Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (9 page)

“Treason?” Drummond pronounced.

“Not a word I care to have said out loud,” Rochefort muttered.

“Face up to it, lad. Most geniuses are odd little men shut up in their workshops, nose to their inventions or their art every moment of the day. You, however, are a wealthy baron from a known monarchist family. Your inventions are in scientific journals, even the chaunting sheets. You’ve become too well known, Rochefort, too powerful. That shot could have been ordered by Wellington, Cumberland, Cambridge. Aye,” he added after a slight pause, “I’d be particularly leery of Cumberland.”

The Stonegraves were monarchists?

Like Papa.

Then why would George IV’s younger brothers be enemies? That made no sense at all.

“Cumberland is already King of Hanover, with a son to follow him.”

“Hanover?” Drummond scoffed. “A mite of land on the continent when he could have Britain and her colonies?”

A long sigh. “I suppose it’s possible.”

Curiosity overcame my inertia. I eased my eyes open to find my vision hazy, but not so severe I couldn’t make out Rochefort and Drummond ensconced in the upholstered chairs that sat before the fireplace. They had turned them round to face my bed, evidently so they could keep watch over me.

Which was almost as shocking as whatever had put me in this bed.

Or perhaps not, as the alternative was likely Mrs. E.

Pain shot through my head as I squinted, attempting to see more clearly. One of Rochefort’s arms was supported by a black sling. Had he too been hurt? But how? They talked of assassins, but I remembered nothing.

With his good arm, Rochefort reached for a brandy decanter, sitting on a small table in front of him. “I repeat,” he said, “they cannot possibly know of our plans.”

“Secrets of this magnitude have wings, lad. Impossible to keep them caged.”

After refilling both glasses, Rochefort started to put the stopper back into the decanter. His eyes met mine.

“Minta!” He projected himself across the room as if he really cared. If my head hadn’t hurt so badly, I’d have been gratified. But only a little. I’d just discovered our marriage was providing him with more than a convenient hostess and protection from matchmaking mamas. Whatever treasonous plot my husband had devised, a wife was part of his plans.

Treason!
As I allowed him to fuss over me, my heart grew cold.

Papa, papa, what have you done?

Chapter 7

My aching head woke me long minutes before Tillie brought me coffee, toast, and jam. Time enough for my skeptical inner voice and my pragmatic common sense to battle it out. Common sense won. Plus the sheer impossibility of rebelling against anyone’s plans when flat on my back in bed, weak as a newborn housemouse, and irrevocably married.

However Rochefort had planned to use me—and our hasty wedding proved the matter urgent—I had failed him. No matter how valid my excuse for being confined to bed, his plans were now askew. And since I, Araminta Galsworthy, was an acquisition, bought and paid for, I owed my husband good service. I was, therefore, ready for him when he strode into my room directly after an early morning visit from the doctor. A curt nod to Tillie, and she scuttled out. He seized the chair from my desk and set it down beside me, a scant two feet from my face. Before he could utte
r a word, I burst out, “I am
sorry, so very sorry. You married me to play hostess to your guests and now—”

“I did not!” Rochefort roared, causing my head to clang like a bell, sickening echoes surging from ear to ear. My pain must have been apparent, for he continued in less strident tones. “Pay close heed, Minta. “It might have been convenient to have a wife to entertain my guests, but I did not marry you for that reason.”

“You need protection from your mama and her schemes.”

“I was protected the moment you signed you marriage lines.”

Silence. My head had stopped ringing, leaving my mulish tendencies in charge. “But you are expecting a houseful of guests and the doctor says I must stay in bed for a week.” Mortifying to hear my voice rising into a wail. Even worse, Rochefort appeared to be struggling to keep his face straight. We’d nearly been killed and he found it
amusing
?

Oh, yes, he’d told me the gist of it last night. Someone had shot at us with a rifle. A single shot that grazed my head and took Rochefort in the fleshy part of his upper arm. He gave no explanation beyond saying that his work seemed to have aroused unknown enemies. Whether from pain or innate caution I know not, but I failed to mention I had overheard his conversation with Drummond.

