by Regina Darcy
“Don’t know. But they be around.”
Lazy Jock circled his head to indicate that the tavern had been a place where the strangers had been seen.
“Tom heard them say the Duke be in the vicinity of Yates.”
“The Duke of Ivanhoe? In Yate?”
“Aye. In Bristol to be more precise.”
“Should it be of concern?” Sterling asked carefully, cautioning against displaying an excess of interest in the whereabouts of the Duke of Ivanhoe.
Lazy Jock shrugged. “Strangers about,” he said again.
Sterling nodded. “I see,” he said. He saw nothing, but he realised that this disclosure from Lazy Jock was an indication of concern, perhaps even worry. The villagers preferred that the Duke of Ivanhoe keep his distance. The tales of the murdered wife, forgotten in higher circles, were legend in the lower circles. It was to no one’s credit to live in a county where the chief personage was a reputed murderer.
“I’ll keep my eyes out for anything out of the ordinary,” Sterling promised.
Lazy Jock nodded.
Sterling finished his ale, bade farewell to several familiar faces, nodded to Lazy Jock, and left the tavern to return to the Dennington estate. It was late, not an hour to disturb the Marquess, but something in Lazy Jock’s manner triggered concern in Sterling and he went directly to the estate instead of to his cottage on the grounds.
Blake looked dubious when Sterling explained his errand. “The Marquess,” Blake said, “is in his study.”
“Yes, I thought he might be. But I believe I need to see him.”
“Very well,” Blake said, his grim mien indicating that it was not well at all. “I shall see if he wishes to receive you.”
Michael and his steward were on excellent terms. Sterling was ushered into the Marquess’ study without haste.
“What’s to do, Sterling?” Michael asked immediately. “Brandy?”
“No, my lord. Thank you. I’ve just been down to the tavern and one of the locals made a point of telling me that there have been strangers in the village. Apparently they are connected to the Duke of Ivanhoe.”
“Oh? Perhaps the Duke intends to take up residence in the county.”
“According to what Lazy Jock heard from Tom the bartender, the Duke is in Bristol.”
“Oh? Bristol? Why should he be there?”
This Sterling did not know. “I have no idea, my lord. But anything to do with the Duke would seem to be a matter of interest now.”
Michael, who had poured himself a brandy, swirled the liquid in the glass. “Yes . . . I am puzzled by that. Perhaps we should go to Bristol?”
“My lord?”
“I do not want Ivanhoe near my home,” Michael said bluntly. “I would rather meet him there.”
“Meet him?”
“If duelling is required to settle this, then duelling it must be. I shall need you to accompany me, Sterling. As well as Jason and Cole.”
“As you wish, my lord. When?”
“Tomorrow morning, early.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Thank you, Sterling.”
After his steward left, Michael perched himself in the window seat of his study and looked out upon the grounds beyond. Evening was descending into early night, but the light of day still offered sufficient illumination so that he could see his aunt and Lady Honora sitting outside in the arbour. They could not be seen from beyond the grounds; the confinement had been difficult for Lady Honora but not unbearable. She went outside, and as long as she restricted herself to the safety of the immediate grounds, her presence would not be detected.
Yet something was not right. The Duke was in Bristol . . . Well, it was his own business where he went. But strangers in the village . . . Dennington was not a village through which travellers ventured. It was complete unto itself, a small, thriving, neighbourly environment where everyone either knew everyone else or was related to a dozen other people. Strangers had no purpose in Dennington. Therefore, there was no reason for men in Ivanhoe livery to be travelling through it for any conceivable purpose.
Brandy glass in hand, Michael left his study and crossed the corridor to the library. There, he went to the closet where the sword was kept. Taking it out, he drew a caressing finger along the hilt. “I think I shall take you with me,” he murmured. “There may be business for you in Bristol.”
