Barbara Metzger (9 page)

The name that kept popping into her thoughts, a name that, indeed, was rarely out of her thoughts, she refused to consider as a co-conspirator. She would
not
go running to Gray to get her out of a scrape the way she used to do when they were children. This was not like being caught in Farmer Melford’s orchard with a pinafore full of apples. Graydon was no relative, not much of a real friend except in her memory. She couldn’t even trust his loyalty the way she did her butler’s. Ohlman didn’t share his devotion and his talents among every other family in the county, not for all the years he’d been employed at Woodhill Manor. He never did; he never would.

Graydon was reckless and daring enough for such a hey-go-mad scheme, that was for sure, but Daphne couldn’t ask him. She didn’t want to be beholden to him, she told herself. She didn’t want to involve him in another possible scandalbroth, and she didn’t want him to think her attics were to let. Mostly she didn’t want to be alone with him, to ask.

His father was much too much the gentleman for such a venture. Besides, the earl would be too busy mending his fences with Mama. Daphne refused to consider that the wedding plans might be terminated anyway, regardless of Uncle Albert’s terminal condition. Cousin Harriet was too outspoken for subterfuge, if she hadn’t already packed and left. Which left…Miles.

Miles was the justice of the peace. He’d have to be involved one way or the other in his official capacity. The question was, could Daphne ask upright Miles to bend the rules for her? Then again, if she did ask, would he agree? He would if he loved her. He’d see that she wasn’t looking to hurt anyone or cheat anyone out of anything, just help her mother find happiness. He doted on his own ailing father, after all. Of course, pushing the man’s Bath chair wasn’t quite the same as stashing a body and sidestepping statutes, but he was bound to understand, Daphne tried to convince herself. And if he didn’t…

She wasn’t about to take Uncle Albert’s outrageous advice about taking Miles and Gray to her bed. That was beyond consideration. On the other hand, a comparison, a test of faithfulness, perhaps, was not a bad idea. She had always insisted she wanted a man she could trust, one whose first loyalty was to her and no other. Graydon had already failed the test. He’d ride
ventre a terre
to her rescue, she knew in her heart, grinning the whole way, but she couldn’t trust him. Miles was the most trustworthy soul of her acquaintance, but if he wouldn’t stand by her, no matter what, then it didn’t matter, not a whit. It wasn’t as if she were asking him to put love above honor, not precisely. And it wasn’t as if there were any grand passion on either side, either. There had to be some strong foundation for a decent marriage, though, and she thought steadfastness was a good place to start.

Through all her cogitations, Daphne had been straightening the room. She picked up Uncle Albert’s cane and put it and his portmanteau on the mattress next to him, then she drew the velvet hangings closed around the bed. Anyone looking into the chamber would think the baron was sleeping, not to be disturbed. They’d think he liked fresh air, too, for Daphne opened the windows and banked the fire. For certain it wouldn’t do to let the room get overwarm. She blew out the candles, except for her own, and closed the door firmly behind her.

The house was dark and quiet. The only one who appeared to be stirring was Daphne’s maid, quietly mending while she waited to put her mistress to bed. Daphne quickly dismissed her, chiding the woman for thinking she couldn’t undress herself, and then asked her to spread the word belowstairs that Baron Whilton was ill and possibly contagious. The doctor would be called in the morning if he did not improve. Meantime, Daphne would see to his needs since she was already exposed. Most important, Daphne emphasized, none of the servants should enter his room until the baron rang. Which would be a long, long time.

Chapter Nine

Only one footman remained on duty late at night at Woodhill Manor. It was his office to make sure the candles were all doused, the fires all extinguished, the windows and doors all locked after the last guest retired. He also got the job of aiding Major Howell in helping the earl up to his room. While he assisted Graydon in supporting Lord Hollister’s substantial, stuporous body up the stairs, the servant passed on the information that Lord Whilton was ailing. “Gammon, castaway is more like it.”

“No, milord, Miss Daphne told her maid to inform the staff to stay away in case it’s the influenza.”

“Bosh, the man is just disguised. Worse than the governor here, I’ll warrant.”

“Begging your pardon, milord, but Miss Daphne did say as how no one is to go into the baron’s room but herself.” As if anyone wanted to.

