Olivia was smiling. ‘Oh, show him in, Ford! And pray send to the long paddock to tell Lord Marney that Lord Richard is here. Lord Richard!’ She advanced towards him, hand outstretched. ‘How kind of you to call. You can see that we are not in as parlous a state as last night’s reports may have led you to believe.’
‘I am glad to see that the experience has not overset you, ma’am,’ Richard said, a twinkle in his eyes. He bowed to her and then came across to Deb, taking her hand.
‘Good morning, Deborah. How are you?’
‘I am very well, thank you, my lord,’ Deb said, feeling a quite-out-of-proportion pleasure that now they were betrothed, albeit fictitiously, he could address her in so personal a manner. ‘It is fortunate that you are here,’ she added, ‘for there is something I need to speak to you about. Urgently. In private,’ she amended, for good measure.
Richard gave her a quizzical look. ‘Is there?’
‘Yes,’ Deb said. ‘Perhaps you would care to come with me to the conservatory and inspect Olivia’s collection of Buxus sempervirens? They are very fine.’
‘Are they?’ Richard said. ‘Then I cannot wait to see them.’ He turned to Olivia. ‘If you would excuse us, Lady Marney?’
‘Of course,’ Olivia said, smiling widely. ‘Since you are betrothed, there can be no objection to you spending a little time alone together. I had no notion that you were so interested in my horticultural work, Deb!’ she added. ‘You must let me show you my cuttings from the Campsis radicans.’
Deb managed to look suitably grateful. ‘Dear Liv, I should be delighted. Just now, however, I do not wish to delay Lord Richard, who is no doubt anxious to be away to discuss horseflesh with Ross.’
‘Of course,’ Olivia said sweetly.
Deb grabbed Richard’s arm and hurried him out into the hall, closing the door behind them. ‘There is something that I need to tell you about the burglary,’ she said.
She looked around. One of the housemaids was polishing the big windows by the front door, her hand moving slowly as she gawped through the glass at the groom who was leading a horse through its paces on the gravel sweep outside.
‘We cannot talk here,’ she added. ‘We had best go and see these miniature box trees, or whatever it is that Olivia has in the conservatory.’
‘That sounds like the sort of invitation I would issue,’ Richard said, with a grin, but there was a keen expression in his eyes as he took her arm and they walked down the corridor into the cool green space of the conservatory beyond. Deb unlatched the door and drew him inside, taking a seat on the rustic wooden bench and gesturing to Richard to do the same. All pretence of indolence had dropped from his manner and he watched her with acute interest.
‘What is it you have to tell me?’ he asked softly.
‘Olivia has a collection of glasses that are engraved with the same symbols that were on the secret message,’ Deb said, trying not to allow the disturbing effects of his proximity to distract her from her tale. ‘I saw them for the first time this morning and recognised the symbols at once—’ She broke off at a soft oath from Richard.
‘Tell me the entire story, please,’ he said tersely.
Deb did so, trying conscientiously to relate it in order and leave nothing out. She told him how she had accidentally bid for the glasses at the Customs House auction, how Sir John Norton had bought a second set and tried to purchase the first from Ross and how half of them had been stolen the previous night. Richard listened and ventured no comment, but Deb could tell he was weighing her words with sharp perception.
‘But I cannot understand the connection with the cipher,’ she finished. ‘Why were the same symbols on the glasses as on the message? It makes no sense.’ She spread her hands. ‘No one would use engraved glasses to pass secret messages! It would be far too cumbersome a process and take too long.’
Richard nodded. ‘That’s true. Most messages are undoubtedly written and passed by hand, like the sheet you found in the book. A spy network might, however, use engraved glasses as the master cipher.’ He drove his hands into his pockets and got to his feet, pacing the floor thoughtfully.
‘I do not understand,’ Deb ventured, after a moment.
