by Kit Donner
“You seem preoccupied, my friend,” Keegan remarked as they trotted side by side over the rolling verdant meadow. Their horses’ hooves left fresh imprints on the soft, rain-dampened ground. “What causes the frown? This murder business or a woman?” he teased.
Bryce returned a grin. “Truthfully, a bit of both.” Although he should concentrate on Carstairs’s murder, Mrs. Grundy haunted his thoughts. Where had she come from? Why and how had she entered his home? Where was she now? And what was her real name? Whatever her purpose, he wanted her not to be a part of the deceptive world of spying.
Keegan pressed Bryce further. “Tell me it is not the countess who brings that look to your face. Why do you allow her and that scurvy cousin of hers to remain at Paddock Green?”
His grin broadening into a smile, Bryce shook his head. “You certainly harbor little love for Isabella. Actually, I consider it my duty to the king to keep them under my roof. I do not trust Sansouche, and he can be easily followed from here on his midnight jaunts through the countryside. We almost caught him and his cohorts in Little Shepherd’s Cemetery a few nights past. The next time, we will succeed. The problem is holding the countess at bay. If I send her to London, her cousin would go with her.”
Keegan blew a low whistle after Bryce’s explanation. “So that is your game. You think Sansouche is the French spy.”
“Actually, I think Sansouche is in league with the spy, but he’s not their leader. I had Red Tattoo on his trail, but lately my valet has been working on another matter.”
With raised brows, Keegan asked, “Yes?”
It was not until both men slowed their mounts to cross the narrow, rambling brook which adjoined Londringham’s and Carstairs’s estates that Bryce replied, “Red has been looking for a young woman that I met at the fair as well as the young Rupert Mandeley. He may know something about his cousin’s murder, but unfortunately, the boy seems to have disappeared without a trace.”
Keegan mused, “A girl, a murder, and French spies. Must keep Red busy. Where is he now?”
“He traveled to Storrington to visit the young man’s family. I expect his return any day, hopefully with good news.” Conversation was postponed as they hied their horses up the circular driveway.
Carstairs’s butler greeted the men at the door and ushered them into the front parlor where the local constable, Lyle Cavendish, awaited them. Bright sunlight from the windows that aligned the east wall lit the dark-wainscoted room.
Cavendish’s small eyes blinked behind his thick spectacles as he squirmed his pudgy body further into the small chair. His bushy black moustache seemed to cover most of his countenance except for the thick brows that framed his small, pale face.
Bryce nodded to his friend. “Mr. Cavendish, this is my associate, Captain Keegan Kilkennen. I asked him to accompany me today. Your note indicated that you have suspicions that Carstairs may have been selling secrets to the French. What accounts for this?”
Cavendish rubbed his hands together and replied in his earnest Yorkshire accent, “Yes, I believe the viscount was working with our enemy. Connecting the pieces to the puzzle, I recently learned that Carstairs had lost funds at a rather rapid pace for several months. Then suddenly, his situation changes, and he has money to spare. Even his lawyer cannot explain the viscount’s recent wealth. Apparently, the man trusted no one and was extremely secretive.”
Keegan leaned against a nearby desk. “And who might you think killed him? His French benefactors would have wanted to keep him alive for his information. Do you think his cousin, this young Mandeley fellow, had anything to do with his murder?”
Drumming his fat fingers on the arm of his chair, Cavendish intoned, “Too soon to say. The maid declares she saw the young man standing over the body. That’s all we have. No motive, no murder weapon, nothing. But it certainly does look serious for the young man. His disappearance has only increased the opinion of guilt most have about him.”
“It is not Mandeley.”
Cavendish and Keegan glanced over at Bryce upon hearing his surprising conviction.
The captain frowned and confronted his friend. “How did you come to this conclusion?”
Bryce slowly progressed around the large study, studying the objects and furniture as if seeking answers and seemingly uninterested in the conversation when he looked up and said thoughtfully, “It is my job to know people and where their loyalties lie. I have been thinking about the night I met Rupert Mandeley at a local family’s soiree. We spoke only briefly, but he seemed like an eager, jovial chap and very wet behind the ears.”
