Buried Secrets (2 page)

Cord sighed and turned his reflections to his present predicament. On the bright side, it would be some weeks before the madding crowd would track him down. The only person to whom he had confided his plan was his man of affairs, Geoffrey Tomlinson, and good old Geoff could be relied upon to keep his mouth shut. Perhaps in that space of time, mused Cord hopefully, he could come up with something—perhaps even a plain statement to Corisande that they simply would not suit. He should have said this long ago, of course, instead of putting it off while Corisande’s expectations swelled to unignorable proportions. If he had only—

His dubious reflections were interrupted by a flash of movement caught from the corner of his eye. He observed a horse and rider emerge from a small spinney crowning a nearby hill. Silently, they slid through the shadows into the moonlight before disappearing into a winding dale. The horseman was slender, seeming too small for his mount, a huge, long-tailed gray. What the devil . . . ? thought Cord bemusedly. He was sure he was now on Wildehaven property. What was this fellow doing, crossing it in the middle of the night? A trespasser? A thief? Cord hastened after the figure, bringing both the rider and the Wildehaven manor house into sight at the same time as he rounded the curve of the hill. To his surprise, the rider swung away from the house, taking a path that led far to the right and over another knoll. Anxious to remain unseen, Cord followed more-slowly this time, with the result that when he crested the rise, the rider was nowhere to be seen.

Pursuit, of course, was impossible. Even if he were to catch sight of the stranger again, he would make his presence known in doing so. Thoughtfully, Cord retraced his path. He had almost come into view of the manor house when he spotted something glittering on the ground ahead of him. Dismounting, he scooped up the small object.

To his surprise, it appeared to be an ornamental comb, such as a woman would use to catch up her hair. The sparkle had been a shaft of moonlight reflecting from one of the tiny gems that adorned it. On closer inspection, it was apparent that the comb had not lain long in its present position. It was smooth and bore no traces of dirt. In fact, Cord could swear a trace of warmth from its wearer lingered in his fingers.

Could it belong to the rider who had passed by here just a few moments ago? The rider was a woman? Well, well, he mused, his little mystery was becoming more fascinating by the minute. He would certainly lose no time in ascertaining the identity of the female who rode the contours of his estate in such an unseemly fashion.

Clambering atop his mount once more, he came soon to the yew alley that led to the manor’s great front door. He wielded the knocker absently, and the door swung open at once to reveal two figures, apparently awaiting him in some dudgeon.

“Hopkins!” exclaimed Cord. “When did you assume butler duties? At any rate, I’m glad you arrived in such a timely fashion. Hullo, Moresby,” he said to the butler, who was engaged in wresting the door handle from his valet.

“Yes, sir,” replied Hopkins, releasing the handle to usher Cord ceremoniously into the house. “I arrived several hours ago, and I have made everything ready for you to assume residence here. You will find your bed made up and a nice fire burning in your chambers.”

“Actually, sir,” Moresby said in a testy voice, “the staff has maintained the house in accordance with your direction since you became its owner. When we were apprised of your imminent arrival, it was necessary merely to remove the covers from the furniture. Mrs. Moresby, of course, has placed flowers in all the rooms and has prepared a small nuncheon for you—in the library, also with a nice fire burning. We had no need”— he paused to cast an austere glance in Hopkins’s direction— “of further direction.”

Cord smiled placatingly. “Thank you, Moresby, I knew you would manage everything.” He turned to Hopkins with another, equally ingratiating grin. “And thank you, Hopkins. If you will return upstairs, I’ll be up presently.”

With a lofty bow, Hopkins turned and moved up the staircase, the picture of complacent dignity. Cord glanced around the manor’s main hall. The house was, perhaps, not what he would have chosen for himself, had he decided to take up permanent residence in the country, for it was heavily baronial in style. The hall was hung with weighty tapestries and strewn with the requisite suits of armor and the occasional halberd on the walls. It was a pleasant abode, however, comfortable and spacious, and Cord found himself looking forward to a brief stay. The operative word, he supposed, was “brief.” His thoughts returned to the inescapable knowledge that he was mad to have come. Still, he was resolved not to be caught in parson’s mousetrap—at least, not yet—and particularly if Corisande Brant was to be his trap mate.