Richard shot her a look. ‘In a written code, the letter A, for example, might in reality represent the letter P. You would go through your secret message substituting all the As for Ps and the same with every other pair of letters, to spell out the message. But this is a pictorial code and until today we had no idea what the pictures meant. But it could be very simple.’ He ran his hand through his hair. ‘You said that each glass bears two pictures. Suppose, for example, that this is the master you need to break the code. A glass with a picture of the sea and a picture of the sun…’
‘Oh!’ Deb’s face cleared. ‘You mean that in the message, the symbol of the sun might represent the sea.’
‘Precisely. The pictures are in pairs. If we went back to our secret message and saw that the first symbol was of the sea, we could conclude that the sign we need to replace it with is that of the sun.’
Deb pulled a face. She was struggling. Cryptography evidently was not her strong point. ‘It still does not make sense, however,’ she complained. ‘What does the picture of the sun actually mean?’
‘Daylight?’ Richard hazarded. ‘There might be a corresponding one of the moon to represent night-time.’
‘There is!’ Deb said excitedly. ‘There was a crescent moon and a full moon!’
Richard smiled at her enthusiasm. ‘How gratifying. I do believe that we may at last be close to understanding the code.’
‘Except that we only have six of the glasses,’ Deb said, deflating, ‘and no way of knowing how many there were in the first place.’
Richard’s eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps that is something we could work on from the other end,’ he said. ‘Find the engraver. I doubt it can be anyone locally, for that might draw too much attention. London seems more likely. I shall send word to Lucas.’
Deb laughed. ‘Or we could find the other glasses! Procure invitations to all the houses in Midwinter and see who is using engraved glasses for their wine!’
Richard’s face was grim. ‘I suspect that that is exactly what they are doing—right under our noses! It would be typical of the damnable arrogance of these spies, drinking toasts to the King with glasses that proclaim their treason. It is a trick that has been used before. The Jacobites did it last century.’
‘Raising their glasses to the King across the water,’ Deb said, remembering Mrs Aintree’s history teaching.
‘And inscribing coded messages on the glass as well.’
Deb was frowning. ‘There are still many questions. What were the glasses doing at the auction? And who was responsible for the burglary? It cannot be John Norton or Lily Benedict, or Lady Sally, for they were all at the ball last night. I suppose there must be someone else in the Midwinter spy’s employ…’
Richard shook his head. ‘I confess that that is one of the things that puzzles me,’ he said. ‘The greater number of people involved, the greater the risk of exposure. It makes sense to keep the matter between as small a group as possible.’ He frowned. ‘I wonder if there is someone we have overlooked…’
‘There is no one else,’ Deb pointed out. ‘At the least, there is no one else connected with the reading group.’
‘No.’ Richard straightened. ‘I had better go and take a look at those remaining six glasses. I would like to know what pairs of symbols we do have.’ He took Deb’s hands. ‘For goodness’ sake, be careful, Deborah. I mislike your involvement in this.’
He pulled her to her feet. They were standing very close together. Richard caught her up in his arms and planted a hard, swift kiss on her mouth.
‘Be careful,’ he repeated, as his lips left hers.
‘I understand,’ Deb said. She rubbed her fingers over his lapel. ‘You do not want anything to happen to me—’
‘No,’ Richard said. He looked so fierc
e that Deb almost flinched. ‘I could not bear it if anything were to happen to you.’
Their eyes met and held. Deborah took a short, shaken breath. She felt even more dazed by his tenderness than by the kiss, for there had been so much intensity in his eyes that it frightened her. She realised that he was about to say something else. Nervousness gripped her.
‘Go,’ she said. ‘Ross will be awaiting you.’
‘Deb—’ Richard said.
Deb felt terrified, as though she was on the edge of a precipice, with insufficient courage to carry her through.
‘Please,’ she said beseechingly. ‘I will speak with you later, Richard.’
She saw the stubborn determination on his face and felt almost suffocated by feelings that she could not begin to understand. She turned on her heel and left him standing there, and she knew even as she went that once again it was herself she was running away from, and not he.
