Charlotte Louise Dolan (28 page)

Anne was feeling amazingly comfortable ensconced on the baron’s lap, and she did not want to think about such things as assassins, kidnappers, and poisoners. She just wanted to rest and let Lord Leatham handle everything.

Did Aunt Sidonia have any idea how comforting it could be to let a man take charge in an emergency? But then, Aunt Sidonia’s husband had not been of much use in emergencies, so perhaps she had just cause for her low opinion of men.

Creighton Trussell, for example, would no doubt have been useless in such an emergency, too worried about the condition of his clothing to get near anyone who was being violently ill.

As if reading her thoughts, Martha spoke up now. “Mr. Trussell once, while he was still courting me, gave me some sugar mice that he had filled with Epson salts. As a joke, he said, and he laughed when I bit into one, although I did not find it at all funny. Quite put me off, although he sulked until I forgave him.”

“Trussell?” Lord Leatham asked in an ominously quiet voice.

Anne lost all interest in the poisoned sugar mice. Instead, all her attention was focused on what Martha had said about being courted. Trussell had been courting Martha? Then perhaps ... perhaps Lord Leatham was not Adrian’s father? Perhaps Trussell ... ?

Sitting up straight, Anne looked at Adrian, and she could see clearly that although he resembled the twins, he in no way resembled Lord Leatham. Indeed, he had the exact same coloring, the same blond hair and green eyes, as the twins—and as Creighton Trussell had, also.

Why had she never noticed before? The twins had apparently gotten their features from their father’s side of the family and their coloring from their mother’s side. It would explain so much.

“I am afraid,” Martha said, “that he can be rather cruel ... in a rather off-hand sort of way. I fear it is simply that he does not truly care about anyone but himself, or so it seemed to me by the time he left me.”

“Hah! I suspected Uncle Creighton was behind all this. Didn’t I say it might be him?” Andrew said with great glee.

“Actually, I said it first,” Anthony pointed out.

“But we both agreed he is stupid enough,” Andrew said, and his brother nodded.

“But if Trussell is behind this, what does he hope to achieve by killing the boys?” Lord Leatham asked. “He does not stand to inherit a penny if they die.”

“Well,” Anne said thoughtfully, “he has not actually killed anyone. Or even hurt anyone, although it might easily have turned out more seriously than it did. All Trussell has done, really, is cast suspicion on you.” She sat up on Lord Leatham’s lap and looked directly in his face. The worry and concern she saw there made her wonder how she could ever have doubted his basic honest and integrity.

“I heard from some of the servants at Wylington Manor, my lord, that when the twins’ parents died, and Trussell learned that you had been appointed guardian, that he had his nose bent out of shape good and proper,” Mrs. Uglow said, adding her two cents’ worth. “It would not surprise me to learn that he has been trying to have you thrown into jail so that he might be appointed guardian in your stead.”

Martha nodded her head. “Yes, that sounds quite like him. Devious and deceitful and the slyest thing imaginable, but a total coward when it comes to physical violence.”

Anne struggled free from Lord Leatham’s embrace and stood up. Hands on her hips, she declared, “Well, he has plenty to be afraid of now, for I intend to return to Wylington Manor at once and force the truth out of him.”

Lord Leatham attempted to catch hold of her again. “It can wait until tomorrow,” he insisted. “Until you are feeling more the thing.”

“I am feeling perfectly all right,” she replied, stalking angrily around the kitchen. “And I am going to Wylington Manor today if I have to walk all the way.”

The twins were equally enthusiastic about returning to confront their uncle, and within the hour fresh horses had been procured and hitched to the coach, the luggage had been dumped unceremoniously back into the boot, and they had set off on their return journey.

In spite of her eagerness to ride on the driver’s seat next to Lord Leatham, Anne was again overruled. Because of the poison she had swallowed, both he and the boys insisted she ride inside the coach, where as if to prove they were correct in their concern, she quickly fell into a light doze.

Her thoughts were happy, however, because before they left Sidmouth, she had managed to have a private conversation with Martha, and that good woman had confirmed that Trussell was indeed the father of her son, and that Lord Leatham had always acted the complete gentleman toward her.

