Duels & Deception

by Cindy Anstey

  Lydia laughed, thankful that the whole was over. Well, not entirely. They still had to catch the culprits and see justice done—but at least she need not be concerned about ruination.

  Pulling out a chair across from Cora, Lydia waved away the offer of food from Trenton. She had only just finished her morning repast. “Speaking of my solicitor’s clerk, where might Mr. Newton be?” Her question was met with an exchange of glances between Cora and Shelley, grins, and a vast amount of silence.

  “Now, girls. Don’t start.”

  “You seemed quite taken with Mr. Newton, Lydia.” Shelley stated in a deliberately casual tone. Cora watched with what seemed to be excessive interest, absentmindedly nibbling on her baked sole.

  “Naturally.”

  “Yes, naturally, as he is a handsome young man who has heroic tendencies … and thinks very highly of you.”

  “No. I meant, naturally I am taken with a person with whom I spent a great deal of company while evading danger. I would be taken with an ancient mariner or bedraggled hag in like circumstances.”

  Cora and Shelley exchanged glances yet again. “What do you think?” Cora asked Shelley. “It sounds like humbug to me.”

  Shelley nodded. “I think a bedraggled hag might not have warranted this much interest.”

  “What interest? I merely asked where Mr. Newton might be and have received no answer, I might add.”

  Shelley turned back to Lydia with a laugh. “Too true. Mr. Robert Newton has returned to Bath. Edward took him this morning. He was loath to go. Felt himself torn—wanted to see you safely escorted to Roseberry first—but it would seem there was a pressing issue with a gentleman by the name of Cassidy. He also mentioned Mr. Lynch, though I wasn’t sure in what context. Anyway, Mr. Newton, once assured by Edward that he and at least two footmen had every intention of accompanying you to—no, don’t protest. There is no question of your journeying out on your own. No, Lydia, close your mouth. I will brook no disagreement on this. Where was I? Oh, yes, having been reassured—several times—Mr. Newton quit Villers Manor and set off for Bath. I expect Edward back at any moment.… He will not wish to miss luncheon. Are you sure you do not want to try the sole?”

  Lydia shook her head and sighed. She had so wanted Robert to see her in this new gown, but she had forgotten about the dire circumstances of Mr. Cassidy. Of course Robert had to go. Her hero had to be heroic. Off to save his friend, leaving her in Villers Manor, protected by the Dunbar-Rosses. It was a logical conclusion to their misadventure … but somehow it felt deflating … unfinished.

  Shaking such selfish thoughts from her foolish brain, Lydia thanked Shelley for the beautiful gown, verifying that it was, indeed, a gift. One bought a month or so earlier as a souvenir in Paris.

  Lydia smiled as Shelley launched into a full description of the vibrant city and tried not to be distracted by thoughts of brown caring eyes. And yet the sense of incompletion and disappointment did not go away. She had so wanted to implant a new vision in Robert’s mind: one of his friend Lydia, the elegant young lady in a Parisian gown, and not Lydia, the disheveled and thoroughly rumpled creature falling out of the Beyer barn.

  Chapter 11

  In which Mr. Newton rushes hither and yon while Miss Whitfield is inundated with doubt

  “I’m afraid most of the family is still abed, Mr. Newton.” Cassidy’s, or rather Lord Tremont’s, sour-faced butler stood in the doorway, blocking the threshold as best he could.

  Robert had no time for the antics of disobliging servants whose perception of dignity superseded all else. “Not to worry, Cranford, I do not plan to disturb most of the family.” He stepped past the man and into the generous hall of the three-story town house. The design was not that dissimilar to his own—though this one, of course, was much larger—and, as a consequence, Robert knew that he would not have too much trouble finding the bedrooms with or without Cranford’s help. “I’m just here to see Cassidy.”

  He started toward the stairs as if he knew exactly where Cassidy slept, fairly certain that his bravado would carry the day—or rather the moment. Robert doubted Cranford would allow him to open the wrong bedroom door in his search. Intervention was imminent.

