Duels & Deception

by Cindy Anstey

  Swallowing—or rather trying to swallow—Robert stared and remained silent. It seemed his safest route. He was all too aware that his anger was driven by fear, not frustration. Until he saw her, in the flesh, safe and sound, his mind had conjured up any number of disasters. He wanted nothing more than to claim her as his own, so that he could keep her protected and thriving and … if that miserable sot who was going to marry her did not honor her as he should …

  Robert shook his head, realizing that his thoughts were all over the place and that Lydia was talking again and yet all he wanted to do was kiss her. Kiss her and pull her into his arms. Yes, they could stay that way. Just toss food, no need for more, no need to go anywhere. Just there. Stay. Yes. Indeed. He would kiss her.

  “Robert?” she whispered, and, if he could not be mistaken, she lifted her mouth toward his. Inviting. Waiting.

  It was both fortunate and unfortunate that at that precise moment there was a knock at the door. They sprang apart so quickly that when Lydia acknowledged the disruption, they were once again standing at a respectable distance. Robert could see she was breathing heavily, as was he. And her complexion was rather high, in a most becoming manner. But other than that, there was no indication of the intense emotions of mere seconds ago.

  Still … as Mr. Warner entered, he looked back and forth between them. And his frown dissolved into a grin.

  * * *

  Sitting on the edge of the settee, Lydia found it hard to concentrate on the discussion despite the seriousness of the topic. Her eyes kept wandering over to Robert, who was seated across from her—but not with rapt attention to his words. No, she found that her focus vacillated between his shoulders, his eyes, and, dare she say it, his lips. She was fairly certain that Robert had been about to kiss her just before Mr. Warner arrived—to spoil the moment.

  Why would he do it?

  Robert, not Mr. Warner.

  Why would a gentleman want to kiss a lady unless there was an attachment? The implication was enormous, life-changing.… Or was it? Might a gentleman wish to kiss a lady without any sense of obligation? She had heard of these types of arrangements. Granted, only in breathy whispers while meandering the corridors of Miss Melvina’s finishing school, but to know, nonetheless, that they existed filled Lydia with insecurity and doubts. Emotions that would usually be ascribed to Elaine, and yet … she was using them in reference to—

  “Not Chilton,” Mr. Warner said with such finality that it pulled Lydia out of her reverie. He had rebuffed her offer of a chair and was standing before them.

  “Not Chilton?” Lydia repeated.

  “Indeed,” Mr. Warner agreed as though unaware that Lydia had only just joined the conversation. “His discomfort that you observed in Spelding had nothing to do with your abduction. He was not shocked to see you because he thought you to be secured in a barn on the other side of Bath. No, his discomfort was derived from your witnessing his association with a Mrs. Flanders.”

  “Who?”

  “It would seem that, in interest of self-preservation and in desperate need of funds, Mr. Ian Chilton has not put all his eggs in one basket. He is courting a wealthy widow as well, by the name of Mrs. Flanders—the lady in the flowery bonnet. The sense of guilt at being caught brought Chilton to stammer, blush, and rush away.”

  “Oh,” Robert and Lydia said at the same time. They shared a glance and a chuckle, and then they looked back at Mr. Warner to see him wearing an odd expression.

  “Yes. Well. Shall I continue?”

  Robert nodded, and Lydia found herself doing the same—it almost brought the fit of giggles back.

  “Your hired driver, Mr. Burgstaller, has been found. He suffered a broken ankle when he was tossed from the coach and is still being nursed by the family that found him on the side of the road. This I learned from his brother, who lamented the terrible loss of the vehicle—it was the man’s livelihood, after all.”

  “Oh dear, I shall have to send him some funds to compensate.”

  “Admirable, Miss Whitfield, but not necessary. The man’s coach was insured, and the brother thought I was there to assess the loss. There was a fair amount of exaggeration in his account.”

