A Banbury Tale (22 page)

“You are angry because I befriended Clem.” Maddy felt chilled. “But—”

“No.” Chesterfield’s tone was bored. “I see I must be more direct. I know you foisted a notorious actress onto my godmother, true. But I also know, dear Maddy, that you are a fortune-hunter of the most scheming sort.” His smile was without warmth. “I must have seemed easy prey to you.”

“You are mistaken!” Maddy cried. “Surely my aunt did not tell you this.”

“Your aunt refuses to speak of you at all.” The Marquess moved across the room. “Do you always repay those who befriend you in such false coin? I am curious: what part plays the Duchess in your schemes? For I have no doubt you also mean to make use of her.”

“You’re wrong!” Maddy’s eyes darkened with anger. “You are crude, and abominable, and
odious,
and I do not wish ever to see you again!”

“You have little choice,” commented Lionel, “since we are to temporarily reside beneath the same roof.” In rage, Maddy would have slapped him, but he caught her arm. “Your cousin did me a great favor when she revealed your scheme.”

“Unhand me!” Maddy hissed.

“Not yet.” Had she not been so distraught, Maddy might have marveled at this masterful tone. “Do not despair. You have not yet whistled a fortune down the wind.”

“Explain yourself!” It was difficult to retain one’s dignity when held prisoner by two extremely strong hands, but Maddy’s tone was belligerent.

“Is not my meaning clear?” inquired Lionel. “Since it is my fortune you covet, you may still avail yourself of a portion of it.”

A combination of shock and indignation left Maddy speechless. The Marquess took advantage of this brief paralysis to kiss her most ruthlessly.

“Brute!” she cried, wrenching away. She wondered why she had ever thought Lionel dull.

“One might almost think you sincere,” remarked the Marquess in disinterested tones, “but I will not again be so deceived. Do you think to hold out for marriage? You’ll have few offers of
that
sort when the truth becomes known.”

“And you will see that it does!” Tears of frustration ran down Maddy’s cheeks. “I swear I will repay you for this, if it takes to my dying day.” She fled blindly toward the doorway, and straight into the Earl’s arms. Micah was not one to leave uncomforted a damsel in distress, and merely directed a quizzical glance at Lionel before applying himself to this task.

“Ah,” murmured the Marquess. “I begin to understand.”

Chapter Twelve

The day had not had an auspicious beginning. Puggins and Eunice Scattergood had found yet another matter upon which to disagree, for Eunice considered the Duke of Abercorn a perfect gentleman and had taken heated exception to the housekeeper’s condemnation of his grace as an interfering upstart. Tilda had done her best to soothe the resultant ruffled tempers, but Puggins had succumbed to a rare prophetic mood. Having boiled an egg in its shell, she then proceeded to splatter the yolk onto a piece of paper. Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson watched this odd proceeding with amused fascination, but Eunice expressed strong disapproval of such wanton waste. This emotion strengthened to heated indignation when Puggins warned her mistress to beware of a false friend. The two combatants were not, as yet, on speaking terms.

Tilda glanced discreetly about before lifting the skirts of her pea-green muslin gown to climb the fence that separated her estate from the Earl’s land. On the other side of her property lay the famous Chateau de Ledoux, residence of the reclusive Comte, a gentleman with whom Tilda had twice been privileged to converse. Tilda wondered if Maddy meant to call upon her uncle, though by accounts the families were estranged.

It was not the beauty of the day, or the peaceful solitude of the woods, that had led her to this early-morning stroll, but her brother’s disruptive presence in her home. Bevis was as unyielding as stone, and he had declared that he would have no peace until he saw her safely wed. And Bevis was a great admirer of the worthy Timothy, who had no sooner learned that Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson had left London than he, too, had returned home. Tilda suspected she knew what fate had in store for her, and she had been drifting toward that particular destiny for the past year, but she did not care to have the decision taken out of her hands.

The sound of feminine laughter interrupted this melancholy reverie. Though she was feeling quite exhausted by her brother’s forcefulness, Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson’s curiosity suffered no restraint. She walked slowly toward the superb gardens that lay behind the Hall, and found Clemence seated beneath a tree. Kenelm Jellicoe reclined beside her, his head pillowed in her lap. This romantic picture was no whit marred by the young man’s extreme pallor or the fact that his right arm was in a sling.