“Minta,” Rochefort said, “the doctor is right. You have a head wound. No matter how slight, we must be cautious. I assure you our guests will understand.”

“But—”

He held up a hand as imperious as an emperor silencing a petitioner. “No
buts
. You will do as you’re told.”

“I was to meet with Mrs. E this morning.”

“Mrs. E has been running this household since her mother gave up the post eight years ago,” he returned smoothly. “One more day will not matter.”

If I had not already realized Rochefort wasn’t Papa, I knew it now. He ran his household with as much steel as he put into his machines. The possibilities of wrapping him around my little finger, as I had with Papa, were all but nil.

Rochefort—the latest events had chased all cosy thoughts of Julian from my head—leaned back in the chair, crossed his arms, and fixed me with a dark gaze that didn’t quite conceal a simmering annoyance. “We seem to have strayed from my intended reasons for visiting you this morning. First of all, how are you feeling?”

“Better than last night.” I tried for a touch of his own nonchalance, but I doubt it rang true.

“
Better than last night
,” he mocked. “My dear girl, if either of us felt as we did last night, I would indeed be quailing before the thought of my mother’s arrival.”

Almost, I smiled. For Rochefort to admit any vulnerability was a step in the right direction.

“Listen to me, Minta. You are quite right that I have need of you when our next round of guests arrives, so you will follow the doctor’s instructions to the letter. He’s no London society doctor, but Edinburgh trained and worthy of respect.”

“Very well,” I murmured. For a moment there I’d almost hoped he cared about something besides my usefulness. Undoubtedly, the silly maunderings of a scrambled mind.

“I have had word that my mother and her guests are delayed until tomorrow,” he continued briskly, obviously turning to the second topic on his morning’s agenda. “A most fortuitous delay,” he added grimly. “You should know that my mother is Lady Thistlewaite. She has managed to outlive two husbands—some say she dr
ove them both to their graves.”

I blinked, but he continued as if he’d never made such an outrageous remark. “Her guests are the Earl and Countess of Wandsley and their daughter, Lady Phoebe Fortescue. I’ve never met the chit—don’t go about much in society—but my mother swears she is cheerful and cleverer than most.” Rochefort sighed. “Her attributes are moot, as they no longer matter.”

“Ruffled feathers to be smoothed,” I pointed out.

Rochefort winced. “Mama’s will be the worst, I fear, but I promise I will not let her eat you.”

All well and good for him to say. Undoubtedly, he would shut himself up in one of his workshops and leave me to cope, flat on my back in bed or no. Nothing new in that, of course. Papa had done it all the time.

“And the guests who are to come next week?” I asked.

Rochefort stood. “I am not ogre enough to burden you with them today.” He paused, frowning. “This is scarcely the way I planned to begin our marriage, Minta, but we must make the best of it.” He bent down, plac
ed
a swift kiss on my cheek. “Feel better, my dear.”

And then he was gone, leaving me aquiver with a jumble of emotions. And finally with what shock and pain had prevented me from remembering. Last night was my wedding night.

“My lady, my lady.” Tillie’s soft voice woke me from a surprisingly deep sleep, my sore head no longer waking me every time I moved. “’Tis nearly tea time, my lady. Since his lordship said you was to sleep through luncheon, I thought you might be ready for a bite to eat.”

I considered the matter and discovered my stomach was complaining louder than my head. Obviously, I was better—although my head once again reverted to a whirling dervish as Tillie helped me sit up. After she’d fussed a bit, straightening the bedcovers and doing as much as she could with the hair not covered by a swath of bandages, she stood soldier straight beside the bed and said, “M’lady, Mrs. E wondered if you still wished to see her today. I’m to ring if you do.”

My initial reaction, I’m ashamed to admit, was,
Heavens, no!
But fortunately I recalled I was now the Baroness Rochefort and must begin as I meant to go on. Else I would forever continue to be a guest in my own home. “I will see her,” I said.

