The Peer’s Roguish Word

by Archer, Kate

  “Nonsense,” Lord Penderton said, “I have no intention of hiding from this fellow. I will see him, and I will make short work of him. When I am done, he will not trouble you further. Go upstairs Kitty, and then Hidgson can show him in.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Giles had returned to Dalton’s house, glad his friend was out somewhere. He would not have liked to explain what he had been doing out on the town with his valet. As it was, he was certain they looked as two conspirators as they raced up the stairs.

  In his bedchamber, LaRue took the book from his pocket and handed it over.

  It was a small book with a strange binding, probably expensive. It was not a usual leather, it was exceedingly soft with odd nubs. Giles briefly wondered if it were rabbit or something of that nature.

  “She was an uncouth creature,” LaRue said of the charwoman.

  “Who cares?” Giles said. “She retrieved the book. How much did you pay her, by the by?”

  “Thirty guineas,” LaRue said with a sniff.

  “Thirty! Are you mad? That was all we had from selling off six of my best coats!”

  “Mrs. Smat, as she is charmingly called,” LaRue said, “was able to explain to me the exorbitant price. One, Sir John would know she’d taken the book and so she must never return there. Two, he would go and tell the service she worked for, so she must never return there. And three, she thought Sir John an unpleasant kind of man who might resort to violence, so she must not return anywhere.”

  Giles thought that, considering her well-rehearsed reasoning, Mrs. Smat had engaged in this sort of borrowing before.

  “As Mrs. Smat so delightfully put it, if you want me to be a-stealin’ then you best pay me enough to tiptoe out of town. I ain’t swingin’ for no fancy pants.” LaRue straightened a cuff and said, “Naturellement, I informed the savage that my trousers were not fancy, only well-made.”

  “Never mind,” Giles said. “We’ve got the book and I suppose I still have enough coats.”

  “Mrs. Smat has no interest in your coats,” LaRue said. “Only your fancy pants.”

  Giles opened the book, hoping he would find a documentation of Sir John’s appointments—where he’d gone and who he’d met with. Instead, it was a diary of some sort.

  He turned the page to the inscription and almost dropped the book. By a faithful servant of Sir John Hill.

  “Now, why would Sir John have a diary written by one of John Hill’s servants?” he said quietly.

  “One never knows these things,” LaRue said. “Why does Mrs. Smat smell like a brewery? We can only make guesses.”

  As Giles flipped through the pages, he followed the description of John Hill’s troubles. According to his servant, The Royal Society’s determination to keep out his master was blamed for all the ills of his life. In particular, Martin Folkes and Lord George Penderton, Miss Dell’s grandfather, were blamed for all his ills. The tone of the writings slowly turned from irritation to unhappiness to despair to revenge. This servant wrote with glee of the ludicrous paper John Hill used to embarrass them all. Finally, there was a burning hatred. The hoax of a paper had accomplished its aim, it had embarrassed the society, but it had not got his master John Hill the standing he was due.

  Giles ought to have condemned the tale outright, but he ended feeling sorry for the whole case. As it seemed to him, John Hill was a man of many talents. Too many. It seemed the society had never taken him seriously as a botanist, only because he had engaged in so many other endeavors. Perhaps the society thought of him as a jack of all trades, master of none. Whatever he was, John Hill had employed a faithful servant indeed. Giles could hardly imagine what LaRue would write of him, if he ever bothered to write at all.

  While John Hill may have been wronged, that did not change the fact that somebody was attempting to use that idea against the society now. Sir John was at the bottom of it, though why it should be so he could not fathom.

  How little he would have cared about it if it were not for Miss Dell! If someone told him of the story of the society tearing its hair out to discover some fellow named Veritas, he would have laughed heartily and never thought of it again.

  And yet, here he was.