“Only fancy!” called Clem, discomposed neither by this intrusion nor by being caught shirking her duties. “Kenelm has been set upon by highwaymen!”

Kenelm sat up, with some difficulty. “I thought we had agreed not to speak of that.” He frowned at Tilda. “The Duchess has been told I suffered a fall from a horse. We did not wish to cause her unnecessary distress.”

Tilda’s hands, as she raised them to her curls, were cold. “There was more to it than simple robbery?”

Kenelm’s laugh was humorless. “Theft was not their purpose, ma’am. I marvel at my continued survival, for all the mishaps that plague me! These were no common highwaymen, but hired cutthroats whose sole purpose, I believe, was to dispose of me.”

Tilda seated herself abruptly. “But why?”

“That,” Kenelm said, with an adoring glance at Clem, “is precisely what we have been asking ourselves.”

“And Kenelm vanquished them!” Clem added, in tones of awe. It was clear that Kenelm had risen even higher in her opinion, no inconsiderable feat. It was equally clear, from the young lady’s disheveled appearance, that the conversation had not proceeded at a rapid pace.

“I was angry.” Kenelm did not appear to consider that he had done anything remarkable. “Unfortunately, the rascals got away. I would have given much to question one of them.”

“But who could possibly bear you such malice?” Tilda asked reasonably. “Who would benefit from your death?”

“There you have it.” Kenelm wore a thoughtful look. “I can think of no one.”

“And your sister?” asked Tilda, aware that the young man meant to volunteer no more information along those lines. “Was she with you when this occurred?”

Kenelm shook his head. “Alathea is safely in Bath, where I trust she will not be allowed to make a Jack-pudding of herself! It was on my return from there that I was beset.”

“Yet he came here straightaway,” Clemence interrupted, with a doting look. “Despite his mama’s protests!”

Tilda was amused by this blatant adoration, and wondered how it felt to suffer such besottedness. These two young people seemed in charity with the entire world. “Your mother?” she offered politely. “I trust you left her well?”

“I left her,” retorted Kenelm, “in the midst of a spasm, with the Duchess of Marlborough’s entire household in expectation of her imminent demise, which was to be laid at my doorstep.” He grinned. “But I don’t doubt the Duchess will soon have her in hand.”

“We have not decided,” Clem remarked, setting a wreath of flowers upon Kenelm’s brow, “whether she is more eager to further Maddy’s romance, or to thwart Kenelm.”

“The latter, I imagine.” Kenelm caught her hand. “I do not anticipate her success.”

Upon a belated realization that she was interrupting a lovers’ tryst that could only be the result of great contrivance, Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson diplomatically withdrew. She entered the Hall cautiously, not eager for an encounter with Letty Jellicoe, and made her way to the breakfast room. One glance was sufficient to assure her that Agatha had not been overset by the advent of an unwanted guest. The Duchess waved Tilda to a chair with an airy hand that held a piece of toasted bread.

“A vision of loveliness,” remarked the Earl. Since Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson’s carroty curls looked as though she’d run restless fingers through them only moments before, and the flounce of her gown bore unmistakable signs of damp, Maddy did not begrudge this compliment. “To what happy circumstance are we indebted for your enchanting company at so early an hour?”

“Bevis.” Tilda accepted a cup of tea. “Though I hardly think one may consider him a happy circumstance.”

Agatha snorted. “Ran away, did you?” The dark eyes sparkled; rarely had the Duchess so enjoyed herself. “Bevis is a nodcock. Pay him no mind.”

“That is much easier accomplished,” Tilda retorted, “when he is not residing beneath one’s roof.” She helped herself to a generous serving of strawberries and cream.

Agatha, however, had lost interest in the conversation. “Did you
walk
over here?” she inquired, dark eyes snapping. “Mathilda, I despair of you!”

“Indeed,” murmured the Earl, as he assisted Miss de Villiers to arise. “Who knows what dangers may lurk in our peaceful woods? Calm yourself, Agatha, I shall see Tilda safely home.” Maddy stiffened only briefly at this remark, but Tilda was not unaware of her reaction.

“Nonsense!” Agatha smiled. “You are going to show Madeleine around the estate. Lionel will see Tilda home.”