By the time Mrs. E arrived, I had girded myself for battle, shoulders straight, head up. I’d even pinched my cheeks to give them a little color. Alas, my preparations did nothing to keep Evangeline Biddle, standing a foot from the end of my bed, from looking like a particularly handsome witch about to reach out and stir her pot of evil. Ah, well . . .

“Come closer,” I ordered. As she moved to the side of the bed, I noticed she was carrying a sheaf of papers. “Menus?” I inquired. Without a word she handed them to me.

I barely stifled a groan as the letters danced before my eyes.
Dear God!
I tried again. The words might as well have been in Arabic or Chinese, and I knew the fault wasn’t Mrs. E’s handwriting. Now what? Did I peruse each page with care before handing them back with a blanket approval? Or did I admit weakness to the woman who had chosen to be my enemy?

I laid the papers in my lap, attempting to focus on the here and now, rather than the looming worry of my vision problems. “Mrs. Biddle,” I said at last, “the blow to my head seems to have affected my vision. Since you have been serving this household for so long, I am certain the menus reflect the fine quality of the meals I have eaten so far. Please continue as in the past. I will let you know when I am able to review the daily menus.

“Very well, my lady.” Her facial features remained impassive, or possibly my present eyesight was not adequate for noting any hints of grim satisfaction.

“There is another matter, however,” I said. “I assume you are aware Lady Thistlewaite and her guests will not arrive until tomorrow?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I had hoped for a tour of the house this morning and find myself frustrated that I am unable to picture where our guests will be housed. I would like you to sketch the layout of the house and indicate where their rooms will be. My desk can provide you with paper and a level drawing surface.”

With smooth grace—I swear the woman ran on ball feet, like Roberta—Mrs. E did as she was told, returning presently with a sketch almost as neat and precise as an architectural drawing. The house, as I suspected, was a quadrangle, its length twice the distance of its sides, with a courtyard in the center. Her drawing was of the second story above the old the abbey, the floor containing bedchambers for family and guests.

“You are here,” she said, pointing to a corner room on the short side of the rectangle. “Lord Rochefort is here.” She indicated the corner room on the opposite end of the east front. Between you are two dressing rooms, two bathing chambers, and a sitting room, which you share.”

A shared sitting room—I had no idea. But I was as capable as Mrs. E of keeping a straight face.

“The long sides of the house, front and back, are kept for guests, my lady. Lord Rochefort’s father was a great one for entertaining. Ladies to the front, gentlemen to the rear, with couples housed as convenient. After the late baron’s death, Lady Rochefort moved to the corner suite on the west side.” Mrs. E pointed to a suite only slightly smaller than my own. “However,” she added, “this time she has taken the central suite on the south front, leaving the entire west wing for the guests who are arriving next week.”

I filed that away in my not-too-bright head for further thought. “And her guests?” I asked.

“They have been assigned rooms next to Lady Thistlewaite,” she returned blandly.

“On which side?”

“The east side, my lady.”

Next to my husband. Of course. “I can see you have everything well in hand. Is there anything else you wish to discuss, Mrs. Biddle?”

I would swear she hesitated for a moment before pronouncing a crisp, “No, my lady.” Her curtsey was infinitesimally lower than the others she had given me, and then she was gone. I had little time to contemplate either our conversation or the problem of my vision, for Tillie arrived with the tea tray, and I assuaged my anxious stomach with cucumber and watercress sandwiches, biscuits dotted with currants, and tiny tea cakes with lemon frosting. The tea was an exquisite flavor I had not tasted before. I drained the pot dry.

Except for another visit from the doctor, who assured me, rather too heartily, that my vision would improve, I slept until Rochefort appeared just before dinner. He said all the right things. And nothing. I was injured, he was injured, but he nimbly avoided all talk of spies, assassins, rifles, or mortal enemies. For all he told me, the fire in the stables was the result of spontaneous combustion, our wounds from a bolt out of the blue.