Charlotte Louise Dolan (8 page)

But even when he awoke in the morning, he could not.

* * * *

Something was wrong. Anne could not tell where she was getting that impression, but the feeling was too strong to ignore. Aunt Sidonia’s words came back to her. “What people are inclined to dismiss as a woman’s intuition is usually based on something she has heard or seen, or discrepancies that the woman has observed in the back of her mind without even being aware of them. The trick is to become aware, so that one does not have to be dependent upon the whims of intuition.”

Without appearing to, Anne quickly catalogued her surroundings. The day was beautiful, with none of the signs that would herald an unexpected storm. The twins were already on their horses, and her horse, a great black beast, stood saddled and ready for her to mount.

Based on its appearance, she might assume that she was being tricked into riding a vicious or even an unbroken horse, except that she had been riding on the same animal twice before, and although spirited, he had been beautifully trained and had presented no problem at all for a proficient rider such as herself.

Extending the area of her attention, she looked around the stable yard. Two stable boys were brushing down a pair of carriage horses, another was scrubbing the cobblestones, and Harry, the groom with whom she’d had the slight contretemps upon her arrival in Tavistock, was cleaning tack ... and studiously ignoring her. The other three boys could not keep from occasionally glancing with curiosity at the riding party, but Harry kept his eyes firmly fixed on the bridle in his hands, as if he were completely alone. He looked not only totally preoccupied with his work, but also rather smug.

Anne rechecked her mount. Perhaps a loose cinch? She tugged at it, but it appeared to be firm.

On the other hand, the horse seemed not to approve completely of what she had done. Just for a moment, he showed the whites of his eyes.

“Hurry up, Anne. What is taking you so long? Mr. Mallory is expecting us within the hour. He sent over a note saying Dancer’s Darling had the prettiest colt born day before yesterday, and he is letting us name it,” one of the twins said impatiently.

She looked across the yard again. The three stable boys had stopped their work and were looking at her in open puzzlement, but Harry still kept his eyes resolutely fixed on his task and evinced not the slightest curiosity as to why she was standing and staring at her horse instead of mounting.

“I have decided that today I prefer to ride bareback,” she announced with decision.

At her words Harry came to life, springing to his feet and rushing to her side. “Allow me to assist you in unsaddling your horse,” he said hurriedly, reaching for the cinch.

“No, no, I am quite capable of fending for myself. Please return to your other job.”

He hesitated, as if uncertain how to proceed.

“Now,” she ordered coldly, and he walked back across the yard, throwing her a look that was openly angry.

The saddle, when she removed it, seemed to be in perfect condition, as did the cinch. Instead of pulling off the saddle blanket, however, she merely flipped it over on the horse’s back. Stuck to the underside of it was a short section of cane from a bramble bush.

“Oh, I say, Tony, you didn’t—”

“Course I didn’t, Drew. That’s a childish prank.”

“Right. Then who did? You there, Harry,” the Marquess of Wylington called imperiously. “Who saddled this horse today?”

“I couldn’t rightly say, m’lord,” the groom replied. “I was too busy with my own work to notice.”

The three stable boys became totally preoccupied with their work.

“Well someone has tried to play a vicious trick on a lady—”

“Intending to hurt her. And whoever that person is, he is mean—”

“And malicious—”

“And a rotten coward, who deserves a beating.”

No one in the stable yard moved a muscle.

Finally Anne said quietly, “I believe I might as well wait until another day to ride bareback.” Removing the thorny branch from the blanket, she saddled her horse again, mounted it without assistance, and led the way out of the stable yard.

* * * *

Confound it, did that overgrown female have eyes in the back of her head? How could she have known about the thorns? More than likely she had bribed someone in the stables to spy for her. In disgust at the failure of his grand plan, Harry threw down the cloth he had been using and carried the bridle into the tack room and hung it up.

Well, she might have caught on to his trick today, but there would be other days. She could not always be on her guard.