Since no one voiced objections to this admirable scheme, the Earl and Maddy were permitted to depart. Tilda regarded the girl’s gown of blue jaconet muslin, which had countless rows of frills around the ankles, and marveled at the perversity of men, who discovered the true state of their emotions only when the object of their affections was looking positively haggard. It seemed, from the Earl’s solicitous attitude, that Agatha might have her way.

Chesterfield, who had viewed this departure with a sublime unconcern that deceived neither of the ladies, soon left them. “You are a schemer, Agatha,” Tilda commented. “Micah seems to have fallen in very meekly with your plans.” She surveyed her friend. “Pray, what have you in mind for Lionel?”

“Don’t be impertinent!” snapped the Duchess. She sighed. “I tell you, Mathilda, that I feel I am sitting atop a volcano that is about to explode. Letty Jellicoe has set the household on its ear—I was forced to put the silly creature to bed with laudanum and a hot brick. I doubt there’s anyone that doesn’t know by now that Clemence is an actress! And young Kenelm means to have the girl in spite of it. Then there are these mysterious accidents, as if someone meant to murder the lad.” So much, reflected Tilda, for secrecy. “And what must your dratted brother do but decide to take a hand?”

“Timothy,” Tilda sighed, “has also returned. The cast of characters is almost complete.”

“Save one.” Agatha wore a look of anticipation. “Mark my words, Mathilda: we have not heard the last of Alastair Bechard.”

* * * *

Motley dismounted gingerly. It had been many years since she had sat a horse, though this was a pastime she had once greatly enjoyed, and she already felt the ache of protesting muscles. But there were more important matters to consider, and Motley thrust aside all consideration of the stiff-jointed agony that threatened to become her lot. She cast an approving look at the Chateau de Ledoux. The Comte had fashioned a small portion of France from English soil.

The Comte’s domicile, it soon appeared, was as well run as it was pleasing to behold. A groom, whose impassive face revealed no indication that Motley’s riding habit irrevocably marked her as one who had fallen upon hard times, dating as it did from those almost-forgotten happier days when she had enjoyed all the privileges of one of gentle birth, took charge of her mount: a dignified butler replied to her determined assault on the Chateau’s front door, conducted her very properly to a small waiting room and went to apprise his master of her presence, without betraying either curiosity or surprise about this female who called without invitation or companion. Motley did not imagine that many persons of an obviously dependent state in life called upon the Comte. Yet, despite the local gossip that labeled this most illustrious inhabitant of the neighborhood a recluse who received no one and went nowhere, one could not deduce from his servants’ behavior that visitors were infrequently received.

Although Motley had cherished little hope that her mission would be successful, for the Comte’s reputation was not one to encourage the supplications of penniless females with boons to beg, she was quickly ushered into his presence. The interior of the Chateau was decorated with pilasters and peristyles, fine hangings in crystal and velvet, and antique furniture. As she entered the library, the Comte rose from the table where he had been, it seemed, working. Neat stacks of papers covered the surface.

“Pray be seated,” said the Comte. Motley, suddenly aware of her appearance, flushed and tousled from her entirely too energetic ride, sat upon the nearest chair, and was conscious of an uncharacteristic desire to hide within its comfortable depths. This elegant and fastidious gentleman made her feel, in comparison, like a grubby kitchen maid.

“It is good of you to see me, sir,” she replied. “I have come to you on behalf of a member of your family.”

“That can wait.” To Motley’s amazement, the Comte instructed his emotionless butler to procure refreshments for her. “I will be with you in a moment.” The Comte bent again over his papers, and Motley took advantage of this opportunity to study her wayward charge’s fabled Uncle Emile.

The Comte was a tall, spare man. Motley imagined him on horseback, surveying his domain. His features were haughty, arrogant; no trace of laughter softened their severity. The Comte would be a harsh judge yet, Motley believed, not unfair. Though in his late forties, no trace of gray could be found in the fair hair. The Comte glanced up from his papers and pierced Motley with steely eyes. Blushing furiously. Motley became engrossed in an inspection of the fireplace. It was fortunate that Maddy had inherited no more than the de Villiers coloring.

“Motley,” mused the Comte, when his butler had withdrawn. “I find that an intriguing name, if one that is distinctly malaprop. Tell me. Motley, what has prompted you to so daring an act as to call on me?”

Motley found herself sipping an excellent wine, and hoped it might rekindle her flagging courage. The Comte was formidable. “The matter concerns your niece, Madeleine. I am her governess.”