The Deception of the Emerald Ring pc-3

by Лорен Уиллиг

  Chapter Fifteen

  "Far be it from me to disappoint such charming ladies." Miss Gwen snorted and stalked from the room, looking anything but charming.

  "I thought you would see it my way," Jane said cheerfully, and then she too was gone, in a froth of lace-edged flounces.

  Folding his arms across his chest, Lord Pinchingdale watched the last frill whisper around the door frame. "I believe that this is Jane's none too subtle attempt to urge us to cry truce."

  Letty found she still couldn't think of him by his first name—perhaps because he had never extended her that right. She could still hear Jane's pleasant contralto forming the word, turning it like a potter with a piece of clay until it came out perfectly smooth and rounded. Geoffrey.

  Lord Pinchingdale raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "I believe this is where you're supposed to say something."

  Letty blurted out the first thing that came into her head. "You don't have a black mask, do you?"

  "No." He gave her an odd look. "Nor would I advise you to acquire one. They tend to invite more attention than they deflect."

  "I didn't think you would," said Letty ruefully. He would have to be sensible as well as honorable, wouldn't he? A few flaws would make her own ambiguous position more palatable.

  "Are you disappointed?"

  "No. I've always thought them very silly things."

  Letty was aware she was speaking nonsense, and didn't blame Lord Pinchingdale for looking at her as though she might be carted off at any moment. But she was still having a great deal of trouble coming to terms with the notion of having tumbled into a den of spies—and such an unlikely den. With the afternoon sun slanting through the windows, picking out the golden patina of the wood on the table and the quaint scenes painted on the china, espionage seemed as unlikely as a royal visit. The little green-and-white room was made for cheerful family breakfasts, for talk of ribbons and shopping rather than martyrs and crypts.

  If it hadn't been for that locket…

  Letty caught Lord Pinchingdale's eye, and flushed, for no particular reason.

  "I've caused you a great deal of trouble by appearing like this, haven't I?"

  "That," Lord Pinchingdale replied evenly, "depends on you."

  "I'm sorry," she said simply, and she was. Sorry she had come to Ireland, sorry she had tried to prevent Mary's elopement, sorry she had ever left Hertfordshire. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

  Not that being sorry did either of them any good.

  "I never meant any of this to happen," she added.

  "I'm sure you didn't."

  Letty winced at the implied barb. "I didn't…," she began, and then stopped.

  Geoff strove to conceal signs of impatience as he waited for the inevitable unconvincing protestations of innocence. Where in the devil had Jane got to? The hallway dozed placidly in the afternoon sunshine, unhelpfully empty. There was no avoiding another recitation of the whole tedious package of lies.

  For the sake of the mission, whose safety now rested in Letty's capricious little hands, he would have to feign belief. Or, at least, refrain from active disbelief. His Majesty could only ask so much of even his most loyal subjects.

  "You didn't…?" Geoff prompted, as Letty scowled at the carpet as though the vines had entangled her tongue.

  He thought he had kept his tone carefully neutral, but Letty tilted her head back and looked him straight in the eye.

  "You're not going to believe a word I say, are you?"

  Taken off guard, Geoff raised an eyebrow in lieu of an answer.

  "I thought as much. Do you know what the worst of it is?"

  "No," Geoff said honestly. There were too many potential worsts to choose from.

  "I wouldn't have believed you, either," finished Letty with grim relish. "It's as absurd as a Greek tragedy."

  Which made matters about as clear as mud.

  "Have you had a lovely little chat?" Jane bustled in in full "Gilly" mode, every curl bobbing, every inch of fabric frilled and shirred within an inch of its life. "I do so hate when people are unpleasant and cross."

  "You are enjoying this role a good deal too much," commented Geoff to Jane by rote, but his eyes followed Letty, still trying to make sense of that Greek-tragedy comment. He devoutly hoped she didn't have any notions about putting out eyes, either his or her own.

  "You"—Jane waggled her beaded reticule at him—"are just being an old crossy-kins, like dear Auntie Ernie."

  Miss Gwen looked as though she couldn't decide which to be more annoyed by, being called a "crossy-kins" or "Auntie Ernie."

  "Time," she proclaimed dourly, jabbing at the mantel clock with her ever-present parasol, "is wasting."

