Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (13 page)

With smoke in my face, cinders in my hair, my terrifying ride on the Mono, and Rochefort greeting me from behind an iron mask instead of at the top of the front stairs! I sighed. Whatever my chagrin, I must swallow it, for footmen were dashing forward to throw open the carriage door and put down the steps. Our guests had arrived.

One look at Elizabeth, Lady Carlyon and I assumed her to be no less than the daughter of a duke. From her exquisitely cut carriage dress to her haughty bearing, she was the epitome of the days when royalty and the peerage ruled the land. Though a full generation too old to be Kent’s daughter, she was regally tall and slender, with hair the color of polished mahogany and patrician features that far outshone any of the
ci-devant
Hanoverian royalty. My full attention captured by such a distinguished visitor, I missed her husband. Until Rochefort’s sharp hiss brought my gaze to the gentlemen directly in front of me. As much as I recognized the devotion of Lord and Lady Wandsley to the cause, here before me was the steel of the revolution. A man with power beyond inventions, beyond baronies and clever ideas. In the marquess’s clear-eyed gray gaze, in his imposing height, his air of command, I knew that here was the heart of the
monarchist movement
. The rest of us, no matter how vital, were merely allowed to assist.

Behind the marquess and his wife trailed a poor squab of a girl, eyes down, watching her step on the marble stairs. Although she was about my own age, with height and coloring similar to my own, I hoped I never displayed so little spirit. Beside Lady Carlyon the poor girl faded into obscurity. Instantly, I felt sorry for her and determined to pay particular attention to this shy little creature.

“My lord, my lady,” Rochefort said with a bow, “a great pleasure to see you again. May I present my wife, Lady Rochefort? Minta, the Marquess and Marchioness of Carlyon.”

I proffered my best curtsey. “Welcome to Stonegrave Abbey. I hope your stay will be a pleasant one.” I received nearly matching regal nods in return.

“Drina,” the marchioness snapped, “come forward and make your curtsey to Lord and Lady Rochefort.” Eyes still on her toes, the girl slid out from behind Lady Carlyon’s broad skirts. “Lady Rochefort, my lord, may I present Miss Smythe, a connection of the family who serves as my companion.”

The girl offered a deep curtsey. Good breeding, I thought . . . and yet another anomaly, for this drab companion had been assigned a suite of her own. I chalked up another question for Rochefort.

The secrets were mounting. Apparently I made a serious mistake when I did not wholeheartedly support my husband’s venture into treason.

“I trust Drummond was on hand to see to your luggage,” Rochefort said, guiding our guests toward the front hall and leaving me to walk with Miss Smythe.

Lady Carlyon turned toward Julian, offering a striking profile and a sparkle I found entirely too flirtatious. “Indeed, Rochefort. What a clever device, your miniature train, though I fear the maids required a good deal of reassurance before they would set foot in it. Poor Drummond practically had to set them in place.” As they passed through the front door, I heard her add, “You must forgive us all our luggage. There was so much the footmen had to stay behind with half of it, forcing dear Drummond to make a second trip on your darling pufferbelly to fetch them.”

I gritted my teeth. The lady was entirely too familiar. And though certainly older than Rochefort, not by half enough!

As Rochefort ushered our new guests into the drawing room, where my mother-in-law and the Wandsleys had chosen to wait for their arrival, I turned to the overly solemn Miss Smythe. “Shall we leave them to it?” I asked with a deliberately conspiratorial air. “Perhaps you would care to go straight to your suite? I shall be glad to take you up myself.”

She managed a flash of a shy smile, and I renewed my resolve to befriend her. We were, after all, both strangers here—each burdened with those older, supposedly wiser, and determined to tell us what to do.

The girl called Drina and I ascended the stairs and turned left toward the west wing of Stonegrave Abbey.

“Oh, but this is lovely!” Miss Smythe cried when she saw her set of rooms next to the Carlyon’s corner suite. “I have seen nothing like it since I lived on the con—” She broke off, once more snapping her drab shell tight around her. But I had caught a glimpse of the pearl inside. Not so dull after all, our Miss Smythe.