Chapter Thirteen
During the week that followed, Deb was obliged to admit that there was something very pleasant about being affianced to Lord Richard Kestrel. It was all too easy to forget that this was only a pretence of an engagement. Richard was extremely attentive to her in company; on the occasions that they were alone together, his behaviour towards Deb did not alter, which made it even more seductive to imagine that the betrothal was real. Never by word or deed did he imply that they were only involved in a deception. Fortunately also for Deb’s peace of mind there was no repetition of the scene in the conservatory. Richard’s mood seemed as light as hers and he made no difficult demands on her emotions.
Ross and Olivia watched the courtship with indulgent eyes and even Mrs Aintree was heard to say that Lord Richard had hidden depths. After a while it seemed to Deb that she was the only one who remembered that they were playing a game, and even she was having difficulty quelling the little voice inside that told her it would be pleasant if the betrothal was more than a charade.
Richard escorted her to the theatre in Woodbridge, took her boating on the River Deben and danced with her at the assemblies and private balls. He never once paid the slightest attention to another woman, other than out of courtesy. Deb marvelled at it. Olivia seemed unsurprised when she confided her surprise.
‘I always told you that you were misjudging the man,’ she said, with a smile. ‘He has eyes for no one but you, Deb.’
It was disconcerting to Deb to realise that this was true. Either Lord Richard Kestrel was an extremely accomplished actor who had no trouble in sustaining the impression that he was in love with her or…But Deb refused to contemplate the alternative. Richard had spoken no words of love and just the thought that he might was enough to create a fear and a longing in her that threatened to overset all her careful plans. The engagement was to be of short duration only; it was a pretence; she had no wish to lose either her head or her heart over such a man. And yet Deb knew that she was already in danger and that every moment she spent with Richard just made that danger more acute. The more she tried to ignore it, the more dangerous it seemed.
‘It is no wonder that you never catch any spies,’ she said one evening, when they were sitting together on a knoll overlooking the Winter Race at sunset. The sky was an angry red that evening and it felt as though there was thunder in the air.
‘You have spent all your time with me these two weeks past, Richard, and given nary a thought to your work. The whole of Midwinter could be bursting with nefarious characters for all the attention that you are paying. You must be the poorest spy catcher in the government’s employ.’
Richard laughed. ‘Justin and Lucas are working on the case,’ he said lazily. ‘It keeps them out of trouble and gives me the chance to do what I like best.’
Deb turned her head slowly to look at him. They had been discussing Shakespeare, for Lady Sally’s reading group was currently studying The Winter’s Tale. Deb’s ancient Shakespearean primer was lying between them and they had had a lively debate in which Richard had defended Leontes for his suspicions about his wife’s infidelity and Deb had argued hotly in favour of trust. In the end they had been obliged to beg to differ, but it had been a stimulating discussion and Deb had been vaguely surprised. It was one thing to buy poetry books and quite another to defend one’s opinions with such wit and clear knowledge.
‘Is spending time with me one of the things that you like best?’ she enquired now, and saw Richard smile at the artless honesty of the question. He answered her quite seriously.
‘It is. And one of the things that I enjoy most about our situation is that, now we are betrothed, I may spend time alone with you.’
A shadow touched Deb’s heart. It was three weeks until they were set to travel to Bath, four weeks—five at the most—before the betrothal was over. Lately she had been thinking about that more and more. She shivered suddenly in the sharp little breeze off the river that heralded a storm.
‘It grows oppressive,’ she said. ‘Let us go back.’
They walked back up to the house in silence. When they reached the door, Richard handed her the book of Shakespeare and bent and gave her a very proper kiss on the cheek.
‘I will call on you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We are to go riding, I believe.’
Deb nodded slowly. She was at a loss to explain the sudden lowering in spirits that she had experienced there on the riverbank, almost as though something that was starting to become precious to her was about to be taken away.
Richard was watching her expressive face and now he put up a hand and touched her cheek. ‘What is it, Deborah?’
‘Nothing,’ Deb said quickly. ‘Nothing but the blue devils.’
She saw the lazy, masculine smile that touched the corner of his mouth. ‘May I help banish them?’