  "And we couldn't have that, now, could we?" agreed Jane, sweeping the entire party out to the waiting carriage.

  Geoff made a feint in Letty's direction, but was neatly cut off by Miss Gwen, who skewered Geoff with a dampening glare as she swept regally in front of him down the narrow stairs, the tips of her black-dyed ostrich plumes tickling the tip of his nose. Geoff sneezed three times between landings, thinking decidedly ungentlemanly thoughts about Miss Gwen, her taste in millinery, and people who entered rooms in the middle of conversations.

  "Once we get there," Letty asked, as Geoff settled into the facing seat of the carriage, "what should I do?"

  "Your role is really quite simple. And harmless," Jane added, with a sidelong glance at Geoff. "Miss Gwen has kindly agreed to occupy the rector while Geoffrey and I search the premises." Given the avid gleam in Miss Gwen's eye, Geoff couldn't help but feel sorry for the rector. "However, we cannot discount the possibility that there might be other persons present."

  "I'm simply to talk to them?" said Letty.

  "Only if you see them showing an inordinate interest in our activities," put in Geoff, watching Letty closely.

  Letty earnestly processed the information, looking very young and entirely guileless. Young, Geoff would grant her. As for guileless…

  "It sounds simple enough."

  "That's what you think," retorted Miss Gwen. "It takes talent to distract someone subtly. Talent and practice."

  "Mrs. Alsdale is no stranger to deception."

  It took Letty a moment to remember that she was supposed to be Mrs. Alsdale. When she did, a slow flush stained her cheekbones. "I've certainly never had this much practice before."

  "Not nearly enough, from the looks of it," pronounced Miss Gwen disparagingly. "Any spy who cannot remember her own alias deserves to be caught."

  Letty squared her shoulders and looked full at Geoff. "That would solve a problem for both of us, wouldn't it?"

  "Don't worry." Jane touched one finger reassuringly to Letty's arm. "It will all soon become second nature. Don't you agree, Geoffrey?"

  "It all depends on one's temperament."

  "In which case," replied Jane meaningfully, "I believe our Mrs. Alsdale will suit very well."

  "Hmph," said Miss Gwen, in a way that amply echoed Geoff's own feelings on the matter.

  From the expression on Letty's face, in this, at least, they were in complete accord.

  For someone who had managed to dupe her way into matrimony, she seemed to have remarkably little facility for masking her emotions. Then again, Geoff reminded himself, her stunt in stealing her sister's place hadn't required subtlety, merely audacity. And that Letty Alsworthy clearly possessed in spades.

  And yet…Geoff's eyes narrowed on Letty's face, as if he might be able to glean the truth from the tilt of her chin or the pattern of freckles across her nose. She had seemed entirely confident in her own defense at Mrs. Lanergan's the previous night. He could still remember, with painful clarity, her evasions when he had asked her where Mary was, complete with all the transparent signs of guilt. Last night, there had been no telltale pause, no stutter, no flush, none of the classic signs of dishonesty, nothing but pure, undiluted indignation, as though she had been the one wronged, rather than he.

  That was an idea too silly to e
ven entertain.

  As if she felt his scrutiny, Letty developed a deep interest in the seams of her gloves.

  Jane, meanwhile, looked from one to the other with an enigmatic smile reminiscent of the Sphinx at its most annoyingly smug.

  Miss Gwen, mercifully, was not watching anyone at all. She was too busy staring out the window, maintaining a running commentary on the inadequacies of their driver. He was driving too quickly. He was driving too slowly. Had he deliberately driven over that pothole?

  By the time the carriage drew to a halt before the classical facade of St. Werburgh's, it was unclear who was most grateful to be free of the coach: Letty, Geoff, or the coachman. Geoff swung down first, handing out Miss Gwen, who descended as regally as a dowager duchess on her way to the Court of St. James's, then Jane, who fluttered to the ground in an animated pile of flounces.

  Letty peered tentatively through the door like a turtle considering an outing from its shell, clearly looking for a way to descend without requesting his aid.

  Geoff impatiently held out a hand. There was no reason for her to treat him like a leper. She was the one who had been so unnaturally eager for a closer union, after all.