“Devil take it, she already has enough on her shoulders without worrying about some cad in his cups.”

The footman nodded his agreement with that assessment, Miss Daphne being a favorite with the staff, Baron Whilton being the bane of their existence. “Mayhaps it’s as you say and his lordship is just above himself. Miss Daphne did say as how the doctor wasn’t to be called until tomorrow, if then.”

“Then he cannot be that sick. Good.”

He couldn’t be too sick for a visit, Graydon decided after he put the earl into his valet’s competent hands. It wasn’t all that late by London standards, and if the baron was suffering from his overindulgence, perhaps Graydon could fetch him a restorative or something. If he did require a doctor, the servants would be only too happy to ignore his bell after Daphne’s warning, and wake her up instead. She needed her sleep.

The major didn’t fear being struck by anything more than a tossed boot. He’d gone through two years of the army without succumbing to any vile diseases; he wasn’t going to get one now. And if Awful Albert wasn’t really sick, then Graydon could discuss how much blunt was required to see him gone.

It was extortion, pure and simple. And it had to be paid if Gray’s father and Lady Whilton were to make a match. They deserved their chance for happiness, and he, Graydon, deserved two more weeks to try to change Daphne’s opinion of himself.

He stood outside the baron’s room, listening. Lady Whilton’s chambers were next door; he could hear snores from there. Daphne slept a few doors down, but that was too tantalizing a thought for this time of night.

There were no sounds from Albert’s room, so Graydon rapped softly at the baron’s door. When he still heard nothing, he quietly entered, shielding his candle.

No noises came from the bed, but tarnation, it was no wonder if the man took a chill if he liked to sleep in so cold a room.

The bed-curtains were all drawn, but Graydon decided that since he’d come this far, he had better make sure the old man was all right. He could ride for the doctor himself if necessary, and not disturb Daffy at all.

So he pulled the curtains a bit, thinking that if the tosspot had passed out, there’d be no worry over waking him. In the pale circle of his candle’s light, he studied the recumbent figure.

“Lord Whilton? Baron?” Yes, he was passed out, sleeping like the dead. That was too bad, for now conversation and negotiations would have to wait for the morrow. Nothing could be resolved between the governor and his bride.

Just to make sure it was the drink and not a disease that had Albert laid so low, Graydon put a hand to the man’s forehead to feel for temperature. The baron had none whatsoever. He was as cold as a stone, and Graydon didn’t think it was because the windows were open. He brought his candle closer. Bloody hell, the baron was dead. The major had seen enough death in the war to recognize it.

Gray took a minute to consider the implications. “Thunder and turf,” he cursed out loud, knowing there was no chance of waking this sleeper. The implications did not please him. Oh, there’d be no question of Lady Whilton getting her money from the estate now, but there’d be no question of holding the wedding now either. And complications, there’d be a blizzard of them; naming a guardian for the boys, the funeral arrangements, the legal rigmarole. No doubt Daphne would take up the reins as she usually did. She adored her cousins and was devoted to her mother, who had no head for details, as charming and delightful as she was.

And Graydon couldn’t even help. Since he was no relation, he couldn’t stay on, battening on a house of mourning. Which meant he couldn’t show Daphne he was not such a frippery fellow as she thought. But maybe he could do something to help…

He could get Albert out of here and back to London, for his valet to find. Considering the time it might take for the valet to get here, then there, then send a message back here, to which a message would have to be sent back there saying to send the baron back here for burial, perhaps they could hold the wedding after all. Especially if Albert weren’t found dead on his back here in the house.

Graydon could say that Lord Whilton had a change of heart and realized his sister-in-law was entitled to the money after all. No one would believe it, or that Albert had a heart to change, but the old rip wouldn’t be there to refute anything.

There was no big problem with making a run to London, but not in the middle of the night, and not without telling anyone. They’d have the whole county looking for him, and a fine hobble that would be, getting caught with Albert’s corpse. No, Graydon decided he’d have to wait for tomorrow night. He’d have all day to make up excuses for the baron’s departure and his own, and to figure a way to get the dead man into his carriage. Meantime, he couldn’t just leave him here. Poor Daffy’d come in in the morning and find the blighter. Not a pretty sight. The girl had bottom, but she was a delicate female for all that. She shouldn’t be exposed to such dire experiences. Besides, she’d raise a ruckus so there’d be no hiding the facts. Graydon had to hide Albert instead.