He held up his hand to halt any encroaching argument. “Not in Carstairs’s league. If we find the motive behind the murder, we shall find our assassin. However, I certainly would like to find the Mandeley boy. I think he could tell us something.”
The constable’s eyes squeezed tight, listening to Londringham’s pronouncement. He moved his jaw from side to side, then decided, “Londringham. You could be right. However, we may indeed find that behind the innocence of youth lies a deceitful heart.”
Bryce’s only response was a lift of an arched brow.
They spent the better part of the morning interviewing the house staff and searching for answers in the shambles of the study. But they found no motive for the murder or clues to the murderer’s identity. Reviewing documents left on Carstairs’s desk, Bryce noticed Cavendish absentmindedly spinning the large globe on its stand near the windows.
Remembering something Carstairs had once said, Bryce hurried over to the stand and stopped its movement. His hands expertly skimmed over the smooth circumference as the other men watched in amazement. At the bottom of the globe, his forefinger felt a tiny metal hook. He pulled the hook and a document fell to the floor.
Bryce bent down and scooped the rolled paper into his hand. A quick glance at the unfurled scroll was all he needed. “This is what he wanted.”
“Who?” Keegan asked, peering over Bryce’s shoulder.
“The murderer. It is a map marked with weak joints of our battlements along the coast. I saw a similar document in Hobart’s offices. This map could help the French determine where best to land their troops in an invasion.” He paused thoughtfully. “Carstairs’s death must have something to do with the French spies in our midst. If Carstairs was feeding information to the French, that would account for his sudden wealth, but not his murder.”
All three men stared at the document in the earl’s hands, wondering what vital information Carstairs might have passed on to the French. Although Cavendish wanted to claim the paper as evidence, Bryce persuaded the constable to allow him to keep it for awhile. It might prove useful in catching a spy or two, he jested.
Later, after dinner, Bryce relaxed in the library on the settee near the fireplace, wincing unconsciously at the pain in his right thigh. He thought very little about his injury and too much of a deeper wound he allowed no one to see. Just one of the many casualties of last November. Revenge held him tighter than a spiderweb holds a fly. He was a captive of that night and would never be free until he had caught Edward’s murderer.
Soon. Soon, he’d find the French spies. Then he could return to France and search for the Frenchwoman spy.
He turned his mind to Carstairs’s murder. Although he and the constable were convinced that the viscount had been in league with the French spies, they were not entirely sure what other Englishmen might be enjoying heavier pockets in exchange for military information. And then there was the matter of the countess’s cousin, Alain Sansouche.
In the past month, the Frenchman had acted extremely respectable, with not one whiff of any peculiar or suspicious actions.
Further contemplation was interrupted when, under half-closed lids, he watched Keegan, Isabella, and Sansouche stroll into the library. Isabella immediately disengaged herself from her cousin and glided across the room to sit by Bryce’s side, leaning very close to him, the deep cut of her ruby-red gown displaying her assets.
&nbs
p; “Bryce, mon cher, you should have heard the charming story Alain told about his trip across the Channel. It was very dangerous. They nearly capsized twice and were shot at by the English! Is that not exciting?”
The subject of the countess’s discourse stood near the fireplace. “My cousin believes my journey more amusing than it truly was. Londringham, I have not had an opportunity to extend to you my appreciation that you permit me to stay here with my cousin.”
Bryce noticed the Frenchman’s smile did not reach all the corners of his face, but he acknowledged Sansouche with a slight nod.
Bloody hell, where is my port? He smiled grimly to himself—though his thirst was more for revenge, he’d have to settle for libation. Nothing would satisfy him but a Frenchwoman’s head on a plate or a pretty green-eyed vixen in his bed. No sense in letting that thought distract him. He was amazed how often he did think of Mrs. Grundy, even with Isabella practically sitting on his lap.
Thankfully, he noted the footman had arrived with the sought-after port.
