Charlotte Louise Dolan (22 page)

“Easy.”

“We once hid—”

“For a week. Yes, I know,” Anne said. “But I have no intention of hiding in the house. Not when we have lessons to do. So I shall meet you in the lower gardens at seven, and we shall spend the day on the moors.’

“And I shall have cook fix us a picnic lunch,” one of the boys added.

“Although we could, of course, snare a rabbit and roast it over a fire we built ourselves,” the other boy suggested.

“I do not doubt it,” Anne said, smiling to herself. “But as we have already completed the lessons in foraging for food, it might be better to speak to the cook. And see if you can provide us with a substantial breakfast, also, because I do not think I will risk eating in the morning room. Dear Aunt Rosemary cannot be relied upon to sleep until noon.”

* * * *

“I wish you will stop fidgeting with my neckcloth, Wyke. It is vastly more important that we plan the next attempt on the twins’ lives than that I present a good appearance here in the back of beyond.” Creighton Trussell started to pour himself another brandy, but the bottle was already empty, so he tossed it aside.

“If I may be allowed to express my opinion, sir, I am not at all convinced of the wisdom of taking such a risk.”

“Do my ears deceive me? You are questioning my instructions? May I remind you that it is not for you to decide policy; that is my prerogative. It is merely for you to help determine the best way to implement my plan.”

“Surely there is no hurry. It would appear that Lord Leatham is settled in here for the summer.”

“No hurry? Of course there is a need for haste. To begin with, the gossip about the shooting attempt has completely died down. For another, not only am I missing the end of the Season in London, but all of my friends are probably even now preparing to remove to Brighton. Did you expect that I should be content to spend the summer here on the moor, where no one would even care if I were to appear at dinner wearing the same waistcoat two nights in a row? Really, Wyke, sometimes you astound me.”

“I beg pardon, sir. I was not thinking clearly.”

“Well, you had better start pulling your wits together, because I intend to make the attempt tomorrow night.”

“So soon?” Wyke had never regretted anything so much in his life as he now did his delay at writing to the lusty widow. Oh, if only she were here now, to take control of this—this monster—this little man with delusions of power—this imitation Napoleon, making his grandiose plans.

“Yes, so soon. I see no reason to delay, unless you have still failed to procure a map of the moor?”

“No, I have one right here.” Wyke pulled it out of his pocket and handed it very reluctantly to his employer, who eagerly spread it out on his lap.

“I believe you have it upside down, sir.”

“Of course, of course.” Trussell righted it. “Now then ... hmmm ... yes....”

With one last prayer to the gods who had obviously forsaken him, Wyke moved around behind the chair, reached over Trussell’s shoulder, and pointed to a little spot on the map. “We are here, sir, and here is the lane leading back to the main road.”

“Oh, yes, of course, quite right.”

“And here is—”

There was a loud knock at the door, and Trussell immediately started trying to refold the map. Before he succeeded, the door opened and Mrs. Pierce-Smythe entered the room without so much as a by-your-leave.

In total panic, Trussell shoved the map at Wyke, who calmly held it behind his back. Then, while the others were talking, he considered how best to dispose of the incriminating evidence.

“Wh-wh-wh-what are
you
doing here?” The disordered state of Trussell’s mind was evidenced by the fact that he did not even follow the rudiments of courtesy and rise to his feet, but remained instead cowering in his chair.

“Now, is that any way to greet your beloved after such a long absence?”

Mrs. Pierce-Smythe was smiling at Trussell, but if she was intending to calm him, thought Wyke, she was bound to fail. She had the look about her of a cat that has cornered a mouse and is toying with it.

Surreptitiously he moved backward, step by careful step, until he felt the dressing table behind him. Carefully he eased a drawer open and stuffed the map into it.

“But—but—but—you can’t—” Trussell had still not completely regained his power of speech.

“Listen closely, my little man. Tomorrow you will arise at a goodly hour. By that I mean eight of the clock, not noon. You will seek me out in whatever room breakfast is normally served in, and you will invite me to stay on here at Wylington Manor for an extended visit,
is that clear?”