Deb’s eyes widened as she took his meaning. They were on her doorstep, in full view of anyone who chose to pass by. Yet Richard had never been particularly governed by convention and it did not appear that he was going to behave with propriety now…
He put out a negligent hand and drew her close to him. As soon as his lips touched hers, Deb felt her knees start to buckle. Richard kissed her deftly, expertly, with skill and assurance. There was something so seductive about such single-minded passion that Deb was afraid she might crumple to the ground on the spot, pulling him down so that he could make love to her there and then.
Richard drew her deeper into the shelter of the porch. It felt hot and still within the walls and the air was heavy with the burgeoning storm. Richard’s hands were on her waist, where the material of her gown and chemise clung stickily to her skin. As he started to kiss her throat, Deb felt hotter still, as though she were dissolving. She tilted her head back against the wall and felt Richard’s lips on the pulse at the base of her neck and his hand move to caress her breast with the gentlest of touches. Deb made a little sound of despair and longing.
Richard let her go and they stood staring at one another, the desire between them as elemental as sheet lightning.
‘When—?’ Deb whispered.
He did not pretend to misunderstand her. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow I will send for you and we may go off somewhere and be alone together. Go on in, now, Deborah. Before I forget myself completely.’
Deb did go in to the entrance hall, but there she paused, watching through the window as Richard walked away towards the stables. She felt heated and impatient and near to madness. The clouds were massing overhead and the hall was dark.
Deb went into the drawing room, where she found Mrs Aintree arranging some of the late, pale pink roses that Olivia grew in such profusion at Marney Hall.
‘Lady Marney called earlier,’ Mrs Aintree confirmed, standing back to view her handiwork and twitching one spray of blooms slightly to the left. ‘She wished to speak with you, Deborah. Apparently she has had a letter from your papa this afternoon.’ Mrs Aintree nodded towards the mantelpiece. ‘There is a letter for you too…’
The miserable feeling that had plagued Deb before no
w hardened into something more fearful. She snatched up the letter and took it over to the window. She could see Richard in the stable yard, exchanging a few words with the groom, laughing now, raising a hand in farewell as he turned Merlin through the gates. The groom was watching his departure with good-humoured approval, as well he might…
Deb broke the seal on the letter. After the conventional greetings, Lord Walton moved straight to business.
I am gratified to hear of your betrothal to Lord Richard Kestrel, although I should have been more appreciative had he sought my permission sooner…
Deb smiled slightly. It was the closest thing to approval that her father was ever likely to express. So Richard had been right—marriage to a rake was by no means unacceptable to her family provided that he was rich and well connected. Her heart warmed slightly—until she remembered that the engagement was only temporary.
It would please me if you would still come to visit us at Walton next month, despite the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the cancellation of your brother’s marriage…
The fearful feeling solidified into a block of sheer ice in Deb’s stomach. The hand holding the letter fell slowly. ‘Do you know what this is concerning Guy’s wedding, Clarrie?’ she said.
‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs Aintree said cheerfully, clipping a blighted rosebud from the stem. ‘Lady Marney was telling me. The most shocking thing! Your brother’s fiancée has eloped with your cousin Harry. Surely your father mentions the circumstances in his letter?’
The closewritten lines blurred before Deb’s eyes. Her father might well have related the entire matter, but she could not seem to make sense of it. All she was able to see was Richard Kestrel riding out of the stable yard, magnificent on his raking black hunter, the epitome of everything that she desired. Richard Kestrel, the man to whom she was betrothed. Except…
Deb licked her dry lips. Except that the wedding was cancelled and with it all necessity of arriving at Walton Hall with her fleeting fiancé in tow. For cousin Harry had run off with the bride, thereby removing both reasons for the betrothal in one fell swoop. Deb reflected with irony that had she known Harry had a penchant for Guy’s intended she could simply have encouraged him to do the deed sooner and save herself the trouble of advertising. If only she had known…
Nicola Cornick - [Bluestocking Brides 02] Page 19