“Shall we have a game of cards, anyone?” Isabella’s suggestion caused everyone to turn to her. “We need four players and there are exactly four people in the room. Whist? Bridge? Alain, yes?”
“Your servant, madam,” he responded.
The countess next turned to Bryce, who had stood and walked to the sideboard and poured a glass of port. “And you, my lord? Shall we count you in?”
Bryce stared into his port as if the opaque color could tell him something. When he realized they were waiting expectantly, he looked up and smiled apologetically. “Cards? I think not.” His response brooked no opposition.
“Captain, would you…?” Isabella looked across the room to Keegan, who studied several leather-bound books on the wall-length bookcases.
He took a long swallow before replying, “Not interested in games with any Frenchies.”
The countess raised her chin perceptibly. “You Irish are beneath the lowest servants. You are so vulgar and unimaginative, no culture, no fashion. Whatever do you have in your dreadful little country?” She shared a chuckle with her cousin.
The captain strode over to the settee. Bryce recognized his friend’s dark expression, which had frightened many a lazy sailor and loosened a few tongues. Keegan rested a hand on the arm of the settee and leaned down mere inches from her face. “The Irish, mum, enjoy the finest stout, the fastest horseflesh, and the rarest women, none of which I am sure the frog-eating Frenchmen have ever seen.”
Keegan’s insolent answer stunned the woman into what Bryce knew was a rare speechlessness. The captain sauntered back over to the bookcase and drained his glass with one swallow.
Bryce watched as Isabella’s face turned red with anger, her blue eyes small slits of spitting venom. He would have to remind his friend to curb his tongue around the countess. They mixed together like Whigs and Tories.
In obvious exasperation with the Irishman, Isabella spilled her drink on the front of her dress and jumped up, sputtering. Sansouche appeared at her side immediately.
“Ma chérie, it is truly insignificant. Calm yourself and let us see if your maid might be able to save it.” He soothed and calmed her while escorting her to the door.
At their absence, Keegan smacked his hands together. “What delightful events conspired to rid us of her presence.”
Before he could continue, they heard it. Click. Followed by a smooth rolling. The wall behind Bryce’s desk disappeared and Red Tattoo, Bryce’s valet, walked into the room. A ruddy face to match his red hair and a thin scar along the side of his face and neck, Red looked more like a smuggler than a valet, especially given his filthy appearance. “Ready for my report, my lord. I waited for the French witch and her cousin to leave and thought the air clear.”
After locking the library room door Bryce gestured to a nearby chair. “Yes, I am most anxious to learn of your progress.”
“It’s like this. I went to that place, Storrington, you sent me to and had me a look around. Spoke to the neighbors, even the boy’s family at a place called Susetta Fields. Sounds French to me.”
Bryce waved him on. “Yes, and do they know where their missing brother is?”
“No, their lips were closed tighter than a nun’s legs. I told them as how the boy owed me money from a card game, and I was meaning to see he came through with it. The one brother blathered on about being his brother’s keeper and such. Couldn’t follow it much. One of the other fellows offered to show me his garden of rutabagas, but before I could find out more, the older one threw me out!” Indignation showed plainly on his face.
“So his family either does not know where young Mandeley is or they are not saying,” Bryce said.
“That’s the way I’d tell it, my lord.”
“And the girl?”
“Sorry, no luck there. No one in Winchelsea remembered a girl like that. There are some what say she may have only been here for the Mop Fair and got a job elsewhere.”
Bryce rubbed his brow and responded thoughtfully, “Yes, hired at the Mop Fair. I had thought—no matter. But I believe she is still around here. We should be able to determine from the locals who hired her. Can you continue that business?”
Red Tattoo smiled. “I shall deliver her and that Mandeley fellow to you on a silver tray.”
Bryce grinned. Red Tattoo, his friend and valet, had overwhelming confidence in his own abilities, most of which was justified. Often were the times that Bryce was glad to have Red watch out for him.
Keegan told Bryce with a wry smile, “This woman must mean something to you.”
Shrugging indifferently, he replied, “Perhaps. I think she might lead to fairly interesting answers.”
