Behind the Mask (House of Lords)

by Brooke, Meg

  Colin looked over at his companion, who was sitting like a sack of flour in the saddle. “You will ride more comfortably if you press down into the saddle,” he advised.

  Strathmore smiled. “I don’t have much experience with horses. I did not have the benefit of an Eton education,” he added, sneering a little.

  “Where did you go to school?” Colin asked, determined to be friendly.

  “My uncle George Hamline has a school in Lyme Regis.”

  “In Dorset?”

  Strathmore nodded. “It was not the equal of Eton, of course, but it did well enough for me and my brothers.”

  “So how did you come to the Foreign Office?”

  “I served two years in Mysore.”

  “You were a Company man?”

  He nodded. “Officially I was attached to Governor-General Bentinck’s office, but most of my work was breaking codes and locks and ciphers for Sir Mark Cubbon.”

  Colin raised an eyebrow. He knew Sir Mark by reputation, though of course he had never met the man, who had been serving in India since before Colin was born. The lieutenant general had a reputation for being a fair-minded reformer who had taken charge of the troublesome Mysore state a few years earlier, though he hadn’t been officially appointed Commissioner until this year. “A good place to cut your teeth,” he commented.

  “It wasn’t for me. My first year all the men who went over with me died of the cholera. I was the only survivor. After that I began making friends with the members of the foreign service who had been stationed there. It wasn’t long before someone recommended me for a return to England and His Majesty’s service. On my way back we were stopped in Algeria to investigate the murders of three French officers there. It was another year before we returned to England.”

  Now Colin understood why Strathmore had been assigned to his detail. “So you have knowledge of the Serraray,” he said.

  Strathmore looked grim. “They are the most single-minded group I have ever encountered. There were organizations like theirs in India, you know, devoted to the overthrow of the British occupiers. But there were none who pursued that end with such intensity as the Berbers.”

  “Do you speak any of the language?”

  He shrugged. “Only a little. Enough to know where the word ‘Serraray’ comes from and to understand what that means.”

  “What does it mean?” Colin knew the literal translation, but he had to admit that his knowledge of the native peoples of Algeria was lacking.

  “I cannot speak for all Muslims,” Strathmore said carefully, “but to the Serraray it means that once their leader has given an order, it is as if that order had come from God himself. There is no turning back until it is fulfilled or death comes.” There was a note of awe in his voice, as though some small part of him admired their determination.

  Colin nodded, looking across the field to where Miss Chesney had turned her horse and was galloping back to them. As she neared, she called out, “Let’s veer west first. The sun will only get stronger on the hillsides as it gets later.” She came back to ride with them. Her cheeks were pleasantly flushed, her hair tousled. She wore no hat, and the ruffled tie at the collar of her shirt that mimicked a cravat was coming undone.

  They followed her across the river. “The Bolling,” she explained. “It’s not usually this high so late in the summer, but we had a rainy spring.”

  “So this is where the village gets its name,” Strathmore said.

  “Yes. If you follow the river it will take you across the flats and right through the village out to the sea. Down there you can see for miles up and down the coast. It’s mostly flatlands here, you know. Our little valley is unique.” There was a note of pride in her voice.

  The river cut through the valley east to west, and now she took them along the banks and back towards the main road. The trees thickened as they went.

  “There is an old gamekeeper’s lodge here,” she explained, “though it hasn’t been used in decades. The last gamekeeper died when my father was a child, and after that the family didn’t see a use for another. But the lodge has been kept up, and it’s still in good repair.”

  Through the trees Colin spotted a low building constructed of the same sandy stone as the great house. It had a thatched roof that looked relatively new and shiny mullioned windows. “Is the door kept locked?” Colin asked.

  “No. We’ve never seen the need for it, though I suppose we could have a lock fitted to it if it’s necessary.”

  Strathmore shrugged. “I don’t suppose it will be.” He looked at Colin. “One of us will ride the perimeter each day, just to be sure.”