  Glancing back at the notebook he held in his hand, Warner nodded to some inner thought and then flipped a page. “Ah, yes. Mr. Kemble and Mr. Drury. There was an agreement between the men that they would share the profits of a successful yield rather than put the money back into the estate as is expected.” He nodded at Robert. “Drury is an out-and-out thief, whereas your uncle, I believe, is merely in want of funds. His tenants vacated his own estate last autumn because of a leaky roof, and he has done nothing to resolve that situation—thereby making it worse still. I can find no connection between him and the abduction.”

  With a nod, the man snapped his book shut and turned to face Lydia. “As I told you before starting my investigations, success is not always assured. I am pleased that I can offer you the answers to some of your queries, as I have just outlined. But I find I cannot answer the most important question: Who was behind your kidnapping? Once known, we would understand why.

  “However, I could find no helpful witnesses near the farm where you were held. No clues were left behind and no trails to follow. In short, there is nothing more I can do. And as such, I will be returning to Bath on the next coach. I want to make sure Lord Rennoll is suitably situated.”

  “Oh,” Lydia said with great wit. She frowned. “Well, do you have any theories, any possible suspects?”

  “No. I don’t point a finger unless I have proof. That would be irresponsible.”

  While Lydia agreed in principle, the whole exercise left her quite dissatisfied. She had, despite his warnings, expected the Runner to solve the mystery. “And the attempt at blackmail?”

  “What exactly was in the letter?” Robert asked in a strained voice.

  Mr. Warner explained succinctly, concluding with a shrug. “I could continue to watch the graveyard, but it is closing on a week since you were meant to leave the money … and there has been nary a whisper of scandal. It is possible that the blackmail was not a true threat but a device meant to cause fear and upset.”

  “The author cannot know Lydia—umm, Miss Whitfield—very well then, can he?”

  The Runner nodded. “Indeed.”

  But Lydia was not convinced. “No one. No one visited the graveyard.”

  “St. Mary’s in Bankend is more of a chapel than a church. The Reverend only comes once a month. Sends the congregation down the road to Spelding most Sundays. The groundskeeper said the place could go for weeks without a visitor. Quiet. Quiet as a grave.”

  Lydia blinked, surprised by the Runner’s attempt at levity.

  “His words not mine,” Mr. Warner clarified.

  Lydia nodded and then frowned. “Not a true threat?” she repeated the Runner’s earlier comment. “That does not make sense. What if I had awoken one morning in a state of idiocy and quietly placed the money in the graveyard? Would it still be sitting there now?”

  “I can’t say. Perhaps the church was being watched. It’s at the end of a lonely road. Your blackmailer might have been waiting in the shrubbery.”

  Lydia was reminded of the odd shadows on the grounds of Roseberry and shuddered. “But you don’t think so.”

  “We don’t really know enough to decide one way or the other, Miss Whitfield.”

  “But there has been no repercussion for my disobedience. Not a whisper against me.”

  “There might have been no attempt to carry out the threat, or it could be that your standing in Spelding is beyond reproach—the rumor was started but given no credence.”

  “So we don’t know the who behind this blackmail or if the person is in cahoots with the kidnapper.… Or if they are one and the same.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Clear as mud,” Robert added.

  “Exactly.”

  Lydia did her best not to chunter until Robert left the room to see Mr.
Warner off. When he returned, she was still staring out the window, her jaw tight and her thoughts dark and angry.

  “I’m rather put out, Robert.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  “There is a possibility that I will never know the who or why of this whole mess. That very idea makes me angry!”

  “Yes, I can see that, too.”

  “I don’t want to look over my shoulder for the rest of my days … or question the purpose of those around me. There has to be an answer.”

  “Yes, there is, and we will find it, I am almost certain. But it would seem that we must wait for the time being … though not likely to the end of your days.”

  Lydia glanced up, about to admonish him for his inappropriate teasing, but the words never left her mouth. Instead, she stared, eyes widening as she watched him cross the room, each step bringing him closer and closer. Her breath caught, and all thoughts of villains and blackmail disappeared into a fog of tingling sensations.