  “The old Lord Penderton is noted quite often in this book,” Giles said. “He was the current lord’s father, Miss Dell’s grandfather. So, Sir John claims to receive a mysterious letter signed by Veritas, he attempts to ingratiate himself with Miss Dell, and he has possession of a diary written by John Hill’s servant which rants and rails against her grandfather.”

  “Perhaps he bought the diary from Mrs. Smat’s cousin?” LaRue asked.

  Giles would ignore LaRue’s endless commentary on the horrible Mrs. Smat, had he not raised a valid point. Sir John may have acquired the book during his own hunt for Veritas.

  That particular theory did not suit and so he put it aside. He had skimmed through pages but now he would go back to the beginning and read through everything carefully. He would consult Crackwilder on whatever he discovered. His old lieutenant was perhaps the only person he could trust enough to reveal exactly how the book had come into his hands to begin.

  LaRue left to do whatever his valet did when he was off on his own. Giles suspected mainly what he did was go down to the kitchens, stare at the barbarians, as he called them, and make insulting comments in French.

  It mattered little what his valet did just now. He knew what he must do and for that he required quiet. He needed time to read and think.

  *

  Sir John was not always able to read other people’s feelings accurately, it was a defect that had followed him all his life. People’s expressions, or their tone of voice, often had no meaning for him. He was only aware of this because his mother had pointed it out so often to him when he’d been younger. She’d scolded him that he must try harder. For all her scolding, that skill often eluded him. However, he did not think he was having trouble understanding another’s feelings at this particular moment. Lord Penderton seemed decidedly irritated.

  Why, though? All he had done was alert the gentleman that he required an interview, and then turned up for same. Perhaps he should have named a day and time. Perhaps the old fellow did not like surprises.

  Sir John tamped down the smile that attempted to turn up on his lips. Lord Penderton would, one day not too far in future, be very surprised at how events unfolded.

  “I cannot account for your visit,” Lord Penderton said. “I understand that my daughter indicated she did not care for you to request an interview and I did not invite you to one.”

  “Miss Dell did demur on the subject,” Sir John said, “but that is to be expected, is it not?”

  “If you imply that my daughter says what she does not mean, I am afraid you are not very well acquainted with her,” Lord Penderton said.

  Sir John could see that some soothing of ruffled feathers was required. “My lord, let us be frank between us. Miss Dell is charming in her own way, to a certain sort of gentleman. I am that sort, but alas, that sort is not raining down from the skies. Most gentlemen, and I do not applaud them for this, wish to have a lady more interested in the pianoforte and sewing and things of that nature. A lady who likes the library too much cannot expect dozens throwing flowers at her feet.”

  Sir John thought he’d put the case straightforward. Even an indulgent father must see truth when it was laid out for him.

  “I see,” Lord Penderton said through gritted teeth. “So you do me a favor in taking her off my hands, do you?”

  “If one wishes to categorize it so,” Sir John said, “though I would be remiss if I did not point out the favor also being done me.”

  Sir John thought that was a particularly nice turn of phrase. Lord Penderton understood the real case of things, but it was gallant to claim Miss Dell’s hand was an honor to her suitor.

  Lord Penderton rose. “I do not know what is wrong with you, sir. You are either the most arrogant man I have ever had the misfortune to encounte
r, or you are dumb as a rock. My daughter does not like you. I do not like you. You may depart and never darken these doors again.”

  Sir John was momentarily frozen. He had, only a moment ago, thought he was very near success. Now the man was throwing him out.

  “I did point out, my lord,” he said, “that most gentlemen will not be interested in a bookish daughter. If you are so disdainful of a reputable offer, how will you get on?”

  Lord Penderton’s face grew an alarming shade of red. “Get out! Get out now. Hidgson, get this fool out of my house!”

  *

  Giles had read the diary three times. There was not a page he had not turned over in his mind. He had gone to Crackwilder to talk it over.

  After deftly getting by Mrs. Radish/Ra-deesh and one of her squalid children, he had jogged up the stairs.