  “I see. Well, shall we ride the south hill up to the ruins first?”

  As they followed her along a worn trail towards the southern edge of the valley, Colin marveled at the woman’s resilience. Her life and the lives of her family were in danger, her home under threat, and yet with every complication or surprise her resolve only seemed to strengthen.

  “Now, from here,” Miss Chesney said as they crested the low hill to the south, “you can see the roof of the house, as well as the stableyard, but the village and the river are out of view behind the north hill. The windows of the house itself provide a much clearer view of the north hill, so if I were going to try to sneak onto the grounds I would do it from this end of the valley.”

  Colin was uncertain how to respond to this. Did she suspect that someone was planning to infiltrate Sidney Park, or was she simply trying to be informative?

  “What is that house to the south?” Strathmore asked, pointing to a spot far away across the flatlands beyond the hill, where a country house of middling size stood out against the landscape.

  “That is Havenhall, the home of the Holliers,” Miss Chesney said. “Local gentry. Mr. Hollier and his wife live there with their son, Toby. Their daughters are both married and live out of the county. Toby has just returned from India, I understand,” she added, her voice taking on a strange tone. Colin glanced over at her. She was staring fixedly at the red brick house, as though she could see the inhabitants within. One tendril of pale hair had come loose from its pins, and she tucked it absently behind her ear. “No doubt we will see the Holliers at some point now that we have returned. They are old friends of the family.”

  “Hollier, you say?” Strathmore said, looking thoughtful. “The name sounds familiar.”

  “Were you in India?”

  He nodded. “For two years. But I don’t think it was there that I heard the name.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll meet the family soon,” she said. “Now, if you’ll follow me, the trail gets a little rocky up ahead.”

  She led them along the ridge towards the east. Just before the hill began to drop back down to the flats, the ruins of an old tower built from the familiar sandy stone stood. There wasn’t much left, just the circular base of the tower, one side fallen in all the way to the ground, the other being supported by an ancient, crumbling staircase.

  “It dates back long before the Chesneys were given the viscountcy and Sidney Park was built. It was a Norman stronghold then. We used to play up here as children, though many of the villagers think it’s haunted.”

  “Is it?” Strathmore asked.

  Miss Chesney shrugged. “I suppose it may be. Once I was up here late at night, and I do believe I heard voices, though it may only have been the wind, or perhaps the village drunkard out on the flats.” She laughed at that, and Colin had to smile, too. But Strathmore looked a little frightened. Colin wondered if the man believed in such things as ghosts and spirits. “Someone once told me that Shakespeare visited these ruins before he wrote Hamlet,” Miss Chesney went on, “though who knows if that’s true, either.”

  Colin looked around the ruins again. He could easily imagine the Bard’s tortured antihero moping about this tower, watching the ships pass by out on the water, meeting the ghost of his father on a gloomy, foggy night.

  “Well,” Miss Chesney said, shaking him fr
om his thoughts, “shall we ride over to the north hill?”

  She showed them every part of the valley she thought might be relevant to their purposes. Eleanor knew that she was not as intelligent as Cynthia Bainbridge, who knew the name and history of every Member of Parliament—Commons and Lords both, and still tutored her husband in philosophy and politics. Still, she was not a stupid woman. It had not taken her long to surmise that the only reason the Foreign Office would be sending four trained agents, one of whom had been brought from abroad specifically for the purpose, to Sidney Park was if there were some threat to the Princess Victoria. The level of suspicion and interest with which Lord Pierce and Mr. Strathmore approached each new detail only confirmed her assumptions. They asked about alternate routes into the valley and potential hiding places, though not in those words. Were there any caves on the property? Were the villagers very close-knit, and would they recognize a stranger in their midst? How many men in the village had ever been trained as soldiers?