“I am happy you are pleased,” I told her. “I have not been at the Abbey long myself, and I clearly recall how I felt when I first saw the rooms assigned to me.”

She removed her bonnet, revealing hair of light brown, nearly the same shade as mine. “You are newly married then?” she inquired.

“Very.” I felt pink stain my cheeks. Would I never learn to control my blushes?

Miss Smythe’s blue eyes suddenly sparkled at me from a remarkably animated face that transformed her from colorless and easily forgettable to an attractive young woman with the same interests as any other girl her age. Men and marriage.

“I should like to be married,” she confided, “but the way we live—forever cut off from the rest of the world—it is not easy.”

“But surely now that you’ve come as far south to Hertfordshire, London is only a step away.”

Miss Smythe removed her gloves, tossing them on the bed beside her bonnet. “So I am told,” she said, her voice so faint I barely heard her.

A girl who wished to be married, but seemed to fear London? Perhaps she was merely painfully shy. A change of subject seemed wise. “I have never heard the name Drina before. Is it Scottish?”

She spun round to face me, suddenly fierce. “Indeed, no. It is merely what my mother calls me. I do not like it. My mother can be . . . rather grand and autocratic, always certain she is right. I was quite delighted to leave her behind with her Irish lover.”

“I beg your pardon.” Further words failed me.

“I have long wished for a friend who might call me Lexa,” declared my guest who seemed to have as many facets as a kaleidoscope. “We must observe all the conventions, of course, but in private I should be pleased to have you call me Lexa. And you are . . .?”

“Araminta,” I managed, “but please call me Minta.” And who, I wondered, was befriending whom? Add one more anomaly to Stonegrave Abbey.

“And I am Phoebe,” announced a voice from the open doorway. “I am so sorry to intrude, but Mama ordered me out of the drawing room—though how the ladies could have found anything to gossip about this far out in the country I cannot imagine. I suppose it’s more of their dreary monarchist talk. They think I don’t know,” she added with wink, “but of course I do. How could one not in a household positively brimming with it?”

Miss Smythe and I gaped at her. Phoebe Fortescue had burst out with what I dared not even think.

“I beg your pardon!” Lady Phoebe cried. “I suppose I should not have said that.”

“It’s quite all right,” I said, “but my husband does caution that the walls have ears. We should, perhaps, be a trifle more discreet.” I made the necessary introductions and we settled into chairs in the sitting room, where for the better part of an hour we chatted in a remarkably normal fashion—urging Phoebe to tell us tales of London society from fashion to gossip, Lexa offering bits about living in Scotland, while I inserted some of the more amusing adventures I’d experienced while living in a household overrun by men of creative genius.

After one tale I thought particularly amusing, Lexa and Phoebe simply stared at me. “Oh, how I envy you,” Phoebe declared. “I have never dreamed of such freedom.”

“And all those men,” Lexa added, wide-eyed. “Was it not . . . did you not find it . . . embarrassing? I mean”—she ducked her head, gazing at the hands clenched in her lap—“I have lived a life surrounded by women and often longed to know more gentlemen. But so many of them, constantly around—was it not overwhelming?”

“It was . . . stimulating,” I told her. “I envied their ability to go where they would, do what they would, and some of it rubbed off, I suspect. I am aware I tend to be more independent than most young women my age.”

“I feared coming here,” Lexa said quietly, “but no longer. To have friends is a very good thing.” She stretched her hands to either side, clasping our hands in hers. A moment of silence added
Amen
.

“I know,” Phoebe said brightly, jumping to her feet. “Let us take a turn in the gardens before tea time. We have been shut in this stuffy house quite long enough.”

“No!”

Both girls turned to me in shock. I had, perhaps, been a bit vehement. “I beg your pardon,” I said, “but Rochefort made me promise neither I nor my guests would venture out of the house for a day or two.” Both girls’ eyes grew wide as I explained. Although I kept the details minimal, emphasizing the threats to Rochefort’s inventions, the girls’ eyes kept straying to the small patch of bandage visible when I lifted the ruffle on my cap. Phoebe appeared more puzzled than frightened, but Lexa looked more solemn than ever. Terrified, in fact.

