Buried Secrets (11 page)

Cord’s thoughts, as he wended his way back to Wildehaven were a whirl of conflicting impressions. He had been right about the identity of his midnight rider! However, having solved that little mystery, several others had taken its place. What was there in the nature of Gillian Tate’s seemingly prim and proper character that had prompted her to take on such a bizarre mission? To be sure, she was motivated by a desire to keep a beloved relative from plunging his family into the soup, but need she have chosen this path? There must have been some alternative—although at the moment he could not think what it might be.

And then there was the astonishing and abrupt reversal of his feelings toward her. He had begun tonight’s excursion in a spirit of mischief. If, as he had hoped, she turned out to be his unauthorized visitor, he had intended to use it as leverage in his proposed game of hearts. Surely, he felt, a tincture of fear would make her more amenable to his advances. Of course, this line of thought was contemptible, but he’d planned to make it clear that no matter what her response, he would keep her secret. After all, a shared secret, as he had learned early in his career, could serve as a powerful aphrodisiac.

Something had happened, however, in the brief moment when his lips had brushed hers. Something very like a spark ... a connection ... a certain—tenderness? Then, he had ruined the moment with his trite, oily pronouncement. “So much more I can do for you, my dear.” Lord, he had sounded like Riding Hood’s big, bad wolf at his very worst.

Not that he wouldn’t enjoy bedding the delectable Gillian. However, at this point friendship had reared its ugly head, tossing a large spanner into his plans. One didn’t seduce a friend, after all, and he found that he wanted more from her than a tumble in the hay. He wanted her companionship. Her conversation was like fine wine, and he wanted more of it. He wanted to watch her lovely gray eyes light with that inner laughter that he found so compelling. He wanted to probe the mystery of her obsession with a dead man—to comfort her for her loss and to help her get on with her life. He had never felt an urge to protect a woman before, and he found it unsettling as well as oddly exhilarating.

His thoughts returned to that instant when his mouth had touched hers. The fabric of time itself had seemed altered, for that brief contact seemed to extend itself to an eternal moment of communion.

Tchah! He chided himself. When had he become a maudlin fool? His acquaintance with Gillian Tate was of—what?—two weeks’ duration. She was undeniably one of the most alluring females he had ever encountered, but she was just that—a female, and as such very much like every other member of her sex. Pleasant enough for the occasional interlude—romantic, or in Gillian’s case otherwise—but nothing more. He would enjoy her company while he was here. When he returned to his natural milieu in London, she would become a pleasant memory.

His return to London. The words settled in the pit of his stomach, chill and sodden, like the remains of a badly cooked dinner. He knew well what awaited him in London, or was perhaps even now pursuing him into the countryside. He had listened to himself in some astonishment as he spun his sad tale to Gillian, for he’d had no intention of unburdening himself so. He recalled her ill-concealed contempt for his spineless refusal to confront both Corisande and his family. The realization of the foolishness of his craven escape struck him anew, and he straightened in his saddle.

Lord, at what point in his life had he become such a spineless nonentity? He knew he had not always been so. After selling out, he had launched on a career of hedonism. He had relegated all his responsibilities to others and had refused to consider any but the lightest of decisions—except when it came to taking a wife. Because of his aunt’s persistence, he had been unable to ignore this particular duty. The operative word here, he realized, was “duty,” and it was one he could no longer ignore. Marriage to Corisande, he told himself, would not be so bad. She had been born into the Polite World and was fully cognizant of its rules. She knew full well that a wife must not expect fidelity in a marriage of convenience. In return for her husband’s support in matters financial and social, she would be allowed her own affairs, if conducted with discretion.

In short, Cord was aware that marriage to the Viscount Rantray’s daughter would not affect his pleasures. He would be free to carry on his private pursuits with no interference from his countess.

He realized that these reflections were casting him into a chill depression. He straightened in his saddle. It was not as though he need hare off to London right away after all. He would make the most of his sojourn in the country. He was safe here in his pastoral paradise—at least temporarily. He would enjoy Gillian’s company while it was available, and with any luck he could make it available for at least a few more weeks. There was his promise to her, after all, to keep her uncle out of trouble. Eventually, he would return to his responsibilities on the home front. He would take up his life as his family obligation had ordained it, but he could take comfort in the pleasures still available to a man of his wealth and status. He whistled softly as he approached the manor house and, once he was back in his bedchamber, composed himself for sleep with a clear conscience.