  "We can at least observe the usual courtesies, if nothing else."

  Framed in the doorway of the coach, Letty regarded him warily. "Are you quite sure?"

  "I believe I control my baser urges."

  Letty flushed, a red stain spreading from the bodice of her muslin dress straight up to her hairline. "Those weren't the ones I was worried about."

  Nor had Geoff, until she mentioned it. But their situation was eerily reminiscent of another night, another coach. A moonless midnight in High Holborn with a well-rounded figure in his arms and a pair of lips warm and eager against his. If he propped a foot on the bottom step; if she leaned forward just a little bit more…

  They would both be better placed to scratch each other's eyes out.

  Geoff offered his hand, palm up. "You can take my arm, or you can stay in the carriage. The choice is yours."

  "Choice?" To Letty, it seemed about as much of a genuine choice as the others she had been presented with lately. Marriage or ruin. Silence or the fall of the British Empire. For a moment, she was tempted to elect to stay in the carriage, just to see the look on his face—but she didn't particularly want to twiddle her thumbs alone in a musty carriage.

  "Oh, fine," capitulated Letty, none too graciously, and took the offered hand.

  Once she was on the ground, the hand didn't let go. Letty gave a slight tug. When that had no effect, she tugged harder. Looking up, primed for acerbic commentary, she found her husband regarding her with a furrow between his dark brows.

  "We can't go on like this," he said.

  "That," replied Letty, freeing her hand, "is the most sensible thing I have heard all day."

  "All this bickering does neither of us any good."

  Letty nobly refrained from pointing out that he had started it. She, after all, had been perfectly pleasant—perfectly—until he had made that crack about her skill at deception in that supercilious, drawling way he had. "What are you proposing?"

  Lord Pinchingdale's lip curled, as though at a private and particularly unpleasant joke. "Marriage would be redundant."

  Supercilious didn't cover the half of it.

  "An annulment might be more to the point."

  "But difficult to obtain. For now, I suggest a truce."

  Letty wasn't quite sure which to regard with more suspicion, the ominous qualification "for now," or the offer of a truce.

  "If you won't do it for my sake," continued Geoff, with a fine edge of sarcasm, "do it for England."

  "Far be it from me to resist a patriotic appeal," replied Letty, matching the edge in his voice with her own. "So we let bygones be from this point on? No recriminations, no ill will?"

  "Something like that."

  It wasn't exactly a wholehearted endorsement.

  "Oh, Mrs. Alsdale! Mrs. Alllllsdale!" Jane descended on them like a whole horde of banshees, everything that could flutter fluttering.

  This time, Letty just managed not to look over her shoulder before responding, "Yes?"

  Jane grabbed Letty's arm and dragged her away from Lord Pinchingdale, toward the steps of the church and a towheaded man in the sober, dark suit of a clergyman.

  "You must come and meet the ever-so-charming curate of this ever-so-lovely church!"

  As Jane propelled her ever so rapidly forward, Letty thought that she saw Jane's head jerk infinitesimally to the left. Given the constant motion of her curls, it was impossible to tell, but she was sure of it when, behind them, Lord Pinchingdale moved softly to the left, up the stairs to the sanctuary. If Letty hadn't been so preternaturally aware of his presence, she would never have noticed.

  The curate clearly didn't. He was a very young clergyman, with a round, open face, his white stock slightly wrinkled, as though he were accustomed to tugging on it; Jane's hand on his arm caused his Adam's apple to bob up and down in an ecstasy of incoherent admiration.

  Letty glanced sideways at Jane suspiciously, wondering if her tales of rebel correspondence in the crypt had been just that—fairy stories, designed to distract an unwanted third party while the real activity went on above. Letty reconsidered Jane's request for aid in the coach. There was something quite clever in the notion of distracting an inconvenient observer by enlisting her to distract someone else.

  "Lovely Mr. Haverford is going to show us the crypt!" Jane's rapturous exclamation, combined with a sharp pinch, drew Letty's attention back to the blushing curate.

  "It's really no place for ladies," said the curate hesitantly, looking at the elaborate flounces at the hem of Jane's dress, and the ribbons fluttering from the brim of her bonnet. His voice was a soft tenor, more Oxbridge than Ireland. "It's very damp."