Her voice was so forceful, even Wyke took another involuntary step backward, inadvertently pushing the drawer closed on his fingers. With an indrawn breath caused by the pain, he tugged at the drawer until he finally managed to release his hand.

Trussell, meanwhile did not even attempt to speak, but just nodded his head up and down, up and down, as if once put into motion he could no longer control it.

The widow stared at him fixedly for a few moments, as if to reassure herself that he had indeed gotten her meaning, then she turned to Wyke, who barely stifled the urge to cringe before her.

“I shall hold you responsible for seeing that he is there on time, sober and presentable, and with his lines practiced.”

“As you wish, madame.” His mien carefully impassive, Wyke executed a correct bow, and moments later the woman was gone.

Although Wyke rather thought he had carried it off well—certainly better than Trussell had—still, his palms were clammy and his knees were shaking. What kind of fiend had he conjured up? To be sure, the lusty widow could easily control his master, but why had it never occurred to him to wonder who would control her?

Turning to speak to Trussell, Wyke discovered the lily-livered coward had fainted dead away in his chair.

Bronson was not in an especially good mood the next day when he descended to the morning room with the intention of breaking his fast. To begin with, he had not slept well the night before; his mind had been too filled with thoughts of Miss Hemsworth. Then, upon awakening, he had spoken to Daws, who had exhibited an unwavering reluctance—nay, an outright refusal—to undertake the supervision of the twins for even a few hours. To put the finishing touches on his ill humor, Bronson now had to endure the company of the two stranded females.

He had assumed that they would sleep late after their previous evening’s adventures, but voices in the hallway half an hour earlier had forewarned him that he would not be able to drink his coffee in peace. Noon, he promised himself. He had only to hold onto his sanity until twelve, and then he would be rid of the intruders.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed open the door to the small room at the back of the house where breakfast was normally served. Chorley was there before him, efficiently serving the two females. Miss Hemsworth was noticeable only by her absence.

“Ah, good morning, my lord. I was just commenting to my daughter on what a pretty little room this is. So merry, with the sunbeams dancing in through the windows. I do like a breakfast room with a southern exposure, do you not also?” Mrs. Pierce-Smythe regarded him with an arch look.

The devil take the woman, it was going to be worse than he had thought. Apparently she was one of that appalling breed who not only yapped constantly, but who continually asked fatuous questions, demanding of her listeners that they make token responses. Well he was not going to give her the slightest encouragement. Unfortunately, the black look he gave her failed utterly to intimidate her.

“Try some of the coddled eggs, my lord, I am sure I have never eaten better anywhere, and I have a French chef, whom Lady Stansford is forever trying to steal away from me, but I am afraid she is doomed to disappointment because Pierre will never allow himself to be lured away. The last time she made him an offer, I simply doubled his salary and bought him a new enclosed stove, and that was the end of that.”

Without saying a word, Chorley set a mug of steaming coffee in front of Bronson, who grabbed it with the relief of a drowning man.

“Merciful heavens, are you having coffee so early in the day? Such a heathen custom. Are you sure you would not prefer a nice cup of tea? Or perhaps some hot chocolate? If you wish, I can ring for—”

“No!” He was more abrupt than he had intended, and she stared at him open-mouthed. “Thank you,” he added more mildly, “but on my travels I grew accustomed to coffee in the morning.” And peace and quiet with breakfast, he wanted to add.

“My dear husband, God rest his soul, preferred to take his breakfast on a tray in his room, but I have always enjoyed having a pleasant conversation with my meals.” She continued to rattle on, while Bronson did his best to close his ears to her chatter.

Her husband, the late unlamented Mr. Pierce-Smythe, had had the right idea: At this moment, breakfast on a tray in his room held great appeal for Bronson.

About halfway through the meal, the door opened, and he looked up eagerly, expecting it to be Miss Hemsworth, who usually joined him before this. To his total astonishment, it was Trussell, who never set foot outside his room until the sun was high in the sky.

“Good morning, Leatham,” Trussell said, then he did a double-take. “My word! Mrs. Pierce-Smythe, can it be you?”