  Robert had been heartily disappointed, upon arriving at his place on Boliden Street, to find … rather, to not find … Vincent Cassidy within. They had a lot to discuss and a limited amount of time to fashion a miracle.

  Longdon had informed him that Cassidy had found it difficult to comply to Robert’s simple request—that of staying in residence until Robert’s return—despite Longdon’s excellent suggestions of reading, billiards, or solitaire. But Robert had left Cassidy high and dry for too long; he finally left.

  At that point in his narration, Longdon had looked at Robert in such a way as to indicate that Longdon, too, wondered where Robert had been—but it was the type of implied question that could be ignored, if necessary. And it was necessary.

  As it was still early in society terms, Robert planned to drag Cassidy from his bed—fill him with fortifying victuals, ply him with questions, and drag him about town looking for the answers. They had to learn as much as possible about the night his friend was challenged.

  “Newton?” asked an incredulous voice.

  Robert turned to glance down from the first-floor landing, where he had raced to. Below him, fully attired … looking alert and quite wide awake … was Vincent Cassidy. Robert was momentarily at a loss for words, though he swiveled, marching back to the ground floor.

  “What are you doing here?” he finally asked when they were both on the same level.

  “Me?” Cassidy’s baffled expression broke into a grin. “As it happens, I live here.”

  “Yes, but I thought you were going to stay at Boliden Street until I returned.”

  “If you had taken less than a day, I would have. Rather bad form to leave me twiddling my thumbs for an entire night.”

  “Believe me, it was unintentional.”

  “I do believe you. I spoke to Mr. Lynch.” These words were uttered in such a serious manner that Robert entertained a sense of foreboding.

  “Oh?” he said as lightly as he could.

  Cassidy made matters worse by looking over his shoulder at the glowering countenance of Cranford and then gesturing to a door in the corner.

  It proved to be a study, albeit a small one, with just enough room for a desk and two chairs. The air was thick, as if it had not been aired, or used, in some time. Though there was, of course, no dust to speak of, not even on the mantel clock that showed it to be ten minutes before nine.

  “What gets you up at such an early hour?” Robert asked, stalling. Girding himself for the questions about Mr. Lynch’s instability. But Cassidy surprised him.

  Dropping into one of the chairs next to the unlit fireplace, his friend approached a different and even more sensitive subject. “Were you seized yesterday?”

  “Seized?” Robert’s astonishment was not feigned. He had not expected the need to explain his absence. Playing for the time needed to organize his thoughts, Robert made a show of choosing his seating. Eventually he leaned against the windowsill; it gave him a higher vantage point. “Seized?” he asked again.

  “Yes. That was the word Mr. Lynch used. Although it was used with great derision and mockery. I thought he was funning me, but … oh, have I put the cart before the horse? You are wearing a puzzled expression.”

  “You are making little sense.”

  “Let me explain.”

  “Please do.” Robert sighed, giving up his vantage point in favor of the chair. His aches needed to be appeased.

  “When I awoke—which, I grant you, was late afternoon—I was not in the mood to sit around waiting for you to finish your clerking duties. Really, Newton, leaving me idle for so long. Longdon kept trying to feed me. And I did not have the stomach for it.”

  “Feeling better now?”

  “Yes, indeed, thank you.… Don’t distract me.” Cassidy mugged a snarl and
then continued. “Mr. Lynch was still at your office, despite the late hour. He was rather confused—you might have to look into that, my friend. Lawks, where was I?”

  “Late hour.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Lynch said he was working late to make up for the time lost while dealing with an addlepated hussy. She—the hussy—claimed that you and a young lady had been forced into a coach and rushed away. Complete nonsense, of course. Or so I thought … except that I could not find you anywhere. Believe you me, I looked—I looked well into the night. That is, in fact, why I am up at this ungodly hour—to continue my search … for you.”

  Robert stared for some minutes at the carpet, recalling the strength of their friendship, thinking about the newest member of that circle. “This has to be between us,” Robert said finally, with a tone earnest enough to secure Cassidy’s undivided attention.