* * * *

Cord might not have been so sanguine had he known of the events transpiring in London. In her own apartment in Binsted House, Lady Binsted lay sleeping the sleep of the just and pure of heart. Earlier that day, she had taken a step that would no doubt have profound consequences for her wretched nephew, but necessary, nonetheless.

The inquiries sent out to Cordray Park and the other estates had proved futile. No one at any of these locales had seen or heard from Cord in at least a month.

Her lord had remonstrated with her.

“I tell you, Bessie, you had best stay out of it. Cord won’t thank you for poking your nose into his affairs. The boy’s done a bolt, and there’s nothing you can do except wait for him to surface—which he’ll do in his own good time. In my opinion, m’dear, you’ve done yourself no good by this incessant meddling. Cord simply don’t want to get married. Maybe he will someday,” he added, “but I’m beginning to agree with Wilf that he and Corisande don’t suit and never will.”

As usual, Lady Binsted had retorted, “Nonsense.”

A chill finger of doubt had twisted inside her, but, with the complacency that was her trademark, she quickly suppressed it. The day after this conversation, she had summoned Geoffrey Tomlinson, Cord’s man of affairs, to Binsted House. The instant the young man had entered her drawing room, she perceived that he knew something. The expression of guilt on his open features was almost ludicrous. However, the ensuing conversation was far from productive. Mr. Tomlinson had at first denied any knowledge of Cord’s whereabouts. At last, after persistent questioning, he admitted that Cord had informed him of his precipitate departure, just before leaving Town.

“I knew it!” exclaimed Lady Binsted. “Well? Where is he, man?”

“I don’t know, my lady,” Mr. Tomlinson replied miserably.

“Please.” Lady Binsted’s voice was sharp with impatience. “Let us not go through all that again. It is imperative that I—that is, we, his family—reach him as soon as possible.”

“I’m sorry, my lady.” The solicitor, by now very hot and harassed, loosened a noticeably damp collar. “I truly do not know where his lordship is. I only know where he is not.”

In response to Lady Binsted’s lifted brows, he added hurriedly, “He said not to look for him at the Park or any of the Culver family holdings. He said merely that he was going out into the countryside.”

With this, the marchioness had to be satisfied. Dismissing Mr. Tomlinson, she sat for some moments in deep thought before leaving the chamber in search of the marquess.

“Binsted,” she began peremptorily, having cornered his lordship in the billiard room, “we must take further steps.”

“Eh?” queried her husband in some irritation. “Look here, Bessie, you just caused me to ruin a spectacular bank shot. Been practicing it for a week.”

“Never mind that now. We must do something about Cord.”

To the accompaniment of the marquess’s continued grumbling, she outlined her conversation with Mr. Tomlinson. “He was my last hope of discovering Cordray’s whereabouts, Binsted. In my opinion, we have only one other option.”

“And what is that?” asked Lord Binsted with deep foreboding.

“The Bow Street Runners.”

“Oh, my God!” The expletive burst from her husband’s lips like the finest bank shot he had ever attempted. “Bess, you’re not serious! Cord will have my guts for garters! Bow Street Runners crawling about the countryside—asking questions of his friends—prying into his activities. Might as well spread his affairs all over the
Morning Post.”

“Don’t be absurd, my dear,” replied Lady Binsted placatingly. “The Runners are known for their discretion— when one impresses the necessity for it upon them. If you are not concerned about Cordray’s situation, I am. I find it of prime importance to assure ourselves of his continued well-being.”

Lord Binsted grunted. “You know good and well, Bess, that if something had happened to him, we would have been notified. What you find of prime importance is that he be dragged back here to make a proposal to that wretched girl.”

“Wretched girl! Binsted—!”

The marquess waved a hand irritably. “All right, all right. What I meant was that who Cord marries, or if he marries at all, is simply no concern of yours.”

“No concern! I am Cordray’s only close relative in my sister’s generation. If I do not concern myself with what is nothing less than a family crisis, who will?”

