,”
she said. “I am sorry.”

  He said nothing.

  “I asked Stebbins to deny me to everyone.” She examined the seam of her glove. It needed mending or it would tear. “You must have heard the gossip about me. I do not intend to exhibit myself as an object of pity.”

  He did not reply to this but asked instead, “What are you reading today?”

  With a little laugh, she told him, “The Mysteries of Udolpho. I do not suppose you have ever read it?”

  “You are wrong. I have a sister who loves Gothics. I read aloud to her in the evenings while she sews. I thought it a regular spine tingler! Should thrill the East Enders.”

  “I hope it does. I want this project to succeed.”

  The horses pulled them through the streets of Mayfair. Ladies bundled against the cold walked in pairs on their afternoon visits. Carriages, curricles, and phaetons passed them going the other way to Hyde Park. She wondered briefly if the sight of her in a curricle with Sir Herbert would be documented in the Morning Post gossip column.

  “Very able ladies, Miss Braithwaite and Lady Clarice,” her companion said.

  “They are not content to be without a project. Best of all, they do not gossip.”

  “A rare virtue,” Sir Herbert agreed.

  Catherine realized she had been living in her head for too long. She was so out of touch with other people that it was an effort to make conversation. And Sir Herbert was not like most of the gentlemen of her acquaintance, who principally talked about themselves.

  "Tell me about the friends you were with in Dorset. I know Viscount Wellingham slightly, but I had never met his wife until the other evening.”

  “I’ve been friends with him since Oxford. Capital fellow. He works at the Foreign Office. He recently married Lady Wellingham, who’s from Northamptonshire.

  “The way he dresses, he looks like a dandy,” she said. “But he does not act like one.”

  “It is an affectation. Beau likes people to underestimate him.”

  “Whatever for?”