Now all Anne had to do, besides shaking the truth out of Trussell, was manage to have a private conversation with Lord Leatham who, she could only hope, still wished to speak privately with her on matters concerning her future ... and his.

* * * *

“You did what! This is unbelievable! Have your wits gone entirely begging?” Wyke stared at his master in astonishment.

“You needn’t get so excited. All I did was put poisoned sugar mice in the twins’ luggage. When they eat them, Lord Leatham is sure to be arrested,” Trussell said quite cheerily.

The questions flew thick and fast through Wyke’s mind, the main one being just why Trussell assumed suspicion would be cast on Lord Leatham and not on himself. There did not, however, appear to be any point in trying to make the dandy recognize his mistake. No, the time had come, Wyke decided, to cut his losses and make a rapid exit from the scene, before everything fell apart.

And the first person Wyke planned to speak to was Zizette, Mrs. Pierce-Smythe’s phony French maid. Not only was she pleasing to look at and a proper armful for a man, but she also appeared to have her eye on the main chance. She had hinted at a willingness to throw her lot in with Wyke, and in all ways, she seemed a more worthy partner than this posturing dandy, who was bound to come to a sorry end sooner or later.

With the fear that it might be sooner rather than later, and with the feeling that time was running out more swiftly than he might wish, Wyke invented a barely plausible errand, and left his master to seek out the maid.

Zizette, when he found her, was as quick to catch on to the dangers in Wyke’s situation as Trussell was slow. “Lord preserve us, but I think your master is not dealing from a full deck.”

“That has long been my opinion,” Wyke confirmed. “And I fear if I stay here he will attempt to cast all blame on my shoulders.”

“Well,” she said judiciously, “you are not entirely blameless. On the other ‘and—” she winked at him, “—you do ‘ave a certain style about you that is quite appealing.”

“And I have not been idle the last few months,” he added, putting his arms around her waist. “I have taken full advantage of your mistress’s generosity, and have quite a tidy nest egg saved up.”

She curled her arms around his neck. “And I,” she murmured, “have likewise not been a slow top. I think you will find my nest quite well feathered.”

“Then,” he said, lowering his face to meet hers, “what say we combine our resources and set up in business together?”

“As partners?” she asked, pulling back slightly.

“As marriage partners,” he replied, “and as business partners.”

“Agreed,” she said, and they promptly sealed their bargain with a kiss.

“But we have not much time. We must be away from here before Lord Leatham returns. The farther the better.”

“But before we go ...” She smiled coyly at him.

“Of course, my sweet,” he replied. “We must dip our fingers once more into the pie and see what a magnificent plum we may pull out this time.”

With a delightful giggle, Zizette—or Susie Porter, as she confessed to Wyke her real name was—led the way to find Mrs. Pierce-Smythe and sell her the information Wyke possessed.

* * * *

Soon, soon, this will all be mine, Trussell thought. In a day or two, when the magistrate has bound the baron over for trial, I will be in complete control here. Then we shall see how compliant that stuck-up governess is, how she will bend to my every whim, how she will dance to my tune, how she will yield to my every demand....

His feet not quite touching the floor, he sat in the oversized chair behind Leatham’s desk in the library. Sparing not a thought for his unwelcome house guests, Mrs. Pierce-Smythe and daughter, he poured himself another glass of brandy and held it up to the light. Beautiful, truly beautiful. Perhaps he should have a waistcoat made of just such a color....

His tranquility was shattered when the door to the library was thrown open and an army marched into the room, an army that resolved itself into his two nephews, their guardian, and their governess.

Somehow, he had forgotten just how big Leatham was—but even more formidable was Miss Hemsworth, who appeared a veritable Juno or Athena or whoever the goddess of war was. The governess loomed over him, her eyes flashing fire, and involuntarily he shrank back in the chair.

Before he could protect himself, although he could not even think how he might do that, she had grabbed him by the ends of his cravat and hoisted him up out of the chair.

He attempted to speak, but all that came out was a squawk, after which regaining the ability to breathe seemed more important than demanding explanations.

“Is she going to strangle him?” one of his bloodthirsty nephews asked.