  Now, Crackwilder stared at the book in Giles’ hand. “What do you mean, you purchased it out of Sir John’s house? What does that—?”

  “I paid the charwoman,” Giles said.

  “You stole it!”

  “No, I paid the charwoman to steal it,” Giles said.

  “Good God, man, why?”

  “Because it is the only book in Sir John’s house and so I was convinced it must be of some importance.”

  “Wait, how could you know that? Have you called on Sir John?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “Then how—”

  “I looked in his windows,” Giles said. Even to his own ears, his recent activities were beginning to sound outrageous.

  “Let me understand you,” Crackwilder said. “You have been to Sir John’s house, peeping through the windows. Then, you paid a charwoman to steal his property.”

  Giles nodded, as that was about the size of it. “You must keep all that under your hat, though.”

  “I will make the leap that these bizarre doings are all for Miss Dell,” Crackwilder said. “You are determined to impress her with your investigative skills, which are zero, by the way. You have allowed your personal feelings to direct your activities. Another more astute gentleman may have looked at the facts analytically, but you are chasing Sir John simply because you wish Sir John to be Veritas.”

  “You have got the thing wrong,” Giles said. “Yes, it is all for Miss Dell, but not for the reasons you think. I have given up the chase, in fact I have given up all chases. I only wish to protect her from Sir John. He is no good, I am sure of it. He has designs on her, I am also sure of that.”

  “Hold up. Did you just say you’ve given up all chases?” Crackwilder said quietly. “Do you mean to imply that a lady has finally—”

  “That is neither here nor there,” Giles said, cutting his friend off. He waved the book in front of Crackwilder’s face. “This is a diary written by John Hill’s servant, about John Hill. What do you think of that?”

  Crackwilder snatched the book from his hands. “It cannot be,” he said, as he opened it and began to thumb through the pages.

  “It can be, and it is,” Giles said. “So you see my instincts were quite right. Now, why does Sir John happen to have this diary?”

  “Perhaps he uncovered it as part of his own efforts to locate Veritas?” Crackwilder asked.

  That had been the first and only doubt that had sprung to Giles’ mind when he’d realized what the book was. That had also been the doubt he’d just as swiftly cast aside. He was in no mood for Crackwilder to take it up.

  “Nonsense,” Giles said. “If he had unearthed such an important discovery, would he not have announced it to all and sundry at Mrs. Herschel’s gatherings? Isn’t that the point of those gatherings?”

  Crackwilder appeared thoughtful. “It is true, I would have thought he’d submit it to us,” he said. “It would be the first real clue anybody had uncovered. But perhaps he has only just found it.”

  “It is you who are being led by your feelings, not I,” Giles said. “You do not think Sir John could possibly be Veritas, so you are looking for every reason to support your opinion.”

  “I am, indeed, because I really cannot imagine it. Sir John is, well he is an odd and awkward fellow, very serious and not very skilled at the social graces. He does not seem to know how to put another at ease. However, he is intelligent and, I believe, harmless.”

  “Try to imagine it is him, though,” Giles said. “He’s not harmless, whatever else he may be. Read through the diary while I drink the brandy I have so helpfully supplied you with. On the morrow, I will have LaRue copy it all down as a record for us and send the original to Miss Dell.”

  Crackwilder laid the volume on his lap. “Send the book to Miss Dell? Would that be wise, considering the result of the last book you sent her? She might take it as some new jest. Or she might point out to Sir John that if his house has recently been ransacked, he might look to you.”

  “I’m not going to sign it,” Giles said. “I am only going to write that it was found in Sir John’s house. Even if I cannot yet prove his villainy, it will put her on her guard. While I do that, you must arrange to take me to Mrs. Herschel’s salon. If Sir John meant to share the book, as you believe, he will mention it. He will tell all in attendance what he read and he will say it was stolen. If he hides it, if he says nothing, we may infer something from that. That something being, by the by, that I am right.”

  *

  The butler had practically pushed him out the door and slammed it behind him.