He told his aunt that he would be leaving the next morning on business. He decided not to alarm her by telling her that he was in search of Ivanhoe. She would only fret and her fretting would trouble Lady Honora, who was beginning to acclimate to her life at Dennington.
She had penned her letter to her parents, telling them that she was safe but not willing to marry the Duke of Ivanhoe, and therefore would remain in her present abode until such time as she felt she could emerge. She had not provided an address for them to respond and no missive had been received.
Lady Eleanor, who still believed that Lady Honora wanted to be a nun but had been prevented from following her vocation because of Michael’s impulsive act, was so fond of their guest that she had begun to nurture tender notions which she did not share with her nephew. The notion that Lady Honora would be an ideal wife for her brilliant, witty, charming nephew.
As she could do very little, under the circumstances, to further those ambitions, she devoted herself to ensuring that Lady Honora was entirely comfortable at Dennington.
Her hospitality had done much to ease Lady Honora’s anxiety. The household was well run and Lady Eleanor welcomed Lady Honora as an equal. Together, they planned menus and oversaw the schedule of management.
Lady Eleanor went on her calls alone, but when she returned, she entertained Lady Honora with her anecdotes of the local gentry.
When callers came to Dennington, Lady Honora was upstairs in her own room, removed from the social engagement that was a part of village life.
Michael made a point of seeing Lady Honora daily, not only at mealtimes but during other times as well. As her fears of discovery began to fade, she blossomed under the ministration of his aunt and, it was to be admitted, his as well.
He did not allow himself to pursue her as an object of romantic interest; it would not be sporting, he felt, to do so when she was dependent upon him for her needs. Sequestered as she was, he would have an unfair advantage because he was her protector. That did not make forbearance easy, however.
Now that she was dressed in the attire of a young woman and not a nun, his aunt having altered some dresses from her own wardrobe to outfit Lady Honora, her beauty was a daily reminder that he was under the burden of abstinence because this was no village wench to tumble, nor the wife of a complaisant lord to dally with.
She was the daughter of a peer, an innocent and she would grace no man’s bed until she was married to the man who occupied it. This he knew. The physical onus of enduring her nearness and his own self-control meant that Michael spent much of his day in physical activity: riding, helping with the crops, and daily practising with his sword.
He was glad, as he and the three servants set off the next morning, that he had been practising even more of late. This dilemma must be resolved. Ivanhoe must be defeated and forced to relinquish his claims upon Lady Honora. Only then, could Michael express his love.
For it was love that he felt for Lady Honora. He knew that now, and it was all the more apparent because he dared say nothing so long as she was compromised by her betrothal to another man. He did not bid her farewell because he did not want her to suspect that the business of which he had told his aunt had anything to do with her predicament.
Lady Eleanor suspected nothing. Michael was a grown man and he came and went as he pleased. But when she told Lady Honora that he had left on business, the young woman looked troubled.
“So suddenly?” she inquired.
They were in the drawing room, arranging the freshly cut roses in the vases that would be placed in the rooms where they spent most of their day. The ri
ch fragrance of the roses created a heady perfume that brought the beauty of the outdoors inside the walls of Dennington.
“Oh, Michael is forever off on some errand. It might be a new plough or a new horse, one never really knows.”
The last time he had gone away, Lady Honora knew, had been to London, to find out what was being said about her disappearance as a runaway bride. She could not think that this sudden departure, without a word of farewell, could be unrelated to that earlier leaving.
Lady Eleanor had no such suspicions. Her nephew had taken care that she would not, knowing that his aunt did not subject his decisions to any sort of analysis.
“He’ll be back,” Lady Eleanor said confidently, linking arms with Honora. “And while he is gone, it will give the opportunity to have the servants freshen up his study. He spends much of his time there. And of course, the library. Has he shown you the family heirloom?’
“The family heirloom? What is that?”
As the lady of the house, Lady Eleanor had keys to every door and closet on Dennington estate. “Come, my dear, I will show you. It is in the library. It belonged to a Danton ancestor, some time ago, I believe, although to tell the truth, I am not at all certain. It is on his father’s side of the family.”