“Why, ‘tis Mr. Trussell. Look Rosabelle, it is our good friend Mr. Creighton Trussell. I had no idea you lived here in Devon. What a coincidence that we should have had our little accident right on your doorstep, so to speak.” She languidly extended her hand, and Trussell hurried across the room to bow low over it.

“But my dear madame, whatever are you doing in Devon? I thought you were fixed in London for the Season.”

“As did I, but I found myself absolutely burnt to the socket with all the partying, and decided we needed to take a short repairing lease. A friend of mine offered us her house in Plymouth, and I thought perhaps a bit of sea air ...”

Her voice trailed off, and she looked at Trussell expectantly. To Bronson, everything suddenly became so clear that he had to raise his napkin to his face to smother his chuckles.

What a conceited fool he had been, thinking the widow was seeking to entrap him. She had her eye on other game. Now that he realized what the situation was, he could recognize the signs—the proprietary look the widow was giving Trussell, combined with the furtive sideways glances Trussell was giving him all added up to a different scenario than Bronson had originally thought.

“But my dear madame,” Trussell said, sounding like a very bad actor on a provincial stage, “you and your daughter must stay here with us for a few days—er, weeks, that is. We would be delighted to have some company, would we not, Leatham?”

The invitation, coming as it did from someone who was himself technically a guest in the house, would have irritated Bronson no end, had not the humor of the situation tickled his fancy. Well, if Trussell were able to catch himself a rich widow, even if she were rather vulgar, then Bronson would not only be the first to wish him well, but he would do everything in his power to aid and abet him.

“To be sure, madame. Please feel free to extend your stay with us.”

The look Trussell now gave him was surprisingly hostile, but the widow was all amiability when she finally begged to be excused so that she might see about unpacking.

No sooner was the door closed behind her and her daughter than Trussell exploded. “How could you invite that woman to stay here!”

“How could I? Pray remember, the invitation was yours. I merely seconded it. But do not worry, my dear Trussell. I am sure the widow’s intentions are honorable. And may I be the first to wish you happy? Or has someone been before me?”

His breakfast companion looked as if he had been poleaxed. First his face turned puce, then stark white, and finally settled on an alarming shade of green. “She is not—that is to say, you have misinterpreted everything, Leatham. She is not interested in marrying me.”

“Oh? Then does she intend merely to—uh—toy with your affections, I believe it is called?” It was a good thing Miss Hemsworth was not present at breakfast this morning, else she would call him to order with as much speed and firmness as she did the twins. But in her absence Bronson could not resist the temptation to tease Trussell, who rose so beautifully to the bait.

“Not at all, she—oh, dash it all, Leatham, if you must know, the woman is after me to gain her
entr
é
e
into society. That is her purpose in coming here—er, I mean, that is why she was so happy to run into me so, ah, accidently, as it were.”

Definitely, the woman had brought her own rock along with which to break the wheel. There was no longer the slightest doubt in Bronson’s mind. “Gain her
entr
é
e!
When she is positively burnt to the socket with partying?”

“That is all a hum, and do not try to persuade me that you believed a word she said. I am not that gullible. The woman barely hangs onto the fringes of society, as you have already deduced. Yet she is bound and determined to marry that chit of hers off to a peer of the realm. I tell you, Leatham, man to man, for the first time in my life I am grateful that my cousin stands before me to inherit my grandfather’s tide, else that blasted woman would in truth have her eye on me as a prospective son-in-law.”

Bronson had not the slightest doubt that he had discovered the source of the money Trussell had been spending so wildly—but the price Trussell would be called on to pay was steeper than anything he would have been charged had he gone to a cent-per-cent.

Trussell looked at him now with a casual expression, behind which Bronson could see the naked calculation. “I have been thinking—if you have no objections, perhaps we could invite the Bainetons over for dinner this evening?” There was the merest whisper of desperation in the dandy’s voice.

“I seriously doubt that Thorverton would be interested in the chit. She is not at all his type,” Bronson replied calmly.