  They already knew there was a militia regiment of infantry quartered at Great Yarmouth, two hours’ ride away. In fact, Strathmore even mentioned the colonel by name. Every once in awhile they would let her ride ahead a little so that they could talk quietly, heads close together. She pretended not to notice, though she knew there was little point in the ruse. Lord Pierce, at least, seemed to have been aware of her suspicions almost before they were fully formed.

  When they rode at last back to the great house, it was nearly two, and yet the men insisted that they would ride along the river into the Porter-on-Bolling. Eleanor went into the house to change out of her riding clothes, but before she could reach her room Georgina passed her in the hall.

  “Mother has invited the Holliers for dinner,” her sister said placidly, her eyes not meeting Eleanor’s. “She wrote yesterday when we arrived, apparently. They will come tonight.”

  Eleanor nodded curtly. “Very well,” she said, and then she swept down the hall and into her room. Only when the door was firmly shut behind her did she lean against it and allow herself a deep sigh.

  She had known she would have to see him. Her mother had been thrilled when she had received news of his return from her dear friend Mrs. Hollier, especially given Eleanor’s rejection of Lord Marsh. But Eleanor had hoped for a little while longer to get used to the idea that Toby had returned to the country with a vast fortune, that all the considerations that had caused her mother to reject his suit had now vanished. She was no longer a girl of sixteen. Five years had passed since that spring, though it felt like twenty-five.

  She had become a different person. She wondered now if he had as well.

  SEVEN

  It was almost three when they reached Porter-on-Bolling. From the north hill, Miss Chesney had pointed out the village, clustered around the flats where the River Bolling drained into the sea. Between the valley and the village there were farms and field studded with windmills. It almost reminded Colin of the coast of Belgium.

  The village, however, was distinctly British. The buildings were stout half-timber edifices with thick chimneys and narrow windows, their jettied upper storeys poking out over the streets. It was not a large village. There was a church at one end of the long street, and in front of it an open village commons in which stood a large oak tree. There could not have been more than twenty houses in the village itself, Colin thought, and as they had ridden along the river he had counted only eight farmhouses. Two hundred people at the most, then, the majority of them born right here in Porter-on-Bolling.

  The inn, which was optimistically called the King’s Rest, was a wide building two doors down from the church. Colin and Strathmore stepped into the dimly lit taproom to find it empty, but it was only moments before the innkeeper bustled out, his wide face breaking into a grin.

  “Welcome, sirs,” he said. He was wiping a mug on his apron. “What can I do for you?”

  “We are looking for our friend, a Mr. Yates,” Strathmore said. “He was meant to meet us here.”

  The innkeeper looked puzzled. “Haven’t seen him since yesterday morning, sir,” he said. “He went out on horseback just after breakfast, but he didn’t come back last night. Said he meant to do some exploring of the region, and we weren’t to worry if he didn’t return until very late. Said he liked spending the night out in the open.”

  Reconnaissance, then. Yates had been watching for something and had planned to stay out late into the night. But not to return to the inn at all struck Colin as rather odd.

  He and Strathmore went out and mounted their horses to begin the ride back to Sidney Park. “Would you say this is normal behavior for Yates?” Colin asked as they left the village.

  “Do you know,” Strathmore said, smiling tightly, “it is. Yates is a brilliant agent, My Lord, and quite adept at his work, but he does tend to get a little carried away. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had stayed out on the flats all night watching for suspicious persons. But it is strange that he didn’t return to the inn today.”

  “My thoughts exactly. We’ll give him until tomorrow morning to turn up, but then we’ll have to search for him.”

  For a while they rode in silence, both lost in their thoughts.

  Then Strathmore said, “Do you think Miss Chesney always dresses like a man to ride?”

  Colin laughed. “I suppose she does.” He didn’t say what he was thinking, which was that Strathmore had done a far better job concealing his surprise than Colin himself had. He was sure he had stared far longer than was polite when she had stridden so calmly into the room in breeches that fit her like a second skin. Many times he had caught himself not hearing a word Strathmore said as he watched her ahead of them on the trail.