His reflections continued in this vein, even as he consumed the cold collation provided for him by Mrs. Moresby. The library was warm and comfortable, furnished with upholstered chairs so large one could take up housekeeping in them. Even so, the silence, to a dedicated city dweller, was oppressive. The only sounds to be heard were the clink of silver on china and the crackling of a brisk blaze in the hearth.

Cord sighed. He was not given to ruralizing. He agreed with Dr. Johnson’s famous sentiment that he who tired of London was tired of life. He enjoyed the companionship of friends, the entertainment to be found in Town, even the endless, frivolous round of socializing that comprised life in the
ton.
On the other hand, he mused, a little rustication might do him good. He had discovered within him recently a certain disenchantment with his routine. Too many late nights, he supposed. Too much wine, women and song—though not necessarily in that order. He frowned. Perhaps it was wrong of him to leave the management of his affairs in the very competent hands of his agents and stewards, but he had done so for years. Why should he bother with such mundane affairs when there was a world of gratification to be explored? The frown deepened. When had it all begun to pall? he wondered—and what was he to do now to fill his time?

He wondered idly if there were neighbors in the area with whom he might strike up a convivial acquaintance. Surely, being so near to Cambridge, there must be more than a few choice spirits ripe for any spree with whom he could liven the tranquility of quiet country evenings.

This train of thought led him to his near-encounter earlier with the mysterious rider. He removed the comb from his pocket and subjected it to a meditative examination. The gems were faux, as he had expected, but he was more than ever convinced that the comb had been dropped recently.

“Tell me, Moresby,” he inquired of the butler, who had just entered to remove his tray. “Who are our nearest neighbors?”

“That would be Squire Trent, my lord. His estate marches with yours in an easterly—or no, strictly speaking, your very nearest neighbor would be Sir Henry Folsome. He lives right on your property.”

“Indeed?” asked Cord in some surprise.

“Yes, my lord. He and his sister and niece live in Rose Cottage, about three miles from here—not far from the river. Sir Henry,” continued Moresby chattily, “is a fellow of Magdalene College. He and Sir Frederick were great friends, and upon Sir Henry’s retirement. Sir Frederick offered the use of the cottage to him on a lifetime basis. In other words, he will be living there until both he and his sister pass on.”

Cord’s pulse quickened. “Indeed. I remember the agent—what’s his name?—Jilbert, telling me about them. Yes, I agreed to let the commitment stand. But I don’t remember a niece.”

“Yes, my lord—or rather, no, my lord. Her name is Miss Gillian Tate, and she’s the daughter of yet another sister, I believe. Mrs. Ferris—Mrs. Louisa Ferris, that is—Sir Henry’s sister—kept house for her brother for years, but, the frailties of age having caught up with them. Miss Tate came to stay. She will, of course, be obliged to leave when both the Folsomes are gone. However, they are still in reasonably good health, so-”

“Yes, I understand, Moresby,” said Cord, his thoughts on the unknown niece. “But, tell me,” he continued, determined to cover all the possibilities, “might there be a family living—say, in a westerly direction—who number in their household a young man, possibly in his twenties, or younger?”

Moresby fingered his chin dubiously. “N-no, my lord. There’s the Winslows. Their son, Tom, is two and twenty, but they live at some distance. Might I inquire, my lord, why you ask? Perhaps, I—”

Cord waved a hand. “Never mind, Moresby. Just an idle question.” He gestured to the tray and the remains of his meal. “Do thank Mrs. Moresby for an excellent repast. And now, I believe I will seek my bed.”

With great ceremony, Moresby conducted Cord to the master’s suite and deposited him tenderly into the keeping of a waiting Hopkins. Thereupon, with due reverence, the valet prepared his master for his night’s repose. Cord’s last thought before sliding into sleep was that on the morrow one of his first priorities would be to visit Rose Cottage to make the acquaintance of Sir Henry and his little family. To be sure, the presence of a lithe stranger, possibly—or even likely—a female, on his property in the dead of night did not present a problem of earth-shaking proportions, but solving the puzzle might provide a bit of piquancy to the tedium of his sojourn in the wilds of Cambridgeshire. The presence of a young female, apparently unbound by social convention, almost guaranteed a fascinating mystery to explore.