“More than likely,” the other replied calmly, while Trussell clutched desperately at his cravat, which was relentlessly cutting off his breath.

“Might I suggest, my dear Miss Hemsworth, that it will be less of an inconvenience for us if we let the law handle him?” Lord Leatham commented. “It is only a suggestion, to be sure. If you feel it is necessary, by all means, feel free to strangle him.”

Trussell tried to indicate his approval of Leatham’s first suggestion, but was unable to manage so much as a croak.

Fortunately, the giantess threw him back down in the chair, where he collapsed in a heap, each desperate breath hurting his poor, mangled throat.

“You fired a gun at the twins,” the giantess said accusingly.

When he did not immediately answer—and indeed, he had not recovered enough breath to speak—she reached for him again, but he eluded her grasp, his head bobbing up and down of its own accord.

“So, you admit it at least.”

To his relief, she lowered her hands.

“And you were the one who drugged Anthony and left him out on the moor.”

She stated it as a known fact, rather than a question, but Trussell thought it prudent to admit his misdeeds openly. “Yes, yes, I did it,” he managed to croak out.

“And put the poisoned sugar mice in the portmanteau,” she continued relentlessly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said. Indeed, he felt so desperately sorry for himself that he began to cry.

At last, to his relief, the baron took the governess’s arm and moved her gently aside. Perhaps Leatham might be more reasonable? Surely, as a man, he could understand better the untenable position he, Trussell, had found himself in with the widow—be able to sympathize.

“I would turn you over to the magistrate, and if you fail to cooperate, I still might do so,” Leatham said mildly. “I am not inclined, however, to allow such a scandal as that would entail. So you are free to go. Bear in mind, however, that you may never return to Wylington Manor. Indeed, if you ever so much as set foot in Devon, I shall doubtless feel compelled to overcome my scruples regarding scandal and lay charges against you. Likewise, if I hear one word of this bruited about in London, I shall see that you are sent to the hulks.”

“I promise, I promise,” Trussell stammered out, still keeping a wary eye on the governess, who watched him as unblinkingly as a poisonous snake. “Not a word of this shall ever pass my lips.” To his relief, this seemed to satisfy his accusers.

“Then I shall order the coachman to drive you to Tavistock within the hour,” Lord Leatham said. “See that you are ready in good time, or you shall depart without your luggage.”

“But, but, I have no funds,” Trussell cried in despair. “How can I catch the stage in Tavistock?”

Lord Leatham cast some coins on the desk. Trussell grabbed for them, but some rolled onto the floor and out of his reach. While he was scrambling on his knees after them, he heard the footsteps of the others leaving the room, then the welcome sound of the door shutting behind them.

With them safely gone, he cursed them with a fury he had never felt before, but which made him feel only marginally better. Surely there must still be some way to come about—

“You missed a half-crown over here,” a female voice said.

Recognizing Mrs. Pierce-Smythe’s cultured tones, Trussell’s heart skipped a beat. Unwilling to believe the evidence of his ears, he crawled on hands and knees around the chair, which was arranged so that its back faced the room.

There she sat, the widow, smiling down at him like the predator she was. She was only slightly less fearsome than that wretched governess.

“This will make a very delightful story in London,” she said in dulcet tones.

“No, no,” he begged, clutching at the hem of her dress. “Please, please, I will do anything you ask, only do not reveal what has happened here. You heard what Leatham said; he will have me sent to the hulks if I breathe so much as a word of this to anyone.”

“Why, since you ask so prettily, I must tell you, I should never dream of serving my dear husband such a back-handed turn.”

She smiled so sweetly, for a moment he did not comprehend her meaning, thinking she was referring to her deceased first husband. Then when he realized she meant to force him to marry her, he fainted dead away.

* * * *

“Are you sure you don’t need our help?” Anthony asked.

“We are really very ingenious,” Andrew added.

Bronson regarded his cravat in the mirror of his dressing table. Sheer perfection.

“Indeed, I do not need any help. There are some things a gentleman must be able to do for himself. One is to tie his own cravat.” He allowed Daws to help him into his new, gold-embroidered waistcoat. “And the other thing he must be able to do is to propose marriage to the lady of his choice without assistance.”