  “Without saying,” his friend said.

  Robert told Cassidy the whole. Well, not the entire whole, for he didn’t use names, avoided mentioning Lydia’s exemplary qualities, and skipped the change in their relationship. So, actually, it was only a part … and as a consequence, not long in the telling.

  “Well, your day was far more interesting than I had imagined.” Cassidy nodded to himself. “If one can use that word.”

  “Interesting? No, I think I would use harrowing instead.”

  “Harrowing might be too strong. Shall we agree on curious?”

  “Curious, it is.”

  “Now that that is settled, I will say that I had not anticipated such a curious day for you. I imagined that you had latched on to a pretty miss and been so thoroughly distracted that you had forgotten about me.” He snorted a laugh. “I was right in a way, wasn’t I?”

  Robert shook his head in a stiff jerk and ignored the rejoinder—and the reference to a pretty miss. “If that were true, you would not have been searching for me.”

  “I’d like to sit here and pretend that my search started with concern, but in reality it was driven by the need to ring a fine peal over you. I was thoroughly piqued. Thought you had left me high and dry. Should have known better.” Cassidy glanced out the window into the gray featureless sky, shrugged to an inner thought, and then turned back to Robert. “What are your plans?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, I believe we have to make arrangements to cancel a duel.”

  “But what of your lady?”

  “Lydia?”

  “Is that her name?”

  “Just a figure of speech.”

  Cassidy laughed outright. “Of course, that makes perfect sense.”

  Robert rubbed at his face, trying to rearrange his thoughts. “The miss is now with family and friends, protected and soon to be returned to her home. I will find the villain behind this dirty deed soon enough, and he will pay … but first, your duel.”

  Growing serious again, Cassidy swallowed. “Thought I might visit a rifle club. Get in some practice.”

  “Don’t be foolish. You cannot learn to be a crack shot in less than a week. You would be better served by practicing a heartfelt apology.”

  “For what? I know not what I did.”

  “Practice anyway,” Robert said unreasonably.

  They arranged to meet at Cassidy’s club, Lewis’s, where they might talk to Peterson, the only witness of this foolish business that Cassidy could recall. Until then, Robert had to see Mr. Lynch to arrange for a few days away from the firm. If need be, he would take a leave; there was really no choice.

  And as Robert rushed hither and yon, he found his thoughts constantly wandering to the subject of Miss Lydia Whitfield. Would that these thoughts were of a useful nature, listing possible ways in which to investigate or puzzling out who might be worked upon for answers about her abduction. Those would, at least, be worthy avenues of thought.

  No, indeed. His befogged brain had the audacity to be distracted by recollections of her tinkling laugh, her gentle touch, and her intelligent eyes. When called to task, said brain acquiesced, refocusing on how enticing was the sweet smell of lavender, even when overlaid by an odor of stale hay. It really wasn’t very helpful.

  * * *

  Lydia arrived at Roseberry with pomp and ceremony. Or at least that was the only decent name that she could conceive for the helter-skelter squeals, disjointed conversation, and angry tones. The concoction would soon give her a headache.

  As it was, Edward and Shelley had accompanied Cora and Lydia to Roseberry Hall in their large travel coach. Edward was obliged, having promised Robert to do so; though he stated that he would have done so regardless and with great enthusiasm even had he not been duty-bound.

  Lydia was not certain of this eagerness, as Edward had fallen asleep, leaning against his wife’s shoulder, before they had even seen the last of the church spires of Bath. Shelley, on the other hand, could not be doubted on her keenness to stay in her friends’ company. When the time had come for Lydia and Cora to prepare for their journey, Shelley had only just started to describe the Louvre. She still had to talk about the splendid shopping, spectacular nightlife, and the journey home through Calais. Nothing could be done but continue their conversation in the coach.… Perhaps it was no surprise that Edward had fallen asleep.