It wasn’t going to be a pleasant job, but Graydon had done worse in the army. He kept telling himself that he was doing this for Daffy, as he wrapped the baron in the quilt on the bed and slung him over one shoulder. Thank goodness Albert was not a big man. The major needed his other hand for the candle, so he had to leave the man’s satchel and cane, and his own cane. He’d manage.

Graydon staggered his way down the endless flight of marble steps, praying that last footman had gone about his rounds, then gone to his bed, and wondering if he’d do better to roll the bastard down. Then he could just dump him in some London back alley. The authorities would assume he’d been beaten and robbed at one of his usual low gaming hells—when they managed to identify him, hopefully after the wedding. No, even Gray’s larceny knew some limits. He trudged on. At the bottom he propped the shrouded body against the carved newel post at the foot of the stairs, to rest.

“Couldn’t even have the grace to cock up his toes on the ground floor,” Graydon mused, then took up his burden again. He lurched down the long corridor to the back of the house, bashing his elbows on the narrower walls while Albert’s booted feet kept banging into his legs, especially the wounded thigh, which was throbbing at every step. He put the body down again, to mop his brow, but none too gently this time. The dastard’s false teeth fell out. Oh, how Daphne had better appreciate what he was doing for her, Graydon swore as he gingerly picked the ivory chompers up in his handkerchief and stuffed them into Awful Albert’s coat pocket.

He slung him over his shoulder again and bent down for the candle. The teeth bit into his collarbone. He grunted and proceeded through the kitchen and down another flight of even more narrow, twistier stairs to the wine cellar.

His leg protesting vehemently, Graydon found Albert a nice, cool resting place behind the well-stocked shelves. “You like it cold?” he asked the corpse, his voice echoing in the silence. “Better enjoy it now, old man, because it’s hot where you’re going.”

Graydon wanted to wipe his sweating forehead and his hands, but his handkerchief was irretrievable. Thank goodness it did not have his monogram. He used his coat sleeve.

Albert would keep until tomorrow, but Graydon still had to go back up all the stairs to bring down the man’s satchel and his cane. No one would believe he left without them.

By the time the major was finished, his leg almost buckled under him, even when he used his own cane. It was a marvel that no one in the house, upstairs or down, thought burglars had attacked. He collapsed onto his bed.

He needed a hot soak, but that would mean waking too many servants or carrying cans of water himself. Not tonight. Sleep was a long time coming, though, with that continuous ache. His last thought before he finally drifted off was that not even Daphne was worth this.

* * *

No one was having a good night. Of course, no one was having quite as bad a time of it as Uncle Albert, but bad
was a relative term. Jake of the recently named Lamb Chop Thieves was having a lot of problems with his relatives, too.

The baron’s wayside-tavern assailants were formerly called Sal’s Fleas, Sal being the ugliest dog in the kingdom, and the smartest. The big tan hound would grab a purse, a parasol, or a parcel, anything of value, although her favorite was lunch pails. The bitch could prig fancy laundry off a line before the maids finished pegging the sheets. She could make off with small merchandise if the shop counters weren’t too high, and she could drag away a haunch of beef while the butcher was wrapping Jake’s measly sausage. Sal was so smart, and so well known to Bow Street, the Watch, and the shopkeepers, that Jake and his nephews had to leave London for a while.

Jake’s nephews were so stupid that when Jake dyed the dog’s fur to disguise her, Sailor and Handy were the only ones who couldn’t recognize the four-legged felon. They were so inept, they couldn’t keep a decrepit old man and his prissy valet from battering Jake’s skull with a cane.

Now Jake had a bad headache. He also had no money, no place to sleep, and nothing in his belly. Sal was too smart to share the lamb chop. He also had two fools with nothing in their brain boxes. They were city boys who couldn’t start a fire in the woods, couldn’t snare a rabbit or tickle a trout. Nor could they be trusted out of Jake’s sight without getting lost, since Sailor couldn’t remember in which direction the sun rose and set, and Handy couldn’t figure out why north wasn’t up. It always was on the maps Jake tried to show them. Sal had more brains than the two of them combined.