  And then—

  There was another knock on the door.

  Shodster had brought the post, and in it a letter from Shelley.

  * * *

  “I will stay until your departure and then accompany you to Bath.” It was a statement, not a question. Robert stood beside the mantel, an unreadable expression on his face.

  “No, this is too fast. You cannot do it. I cannot do it.” Mama shook her head with so much enthusiasm that Lydia thought her mother might do herself an injury.

  “Please, Mama. You know I rarely ask for your help. I am desperate.”

  After scrubbing at the folds above her nose, her mother took a deep breath. She looked sightless at the far side of the library and then back to Lydia. “Rare, my dear? You never ask for my help. That alone tells me how important this is to you.”

  “I asked for your advice just last week.… Or was it the week before? Mr. Selleck—remember?”

  “Indeed, I do. But my role was to support your decision—”

  “And you did an excellent job, I must say.”

  “Yes. Thank you. I did, didn’t I? However, what you are asking now is more along the lines of moving heaven and earth.”

  It was Lydia’s turn to scrub at her face and sigh … a little too soon, because an idea had come to mind as she did so. Lifting her head, she glanced at Robert and then returned her gaze to her mother. “We don’t need to move the entire household … no. It would be better if we didn’t … yes. There is no room for the necessities of seven ladies—and one gentleman—in a single travel coach and a family landau. Indeed, it makes perfect sense to accomplish the resettlement in two lots. You and I and Cora in the first group … the others to follow whenever they can gather their bits and pieces.”

  “But Cora will be needed to see to the girls.”

  “The whole point of leaving three weeks early is to distract Cora, Mama. We have to think of a plausible reason for her to join us while leaving Ivy and Tessa with Aunt Freya.”

  “Yes, yes, of course … but four days, Lydia? We must leave in four days? Can you not tell me why?”

  Lydia glanced toward Robert, observing his changed expression—unreadable was now stony.

  Poor Robert. He must have been acquainted with the inconsistent emotions of young ladies; he did have two sisters, after all. Still, the change had been so abrupt that it had left him speechless. One moment they were drawing ever closer in a charged and heady atmosphere, the next Lydia was in his arms—crying. It wasn’t something either had expected.

  Robert had held her as she explained and allowed a few tears to dribble off her chin. He made all the appropriate tut-tut and tsk noises and then sent Shodster in search of her mother. It had been his idea to transplant the Whitfields and Kembles to Bath immediately—the town house had already been secured and an early arrival would take only a little renegotiation.

  “Experience has taught me that this kind of pain cannot be lessened by anything but time. So it is best to help time pass quickly,” he said. “Distraction. What could be more diverting than a change from a quiet country life to the bustling streets and entertainments of the city?”

  Lydia thought it sound advice—and tried, very hard, not to find joy in the thought that they would also be closer together.… They would be able to see each other more often. No, she would not think those thoughts. They were disloyal to her friend. No, she would put them away and concentrate on Cora. Poor Cora.

  “I have to give Cora some disturbing news, Mama. She has been waiting to hear…”

  “About a gentleman?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear. Is she about to be heartbroken?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “Oh, no. Nothing worse. Dear. Dear. The poor, poor girl. Hmm. Yes. No, we can’t have that. I … yes, let me see. Yes, there has been some confusion in regard to your birthday ball.… We have to complete the arrangements; it is only three weeks away, you know.… And you need Cora to help you decide on a gown—yes, my advice is old-fashioned and our taste is at odds. Yes, well, who would not believe that one? And … let me see. Yes, we do not want to inconvenience everyone. There, that should be enough; those will be our excuses. The girls will quite enjoy a week or two away from their lessons. And now, I must go. Hurry, hurry. I have to be ready to leave in four days. Goodness.”

  With that, Mama rushed to the door but turned back before she opened it. “How would you like me to act, Lydia? Play ignorant or offer sympathy?”