Not far away, in Rose Cottage, Miss Gillian Tate was also making herself ready for bed. The knot she had so carefully crafted to keep her thick mane of brown hair concealed under a bulky hat had come loose and had been hanging below the hat brim for the last half hour. The reason for this defection became immediately apparent. Drat! She had lost one of her favorite combs. Not that she used it much, since it was suitable only for evening dress, but it was sturdy and serviceable—just the thing for binding up one’s hair for unauthorized activity.

She discovered that her hands were still trembling slightly. Who the devil, she wondered, had been on her trail? No, no. Surely, it was purely by accident that another rider had happened along the same path as she. There was no doubt that having seen her, the man had attempted to follow, but she had successfully eluded him. Had he recognized her? Dear Lord, if anyone so much as suspected that she was given to ... to midnight excursions, she would be ruined—to say nothing of Uncle Henry. But, no, the rider could not possibly have so much as determined she was not a man, let alone make out her features. She certainly had seen nothing of his.

Who could he have been? The staff at Wildehaven consisted of Mr. Moresby and his wife, plus Mr. Standish, who tended the garden. Standish was seventy if he was a day, and she’d absorbed the distinct impression of a tall, muscular stranger who was, if not precisely youthful, certainly a strapping figure.

Bundling her hair into a plait, Gillian climbed into bed. Tomorrow she would have another chat with Uncle Henry on the unwisdom of his current activities. She would no doubt be wasting her breath, as she had on all the other occasions she had expostulated with her uncle. He was a dear soul, but sure as she sat here fretting, one day he would cause a scandal that would get them all tossed out of the university on their ears, and the cottage, as well.

They were fortunate, Aunt Louisa had told her, to have a roof over their heads. Aunt Louisa had never met the new owner of Wildehaven personally, although she had heard that he was a titled gentleman. Mr. Jilbert, the estate agent, had told her that since he had no real obligation to honor Sir Frederick’s gift of tenancy, it was only out of the goodness of his heart that he had done so. Uncle Henry, of course, had experienced not a twinge of concern, but Aunt Louisa had breathed a sigh of relief.

“I mean, where would we have gone, child?” she had asked with a sniff. “We could certainly afford our own domicile, but we are comfortable here, and removing to another location at our age would be such a strain. Lord Cordray must be a good Christian gentleman, and so I told Sir Henry. Not that he paid me any heed.”

Of course, he would not have, reflected Gillian ruefully. Uncle Henry’s thoughts, scattered as they were, rarely strayed from his studies these days. And his studies, of course, rarely strayed from that wretched diary. Dear Heaven, she wished the poor old soul had never heard of Samuel Pepys.

Gillian breathed one last hope before closing her eyes for sleep that she would never again encounter the tall rider who had nearly been the ruination of her and her two elderly charges.

Chapter Two

Despite the lateness of his arrival at Wildehaven, Cord rose early the next morning. Declining to ring for Hopkins, he dressed for a ride before breakfast.

Arriving at the stable yard, he glanced approvingly about him. It was a spacious complex, apparently well maintained.

“Good morning, me lord.” Cord turned at the sound of a hearty voice to behold a sturdy personage, red of face and beaming of expression. The man touched a respectful forelock.

“Ephraim Giddings at yer service, me lord. I be the head groom, and I’m pleased t’tell ye yer mount is ready for ye, tail high and eyes bright. We gave him a good rub and brush when he were brought in last night—as well as the carriage hacks, o’course, and he’s had a handful of oats t’iss morning. Sure, and he’s a prime ‘un, me lord. Oy! Rafferty!” he called to a waiting minion. “Saddle up his lordship’s bay.”

“Thank you, Giddings, and I’m sure Zeus thanks you as well.”

During the few minutes it took for his mount to be readied, Giddings escorted Cord on a prideful tour of the stable complex. Cord’s first opinion of the excellent management prevailing at Wildehaven was confirmed as he viewed the stable itself, the loafing barns, the exercise yards and other accoutrements.

Once astride Zeus, he returned Giddings’s vigorous wave and cantered briskly from the yard. Recalling his promise to himself the night before, he turned Zeus toward the west, and, following this direction for some minutes, eventually approached a sturdy brick house, whose rosy color explained the cottage’s name. The house appeared to have been kept in good shape, its mullioned windows sparkling in the morning sun. Chimneys and stone work were neat and trim. Even from a distance, it could be seen that the brass knocker on the front door was blindingly polished, and pots of early blooming flowers were set about the entry.