  Just over the cleric's shoulder, the blue-painted panels of the church door settled silently shut.

  Releasing Letty, Jane clapped her gloved hands together in girlish glee.

  "Oh, how splendid! Just like The Castle of Otranto! Or was it The Children of the Abbey? Oh, never mind, whichever it was, the crypt was positively drippy. Oh, please, do tell me that there are bones scattered about the floor!"

  The curate cleared his throat uncomfortably, and tugged at his clerical collar as Jane fluttered her lashes at him. "I'm afraid all our bones are properly put away in their, er, respective coffers."

  "Oh, well." Jane did a marvelous impression of someone nobly striving to overcome a grave disappointment. "We will contrive to manage, I suppose, as long as it is very, very damp and gloomy."

  "Oh, very damp and gloomy!" replied the curate, his head bobbing up and down, grateful to be able to please in something.

  "Excellent!" Miss Gwen took command of the curate's arm. "You shall escort us. Now, where is this crypt of yours?"

  "It's not mine, precisely…."

  "Sirrah!" A sharp rap of the parasol indicated that Miss Gwen would brook no shilly-shallying, even from a man of the cloth.

  Suitably chastened, the curate said meekly, "It's around the south side of the church. If you will come this way…"

  With Miss Gwen's arm so firmly latched onto his that it was hard to discern whether he was leading or being dragged, the curate led the way around the sanctuary, leaving Letty and Jane to follow in his wake. The curate did attempt to glance longingly back at Jane, but a sharp poke from Miss Gwen's parasol reclaimed his attention, and made a deep reddish stain spread between his collar and the downy fringe of hair on the back of his neck.

  As they rounded the side of the church, picking their way along the uneven passage, Miss Gwen's imperious voice floated back. "You, I take it, are a student of scripture. How do you reconcile 'Blessed are the meek' with 'God helps those who help themselves'?"

  "I'm afraid the latter isn't actually in the scriptures, Mrs. Grimstone," said the curate very apologetically.

  "Nonsense! You must not have been looking h
ard enough." Miss Gwen glanced impatiently around her as the party drew to a halt beneath two arched windows covered with grilles. "Why are we stopping?"

  "This is the vault, Mrs. Grimstone."

  "Where?" demanded Miss Gwen, craning her neck as though a mausoleum might magically materialize for her convenience.

  "I believe he means this," said Letty, pointing down. The entrance was little more than a hole in the ground, covered by a sturdy wooden trapdoor with an iron ring set in one end.

  Inserting the point of her parasol through the ring, Miss Gwen tugged. The trapdoor opened easily; either, thought Letty, the wood was much lighter or Miss Gwen much stronger than she had thought. Letty suspected the latter. In the resulting gap, Letty could just make out the top of a flight of stone stairs.

  Miss Gwen peered disdainfully into the depths. "That is your crypt?"

  "I did say it was no place for ladies," hedged the curate, falling back a step beneath the force of Miss Gwen's formidable glower, and even more formidable parasol.

  Jane fluttered into action. "How romantic!" she breathed, with a warning look at her chaperone. "Why, it's just like the subterranean passageway in The Horrors of Alfonso!"

  "I'm afraid I haven't read that work," admitted the curate.

  "Nor the Bible, either, apparently," sniffed Miss Gwen.

  Letty wondered what Lord Pinchingdale was doing back in the sanctuary, and whether her companions would notice if she abandoned them to slip back inside. She glanced briefly back over her shoulder at the narrow alleyway they had just walked down, little tufts of grass sprouting along the sides of trodden dirt. The stone of the sanctuary walls blotted any sound from within.

  "Darling Mrs. Alsdale!" Letty was learning to loathe her assumed name. Jane propelled Letty forward with a light push. "Would you do the honors?"

  "All right." Yielding to the inevitable, Letty gathered her skirts up. She placed one booted foot on the top step, worn at the middle from generations of feet carrying their funereal burdens. A slight flicker of light lurked in the depths. Picking her way down, Letty was grateful to whomever had thought to keep a torch burning below. There was no rail to cling to, just the uneven stone wall, as slick and damp as any distressed heroine might wish for. Atmospheric, perhaps, but it was wreaking havoc with the palms of Letty's gloves.