This time Lord Binsted threw up his hands in resignation. “You will do as you wish, Bessie. You always do. But, mark my words, there will be the devil to pay.”

With that, his lordship turned abruptly back to the billiard table, and after a moment, his wife wheeled about and strode from the chamber.

That afternoon, a burly individual, garbed in homespuns and a voluminous greatcoat, rang the bell at Binsted House. His beard, rough-cut and sprinkled with gray, was so long it fell over a rather garish red waistcoat. Instead of being directed to the tradesman’s entrance, as might have been expected, he was ushered immediately into my lady’s reception salon. Here, Hamish McSorley, a member of that elite band of investigators known as the Bow Street Runners, accepted a commission from the Marchioness of Binsted, on strict orders to treat the matter with the utmost secrecy.

* * * *

The next morning. Cord made it his first order of business to ride to Cambridge. Glancing with a smile at the riverbank, where he had intercepted Gillian in her nocturnal foray, he turned sedately into the gates of Magdalene College. From thence, he was led with due ceremony into the presence Mr. George Neville, its youthful master.

The first few minutes of the conversation accomplished the usual demands of courtesy with congratulations on the part of the earl to Mr. Neville on the performance of his duties, and discreet questions on the part of Mr. Neville as to the reason for the earl’s unexpected visit.

“Yes, thank you, my lord. My uncle is well. He is at present resting at his seat in Norwich. He took a tumble from one of his hunters last week and sprained his ankle.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” murmured Cord with suitable gravity. “Lord Grenville and I have been friends for donkey’s years. I understand he is closely involved with the college.”

“Indeed,” replied Mr. Neville with disarming candor. “It was due to my uncle’s good offices that I was invited to my present position at Magdalene.”

“Aided in good part by your excellent qualifications, I’ve heard.”
Lord,
thought Cord, if either of us becomes any oilier, we’ll slide right out of our chairs. “But, I do not wish to take up a great deal of your time. I know you have a busy schedule. You’re wondering, no doubt, what is my purpose in calling this morning.”

Mr. Neville made a deprecating gesture, and Cord continued. “Before I left London for my visit to Wildehaven, I was speaking to my good friend. Lord Maplethorpe,” he said referring to another generous Magdalene alumnus. “He told me of a diary acquired by the college in the last century.”

It seemed to Cord that a wary expression crept into the master’s eyes, but he nodded courteously. “Yes, the Pepys Diary, a bequest of that gentleman’s nephew in 1725 or thereabouts.” He paused for a moment before adding. “I’m not surprised Lord Maplethorpe spoke of the diary. It has garnered some interest of late—partly due to the publication of the Evelyn Diary not long ago.”

“Precisely. It is my understanding that the diary is written in some sort of code.”

“Mm, yes.” Mr. Neville proceeded in some haste. “However, we feel that now we have begun a methodical approach to the cryptography involved. We have an eminently suitable young man on the job, young John Smith of St. John’s, and we are all sure he will decipher the thing shortly.”

“Splendid!” exclaimed Cord heartily. “I look forward to reading it. In the meantime—” He paused for a sip of wine. “Well, the thing is, I’ve always possessed an interest in codes. I did some work for the Foreign Office during the war that proved most helpful—or so I was told.”

“Indeed,” responded Mr. Neville admiringly, his wary expression more pronounced.

“Yes. For that reason, I’d rather like to take a look at this mysterious diary—take it home for a day or two. I might fail completely at its transcription—but, on the other hand, I might do you a spot of good.”

“Y-yes.” Mr. Neville tapped the arm of his chair in some agitation. “However, I’m not sure the diary is available at the moment for scrutiny. Even Mr. Smith does not remove it from the library. He has been hard at work here, and—”

“How very disappointing,” said Cord, permitting the slightest edge to creep into his voice. “I shan’t be staying long at Wildehaven, and I had hoped to peruse at least some of it before my return to London.”

“Yes, of course.” By now, Mr. Neville was perspiring rather freely.

“I understand the diary is comprised of several volumes. I should only remove one or two of them at a time, of course, and I would not keep them long. I do feel”—he coughed delicately—”that my request is not out of order, considering that I am a longtime friend of the college.”