Lady Eleanor selected the key from the ring which contained a vast number of others of varying sizes and designs.
“Here, I shall show you. Michael practices daily—why, how very odd. It’s always here. Locked up, certainly, but that is because of the jewels in the hilt. It is always here; I cannot think where he has taken it.”
“Where could it be?” Honora asked with a pressing sense of urgency. The Marquess was gone, his prized sword gone . . . it could not be happenstance.
“I’ve no idea. I suppose . . . perhaps Blake knows.”
The butler, however, professed ignorance of the sword’s whereabouts.
“His Lordship has said nothing to me, my lady,” he told her when he was summoned to the library.
“Perhaps one of the jewels came loose?” Lady Eleanor suggested.
“He did not say, my lady.” Blake’s demeanour did not change, but behind the unrevealing exterior, the butler’s mind was alert to the possibility that something was amiss. The sword never left its closet except when the Marquess was practising. The Marquess had left, unaccountably that morning without explanation, his steward, valet, and footman with him, and the sword was gone.
“Oh, well,” Lady Eleanor said philosophically. “I suppose he has a reason.” She brightened. “Perhaps that is why he has left so unexpectedly. The sword must need some sort of mending, or whatever it is that one does with swords. I’ve no idea, really. He must have taken it somewhere to be mended or repaired or sharpened, of course. In the meantime, Blake, will you ask one of the maids to see to it that the library and Lord Michael’s study are given a thorough cleaning in his absence?”
The butler bowed his head in assent. Cleaning assignments were well within his realm of understanding. Swords that were not where they ought to be were not. He would tend to what was within his authority, but he could not help but feel concern for those areas beyond that realm, areas that, perhaps, threatened the wellbeing of the Danton household to whom his loyalty was pledged.
Honora hoped that Lady Eleanor’s theory was accurate and that the Marquess had left in order to see to the repair of the sword which must have meant a great deal to him if it was part of his heritage. But it did not seem quite reasonable to her, somehow.
It was not her place to query the staff as to the whereabouts of the master. Honora knew this. But nonetheless, when she saw Mrs Thompson en route to the study to oversee the cleaning that the maids would be doing, she intercepted her.
“Mrs Thompson . . . did the Marquess say when he will be back?”
“I haven’t spoken to His Lordship, my lady. I believe he indicated his plans to Lady Eleanor. She might know.”
“She does not.”
“Oh. I shouldn’t worry, my lady. Lord Michael is very busy. No doubt he had some reason to go which did not allow him to tarry. He will be back.” Mrs Thompson’s smile was understanding. “We are used to his comings and goings, but of course this is new to you.”
“Yes. It’s only that I wondered . . . “
Honora knew that the household was aware of the circumstances which had brought her to Dennington. She also knew that Lord Michael’s trust in his staff was implicit, a faith which was upheld by their devotion to him. Lady Eleanor, delightful though she was, did not perceive danger in the same way that the servants might, despite their humbler backgrounds.
“Yes, my Lady,” Mrs Thompson said calmly. “It’s natural to worry about things. But you are quite safe here. We’re an out of the way village, you know. Passers-by are few and far between and anyone who came through would immediately be detected. The Marquess would not have left if he thought you were in peril.”
Honora grasped at this. Mrs Thompson was correct. The Marquess did not take unnecessary risks.
“Thank you, Mrs Thompson,” she said with heartfelt sincerity. “You are correct, of course, and I am fussing over nothing. What a ninny I must seem.”
Mrs Thompson’s eyes showed only affection and respect. “No, my lady,” she said. “You are not a ninny.”
She looked as if she would have liked to say more, but she did not.
However, as Lady Honora left Mrs Thompson and went in the direction of the drawing room, the housekeeper’s eyes remained upon her.
Such a lovely young lady she was.