  This could not happen. Aside from the fact that he had always believed romantic attachments to be a complication he could not afford in his line of work, there was the further consideration that her brother was due to arrive in a matter of days. Colin did not know Leo as well as he once had, but he was certain he was not likely to look kindly on the man who had been sent to protect his family developing a tendre for his sister instead.

  He would remain aloof, just as he had done since Angeline. It would not be difficult, after all. He would likely never see the girl again after this. When this sojourn in the British countryside was through he was going back to Brussels, and he meant to remain on the Continent as long as he possibly could. One day, he knew, his father would die, and Colin would be the Earl of Townsley. But his father was young. That day was a long way off.

  By the time they arrived back at Sidney Park tea had been cleared away, and the house was quiet. Everyone seemed to have retreated to their own corners until dinner, so Colin and Strathmore went back into the library. The butler followed them to apologize for the tea having been cleared before their return.

  “Really, it’s no trouble, Parkinson,” Colin said. “I wonder, is the steward still about?”

  “Oh, yes, My Lord,” Parkinson said, sounding grateful to at least have some good news. “He doesn’t go home until the bell to dress for dinner has rung. Shall I fetch him for you?”

  “Please,” Colin said. When the butler had gone he turned to Strathmore. “At least we can take a look at those estate plans.”

  Mr. Jameson, a short, muscular man with a bushy bright red moustache came in, holding several long rolled papers. After the introductions had been made he said, “Miss Chesney already spoke to me about your wanting these, My Lord,” he explained as he laid the rolls out on the table. “This one is the plan of the house itself. This one shows the house in a smaller scale with all the outbuildings, and this is a map of the whole estate. There’s also a map here of Porter-on-Bolling, though I wasn’t sure you’d want it.”

  “Thank you,” Colin said, leaning over the table to look at the plan of the house. “Tell me, Mr. Jameson, have you been the steward here long?”

  “Thirteen years, My Lord,” Jameson replied. “The previous viscount brought me on after he inherited the ti
tle. He meant to take his seat in Parliament, you see, as his father had not done, and because he would be in London at least half the year he knew he needed someone to see to the business. He was a good landlord, My Lord, but even the best chess player cannot keep his eyes on all the pieces from a hundred miles away.”

  “No, indeed,” Colin said, though he thought of Lord Palmerston, the Foreign Secretary, who seemed to always be playing a dozen different chess games, some of them on boards a thousand miles or more from London. It helped to have an entire legion of agents at one’s disposal, he supposed.

  “Are all the entrances to the great house marked on this plan?” Strathmore asked.

  “It’s funny you should ask that, sir,” Jameson said. “There is one entrance not shown here: the Priest’s Passage. Down here, behind the kitchens,” he went on, pointing, “there is a cold cellar. There’s a door at the back that leads into a tunnel. We store the wine down there now, but back when the house was first built it was a secret entrance—or exit—for anyone who didn’t want to be found in the house. The tunnel extends six miles out under the south hill. It comes out on the edge of the Hollier property, though I don’t know that anyone’s been through it in ten years or more. I can take you down there and show you if you like," Jameson offered.

  "I'll take a look tomorrow after we've interviewed the servants," Colin said.

  Jameson looked uncomfortable. "Pardon my asking, My Lord, but we're not in any danger, are we? Miss Chesney said that you both are from the Foreign Office." He paused. "There's not any danger to the princess, is there?"

  "We hope not," Strathmore said simply. "But we are paid to be overly cautious, Mr. Jameson, and we do it well. We must know everything about everyone in the household, and we will find out any secrets that are being kept."

  It was masterfully done, Colin thought, feeling a newfound respect for young Strathmore. In very few words he had shifted Jameson's suspicions from them back to the staff. The steward seemed to sense that he would learn no more from them, for he said, "I'm sure you'll find the staff cooperative. Now, I must be getting back to my office. I'll just leave these here with you, shall I?"