  The very worst outcome had occurred. He had been thrown out of Lord Penderton’s house and told not to return.

  What was wrong with the man? How did the lord not see the sense in what he’d proposed? Was the gentleman’s judgment so clouded for love of a daughter?

  It could be, though it seemed a bit farfetched. It had been his understanding that fathers were always trying to unload daughters, not keep them at home.

  Now, he’d need a new strategy. Perhaps Miss Dell could be convinced to elope? It may have been a mistake to point out the lady’s deficits to her father. Perhaps he ought to have mentioned them directly, to the lady herself. Naturally, she could not be unaware of her oddity.

  She did not love him, at least he did not think so. But then, if she were to believe that he was all that stood between her and spinsterhood, that might put him in another light altogether.

  Walking home at a fast clip, his thoughts bounced from one idea to another. He used his key and threw the front door open. His mind would settle when he sat himself down.

  The first thing he noticed was that Mrs. Smat had not laid the fire. The second thing he noticed was that his book was gone from the table.

  “Where is it?” he cried, racing to the spot. He looked under the table and overturned the cushions on the chair.

  It was not there.

  He tore through the house, though he knew somewhere in his soul that the search would be fruitless. He always left the book on the side table and nowhere else.

  Mrs. Smat had not done her work. His book was gone. Something very terrible had gone on while he was out.

  The old witch had taken it. She had somehow divined its importance, though he could not imagine how, and she would hold it for ransom. A note would arrive, and an amount would be demanded.

  If he had the money, he would pay her. He would pay all the gold in the world. The book was his Nostradamus, his ledger of prophecies. All along, when he was unsure which road to take on a particular matter, he opened a page at random and a hint or clue would be there. If only he had all the gold in the world. But as it stood, he did not have much money at all.

  If that charwoman had divined its value, and she must have or she would not have made off with it, might she not offer it for sale elsewhere? Might she not offer it to someone with more gold than he?

  He wracked his memory. What had he ever said to the woman? Had he ever said he was going to Mrs. Herschel’s salon? Had he ever mentioned any other acquaintance’s name? Would she take it somewhere without even trying him first? He would be undone i
f she did.

  No, certainly she would try him before taking it elsewhere. Perhaps he should murder her when she came to collect payment. But what if she brought associates? Mrs. Smat surely knew all sorts of low people.

  Even if she did not, how would he dispose of the body? How could he be certain that her dead body would not be traced back to him? Who had she told of her extortion scheme? What would the service think had happened to her? Certainly, if they were questioned, they would point to him as being one of the places on her daily route.

  He had been a fool to leave the book out as he had done. But how was he to know anybody but himself would be interested in it? Who, outside of Mrs. Herschel’s small circle, would even understand the significance of it? It was only he who saw it for what it was—a crusade against the powerful. That secret, he had told nobody. God had placed the book in his hands, the almighty had placed the plan in his hands. He was the new faithful servant. It belonged in no other hands.

  As he raced through the empty rooms above stairs, the book was not anywhere to be seen. His thoughts felt scrambled, as if he did not know what to think of first. He turned and went to his sparse bedchamber, rummaging through a drawer, and pulled out a vial of laudanum. He drank deep, knowing the liquid would settle his racing ideas and consider what must be done.

  He sat at the edge of the bed, allowing the draught to ease him as it made its way through him. His terror began to recede and his rational mind resurface.

  He began to think how he might talk round it if Mrs. Smat sold the book to Mrs. Herschel or any other person involved in the search for Veritas.

  He could say he’d uncovered it in his own investigations and had been studying it for clues. How had he uncovered it? That, he did not yet have an answer for, but God would send him one when the time was right.

  It would at least buy him some time. Would it be enough time, though? If this morning’s interview with Lord Penderton had gone well and had he found himself betrothed to Miss Dell before sunset, he might have thought so. However, the meeting had gone terribly wrong and he still had not worked out how to overcome that particular obstacle.