Gracious, well-bred, courteous. . . she would make an excellent marchioness, should Lord Michael take it into his virile young mind to cease his bachelor ways and enter matrimony. How pleasant it would be if Lady Honora could enter the public domain again instead of being hidden away here so that the infernal Duke of Ivanhoe would not suspect that she had a protector.
A nice wedding was just what the county needed, Mrs Thompson thought. And then, in time, a baby and heir, and more, as it ought to be. Lord Michael had his share of trials, what with the death of his parents, and his father’s unsuitable, rash, and hasty marriage to his second wife, she who had given birth to the troublesome Lord James. Mrs Thompson sighed.
Yes, he had his troubles. At least, gentleman that he was, he kept his own vices separate from his home, leaving them in London where folks in the city were accustomed to such goings-on. Not like here in Dennington, where people were upstanding and honourable. A wife, that was what a man needed to keep him on the right path.
ELEVEN
The Duke of Ivanhoe might have agreed with the housekeeper. He had left nothing to chance in his pursuit of the runaway bride who had dared to disappear from his home and then, it seemed, from everyone else as well. No one had seen her; no one had spoken to her.
Ivanhoe had resources which were not available to the common man and he had investigated thoroughly. She had not disappeared. He had sent his men to search for her. It was beyond the realm of possibility that a well-bred young lady could venture beyond her home, or even his home, and not be seen.
She was somewhere, and it stood to reason that the Marquess, who was entirely in his element in Twickendale, as Ivanhoe was not, knew something. His men had explored every inch of the county.
They had even gone to the Barrow Guerney Nunnery, implausible as it seemed, to search for the missing Lady Honora. One of his men had taken a nasty blow to the head which had rendered him dazed for several days after.
When the Duke insisted upon an audience with the Abbess to demand a reason for his servant’s condition, the Abbess had denied any knowledge of the affair. The convent, she told him, was protected only by God, not by armed guards.
“Apparently,” she said in her gentle, no-nonsense voice, “it was enough.”
Ivanhoe was irritated by that response and could think of nothing else to say. None of her novices was missing, she had said, and the convent remained as it always was, a place where God’s w
ord was obeyed and God’s work was done. No, he could not interrogate any of the nuns; they lived apart from the world by choice. If he had more questions for her, she would be happy to answer them. If he did not, God’s work awaited her.
He never thought he could be summarily dismissed by a middle-aged nun. It was then that he had decided to lure the Marquess forth. If Dennington were ignorant of Lady Honora’s whereabouts, then he would not take the bait and leave. But if he did go forth . . . then there was a reason for his leaving. Let him go to Bristol in search of Ivanhoe. All he would find was a paid imposter in the city, charged to dress as the Duke and masquerade as him for as long as the ruse worked.
The Duke had business at Dennington Manor.
Durston Blake was an admirable butler. In his many years of service, he had adroitly addressed amorously inclined dinner guests who had designs on the maids; he had steered a countess who had overindulged to the correct bedroom and not to the chamber where she had made an unwise assignation; he had shielded Lady Eleanor from callers she did not wish to receive and he had given entry to those callers who were her friends without either group feeling that he was rude or overly familiar.
But when Blake opened the door to find a man in the livery of the Duke of Ivanhoe standing in front of him with his sword pointed at his throat, his aplomb suffered.
“Sir?” he inquired faintly.
“I’m here for the Duke.”
“The Marquess is not at home,” Blake said, forcing his gaze to meet the visitor’s eyes and not the shining point of the blade.
The man grinned.
“No, he’s not, is he? A pity he’ll miss the Duke’s visit.” He pushed Blake aside and entered the manor, three men following him, all dressed as he was, in ducal livery.
“Sir, I must insist that you—”
“’Tis the Duke of Ivanhoe who’ll do the insisting,” snarled the intruder. “Now, you sit down in that chair right over there and you needn’t get hurt. Resist, and . . . ” he waved the sword in front of Blake.