Another long day passed quietly, too quietly. Patience sat in the servants’ hall alone finishing her dinner, thinking about events of earlier in the day. She had seen the earl only once in the morning after his return from an early-morning ride when he stopped to talk with Mr. Gibbs at the front door. From an open window, she had studied him unnoticed, objectively, she thought, belying the fast pace of her heart.
His thick brown hair touched his collar. He wore no coat, and his white sleeves were rolled up to reveal tanned, strong forearms. His hands rested casually on his hips. She remembered those strong hands that had warmed her skin. She shook her head. It simply wouldn’t do to remember that night, she admonished herself.
He had a lean, hard look about him, and seemed as if he were never truly at rest, with a compelling countenance warmed by the sun, no doubt attracting many women.
Not that it mattered to Patience, of course. She imagined how disappointed all of his conquests would be when they learned he was a traitor to his country.
When he’d headed back toward the stables, she could not keep her eyes off his formidable, muscled form, outlined in revealing buffed breeches. He strode with an easy assurance and yet lightly, almost as if he knew someone watched him. She’d suppressed a shiver that swirled up her spine, and returned to the required task of mixing white vitriol and sugar for boot polish.
As usual her thoughts were not far from the man who had drawn her and her brother into this little drama of his.
Patience left the servants’ hall and climbed the stairs to the kitchen, which she found empty. Dinner long over, the clock would soon strike ten. The earl and his friends enjoyed libations in the drawing room. Melenroy reclined in her worn seat by the fireplace, snoring while probably dreaming of more tasteless dishes to cook. It had been three days since beginning her still-room maid adventure. Her patience was growing as short as brother James’s sermons were long.
Just then, Lem burst through the kitchen door, glanced around, and ran over to her side. “Miss, I ’ear something. It’s a whinin’ sound. I think it’s comin’ from behind the stables. Come with me and see what it is.”
“Did you ask Lucky about it, Lem?”
“Oh, Lucky can’t ’elp, ’e’s asleep in ’is cups. Ye got to help me. It may be bad.”
As always, Patience found his little round, lively face hard to ignore. “Show me where you heard the noise.”
The back door slammed behind them as they ran outside swinging a lantern, the half moon hidden in the shadow of the clouds. They swiftly ventured across the lawn, colored black in the night, to the stables.
Crickets hummed softly in the unseasonably warm night as the sound of the waves rushing to shore haunted the darkness, even at this distance. A perfect night for a stroll, but a more pressing concern made them quicken their steps.
As Patience and Lem rounded the stables they paused to listen for a noise out of place in the country air. By and by, Patience began to believe what Lem had heard was an owl or perhaps a lost sheep.
“There it is!” he shouted exuberantly.
Indeed, a howl that sounded like an animal in pain split the calm night. A second cry pinpointed the noise. It came from the copse of woods sitting back on a slight slope from the stables.
They raced toward the noise, and at the edge of the woods, they found him. Gulliver, the earl’s greyhound. Patience placed the lantern nearby and saw immediately that the quaking animal’s front paw was caught in a rabbit trap. Using pressure, with Lem’s help she gently pulled open the trap and released the dog’s paw, her hands inked with blood. Patience bristled over the injustice and pain to the animal. Poaching had long been a crime proven mostly unstoppable.
Lem crouched by Patience as she tended to the weak animal, petting Gulliver’s sleek coat with devotedness. “’s such a nice dog. Why did ’e ’ave to get ’urt?” Patience heard the tears in Lem’s voice.
“I don’t know, Lem. But he’ll be fine, we’ll take care of him,” she rushed to assure him.
“The master will be quite angry at the poacher what set this trap,” he said solemnly.
Patience nodded. “Lem, go quick and ask Lucky to bring a cart to carry Gulliver back to the stables.”
Eager to do his part, Lem flew across the expanse of meadow to the stables while she remained behind to comfort Gulliver. She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and wrapped the wound several times to staunch the bleeding. All the while she murmured soothing words to the shaking dog as she stroked his soft fur over and over.