So even Lexa knew something I did not.

“I have a solution,” I said. “We will walk in the courtyard. The gardens are smaller, but there is a fountain, and you can even see the ancient well once used by the monks who lived here.”

For three privileged young women who should have had no cares beyond the frivolous, we were remarkably subdued as we descended the stairs to the sunny courtyard below. Where a new thought occurred to me. Lady Thistlewaite and her guests had enjoyed the garden only a few days ago. Why, today, was it forbidden?

Chapter 11

When I looked out my rear window the next morning, the customary serenity of Stonegrave Abbey more closely resembled a bustling military encampment. Armed guards ringed the sprawling house, the stables, and Rochefort’s vast workshop. My dignity swiftly lost the battle with curiosity, and I leaned far out the window, craning my neck to see what other changes had come to the Abbey while I slept. Tents. To the west, beyond the stables and the pavilion that sheltered the small Abbey train, beyond Rochefort’s towering workshop, a double row of white canvas tents stood out along the edge of the woods. An armed man on horseback moved into view, his head constantly swiveling to take in both park and trees as he rode the perimeter. I looked east and, sure enough, another mounted guard soon came into view.

If this was an example of what Mr. Soames could procure, no wonder he was so essential to—

“Miss! M’lady! Best to stay inside.”

Horrors! One of the guards in the garden had caught me out. And me in my nightgown! I popped back inside so fast I knocked my head on the window frame. Fortunately not on the same spot as my previous injury.

I plumped myself down on a chair in front of the fireplace and thought about it. If one were planning treason, I supposed an army was necessary. But an army that looked impressive ringing Stonegrave Abbey would be as nothing to the armies the Lord Protector commanded. Horse Guards alone could have this lot down in a trice. Unless . . . the monarchist conspiracy was far larger than I had assumed. The officer corps, the backbone of Britain’s army were, almost to a man, sons of the nobility. Many with fathers who were peers of the realm. Presented with a choice, would they choose the hero of the Napoleonic wars, or would they recall a thousand years of tradition? More importantly, would they come down on the side of a Lord Protector who was fast becoming a despot, or would they return power to the rule to Parliament? To their fathers, brothers, uncles, cousins, and friends?

Impossible!
my inner voice scolded.
Soldiers worship that ultimate soldier, Wellington. They would never . . .

Would they?

Tillie interrupted my thoughts by bringing in my morning tea tray and insisting on wrapping me in my dragon robe before she would allow me to eat. As I munched on a slice of toast and apricot jam, I wondered if the coming of the guards meant more freedom. Perhaps, at last, we could move about outside the house. I wanted to see Rochefort’s airship again, wanted to watch Phoebe’s and Lexa’s faces when they saw . . .

Secrets, Minta. Secrets!

Altogether too many secrets. Rochefort had remained immovable last night when I attempted to discover more about our houseguests. I’d lost my temper, snapping, “I might as well be talking to a stone.” He stood, bowed, and left me lying in my bed like a recalcitrant child unworthy of argument. If I’d had anything other than my lighted candle to throw after him, I would have.

While conferring with Mrs. E about menus, I endured her rant about the invasion of the Abbey—they would eat us out of house and home, rape the maids, forever ruin the reputation of the Stonegraves and Stonegrave Abbey. But I had anticipated her rant and tracked Rochefort all the way to his Abbey workshop for questions I refused to let him dismiss. “They have their own supplies, Mrs. Biddle,” I assured her, “and their own mess. Lord Rochefort assures me none of them will come into the house, other than for a dire emergency. And we trust there will be none of those, do we not?” I added briskly.

“And what do you call a fire and a shooting?” she demanded far too pertly for a housekeeper to her mistress.

“Enough provocation to hire armed guards.”

Mrs. E stood her ground, demanding, “And what of the young women on staff? Must I lock them up?”