  “Sympathy can sometimes make it harder to be strong.”

  “Yes, all too true.” Mama turned and left the room, nodding as she disappeared.

  Lydia glanced at Robert. He, too, was nodding but not for the same reason.

  “There is a romantic tendency in your family, after all. Your mother is quite understanding.”

  Lydia smiled weakly, despite the sadness that was weighing her down. “Yes, indeed.” She refrained from mentioning that she was not at all devoid of romantic thoughts and emotions as she had once supposed.… Best to let that one alone for now.

  Instead, Lydia squeezed his forearm and left the library in search of Cora. She had a duty to perform, a terrible duty. She had to tell her friend that the love of her life was not going to be calling at Roseberry Hall. Gloria had spoken true. Mr. Lorne Granger was engaged to be married; the wedding would take place at Michaelmas.

  Chapter 17

  In which Bath provides more than its share of distractions

  Robert had caught a whiff of subterfuge in Lydia’s account of Miss Shipley and Mr. Granger—not as described by Lydia but in the underlying tale. Something was not all on the up and up, and he had every intention of learning the truth behind this tragic story of unrequited love. And so it was that Robert could be found standing in front of Cassidy’s Circus town house, having arrived the day before in Bath with Lydia, Miss Shipley, and Mrs. Whitfield.

  Cassidy had had fair warning—Robert had sent a note announcing his intention to visit from Roseberry four days earlier. As it was a working day, Robert had already stopped by the firm to question Mr. Lynch about various procedures and to speak to Mr. Cargoff. It was nearing eleven. All this meant that Cassidy should be up and waiting for him as soon as Robert presented himself at the front door … and made it past Cranford.

  “Mr. Vincent Cassidy is not at home,” Cranford intoned, as if greatly burdened by such news. The butler saw no need to accommodate Cassidy or his fellows.

  Robert nodded, ignoring the customary fiction. “Excellent. I will wait in the drawing room.” He didn’t bother to secure an agreement but set his feet on the path to the stairs and the aforementioned room—where his friend was, indeed, at home.

  “You do know that Cranford is getting more and more difficult, don’t you?” Robert shook his head as he crossed over to where Cassidy was seated by the fire.

  “Told you to shove off?”

  “No. Just that you were not here.”

  Cass
idy laughed. “The man must like you. Sees most of my friends as ne’er-do-wells and slams the door in their faces.”

  “After telling them to shove off?”

  “Exactly.” Pointing to the seat opposite, Cassidy yawned. “So why, pray tell, did I have to rise so early?”

  “It’s almost eleven.”

  “Yes, but in order to be ready, I had to be up by the ungodly hour of nine.”

  “Unforgivable.”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “You got me up early to ask a favor. I know I owe you—but, really, I would have been in a much more receptive mood had you waited until … say seven this evening.”

  “Perhaps, but this favor involves intrigue, betrayal, feminine wiles, and a healthy dose of acting the man-about-town.”

  “I am a man-about-town; acting would not be required there.”

  “Good to know.… And so, the favor.”

  “You have my interest. Tell me more.”

  Robert smiled and shifted forward on his seat.

  Cassidy did the same.

  “Let me give you a little background first.”

  Cassidy smiled. “As you wish.”

  * * *

  Sitting in the ground-floor parlor of their rented town house, Lydia stared out the front window onto the bustling thoroughfare of Great Pulteney Street. The midafternoon hour meant that most of the drays and wagons, laden with goods bound for the Bath markets, had long since given way to the stylish carriages and coaches of the newly arrived gentry and the sedan chairs of those well versed in Bath’s narrow streets and steep hills.

  The Whitfields were not the only family to vacate the rural environs in spring and make their way into the lovely spa town to enjoy the city’s entertainments. The general atmosphere was one of exuberance and conviviality as friends and acquaintances reestablished their ties after the deadly quiet of winter.