  When Shelley had reached the end of her many tales, Cora took up the subject of Mr. Granger; the girls spent a good half hour discussing the whys and wherefores of the gentleman’s possible betrothal. In the end, Shelley thought that she would be the best one to engage in a correspondence to ascertain the validity of the rumor.

  “There are advantages to being an old married lady,” Lydia teased.

  But other than shared laughter, a few teasing remarks, and an odd comment or two, Lydia was unusually pensive. She knew her friends believed this silence was caused by the events of the previous day, and while that was partially true, Lydia was not as distracted by the abduction as much as by the person abducted with her. Try as she might, Lydia could not stop thinking of a handsome young clerk—not in the will-he-be-able-to-discover-the-villain sense but in the engaging-manner-and-attractive-countenance sense. It was rather disconcerting to find that most comments by her friends—on completely unrelated subjects—could, without intent, grab her thoughts and shoot them back to Robert Newton.

  A ride down the fine streets of Paris led to recollections of a long ride down the dusty country road. A sumptuous meal in a restaurant near the Seine reminded Lydia of their supper at Roseberry. Stranger still was that when Cora talked of Mr. Granger with significant affection, Lydia thought of Robert. She was hard pressed to understand that association. Perhaps it was that both gentlemen possessed brown eyes.

  However, once through the gates of her estate, Lydia had no choice but to think and deal with an entirely different subject. Her family members—their censure and criticism. There would be no avoiding it. They would not be best pleased that Lydia had done something so untoward as to leave without them and then stay away on an unplanned visit. She would have to be vigilant in her conversation, instilling just the right amount of ennui to discourage questions.

  The idea that Lydia would do something of a spontaneous nature was so absurd that she was certain there would be an excessive amount of doubt. She was right, but not in the manner she expected.

  Mama couldn’t believe that the Dunbar-Rosses had ridden all that way with her puss, just to see her safely home. Yes, they were the most considerate of couples. Aunt Freya could not believe that Lydia had thought nothing of depriving Elaine of her outing. This harping was whispered in Lydia’s ear even as the others were greeted with great aplomb and offers of refreshment.

  Ivy couldn’t believe that Shelley had brought Lydia and Cora gowns from Paris … and not brought one for her. Elaine could not believe that Lydia was so forgetful as to leave her bonnet behind in Pepney, while laughing in such a manner as to contradict her own words. And Tessa couldn’t believe that Lydia hadn’t missed her. So Lydia assured the girl that she had.
Uncle Arthur was not present to cast doubt or complain at any length; Lydia had not missed him at all.

  Feeling that the worst of it was over, Lydia waited and watched as the company traipsed up to the drawing room for the proffered refreshment before the Dunbar-Rosses returned to the road. She intended to speak to Shodster, to make sure all the mail and any messages passed through her first over the next week. She had no idea how the villains had intended to call for their ransom, but a threatening note was a possibility. It might have been sent on its way before her escape. If so, it could provide a clue or two—and it needed to stay out of the wrong hands … any but hers.

  However, when Lydia turned, she found the great hall held three persons, not two.

  “Mama? Did you not want to see to your company?” Lydia sighed, knowing she was about to get an earful.

  As expected, Lydia’s mother squared her shoulders, pursed her lips for some moments, and then glared before opening her mouth to speak. “That was inconsiderate of you, Lydia. I would not think it possible. It was quite untoward—you disappeared. And before you ask, yes, I received the knowledge of your return this morning but not until this morning. Why was I not apprised of this jaunt, this surprise visit yesterday? It is not like you, Lydia. Too impulsive by far. What really happened?”

  Lydia caught her breath, wishing that she could explain. Had her father been alive, she would have run to him and shared the burden. Would her mother be able to help without complicating the situation even more with histrionics? Lydia lifted her lips into a halfhearted smile. Perhaps she might tell the one parent she had left.

  “I thought there might have been an accident. That you were lying dead on the road.”

  “No, Mama. Nothing like that.”

  “Nothing short of death or injury is excusable, Lydia. I was that worried. And you are not dead and as best I can tell not injured. Although … is that a scratch on your chin?”