Emerging from the tack room, he stopped abruptly in his tracks. All the grooms and stable boys employed on the estate were gathered in a semicircle around him.

“We know who saddled Miss Hemsworth’s horse today,” said Patrick, the groom with the most seniority.

“So, what if I did?” Harry knew he could brazen his way out of this tight spot the way he had always done.

“It was a mean thing to do,” one of the youngest stable boys spoke up.

“Don’t talk that way to your betters, you sniveling little brat. No one cares what your opinion is.”

One of the other grooms spoke up. “Well, you see, Harry, we’ve decided Joe here can talk to you any way he likes, because he ain’t a coward—”

“And you is,” Patrick finished. “And like his lordship just said, cowards deserve to be beaten.”

“When pigs fly!” Harry felt the sweat run down his back, but he kept up his show of bravado.

Muggs, the strongest and normally the most even-tempered of the grooms, moved forward. “And we’ve decided to give you what you deserve.”

Abandoning all pretense of bravery, Harry turned his back and scrabbled desperately for the handle to the tack room door. He found it too late.

One broken nose, two black eyes, three loose teeth, and four bruised ribs later, Harry agreed that he would never again make the slightest attempt to harm Miss Hemsworth or in any way be less than respectful to her.

He was quite sincere and meant every word of his promise. He was not, after all, completely stupid.

* * * *

Fifty-five thousand pounds, and what did he have to show for it? A few new clothes on his back and not enough brass left in his pocket to afford to travel post. Creighton Trussell, having been forced to ride for hours elbow-to-elbow with his own valet, and in the company of a fat farmer and his even fatter wife, a clergyman, and a motherly woman who kept smiling at him, scowled out the window of the stage and cursed his own misfortune.

Blackmailed, by Jove! How had it come to this? It had seemed such a golden opportunity when he had met that wretched widow and she had proven to be such an easy mark. He should have known there would be something havey-cavey about anyone he encountered in what was little more than a gambling hell.

It was the outside of enough! She claimed connections with all the best families, but even with her money she could not pry open the doors of society. Yet she expected him to introduce her and her daughter to all and sundry.

Confound it, the woman had windmills in her head if she thought she could compel him to comply with her demands.

No, if she continued on her course, she would find she had sadly misjudged her man. No matter how deep she had sunk her claws into him, he would find a way to escape her clutches.

The easiest solution would be if he could “borrow” the necessary funds from his nephews’ estate—but even that recourse was denied him, the twins’ own maternal uncle, because their father had been fit to appoint Lord Leatham as sole guardian, and
he
was nothing more than a second cousin.

It was a disgusting arrangement. Leatham was absent from the country more days than he was in England, and while he was gone anything could happen to the estate without his knowing of it. Except he always seemed to find out. It was doubtful if a groom could pilfer a cup of oats without Leatham’s discovering it. That man should have been a demmed accountant, such a head he had for figures, and a memory for details like a steel trap. Probably knew to the penny what the income from the estate was, and the cost of each item purchased down to the last tallow candle for the smallest housemaid.

It was to be regretted that Leatham had not simply vanished permanently on one of his trips to heathen parts, never to return. Then, after a suitable delay, Creighton could have had the courts appoint him guardian, since he was, after all, the twins’ nearest relative.

Staring out the window, he let the motion of the stage lull him into a light doze. When a halt was made to change horses, he awoke with the answer to all his problems staring him in the face. His plan was not perfect, depending as it did upon Leatham’s presence at Wylington Manor, but something could be worked out.

It was indeed fortunate that the baron was in England, so chances were good that before he left her shores again, Leatham would make a quick visit to Devon. With a little judicious planning, Creighton decided, that short visit could be turned into a long visit, and that long visit turned into ... what? Public disgrace for Leatham? At the very least. And perhaps ... dare he dream? Transportation for Leatham?

It all depended on proper planning. Creighton settled down to serious consideration of details and methods, and well before the stage arrived in Tavistock, he was quite pleased with himself and not the least bit worried about the widow and her demands.

* * * *

Mr. Black laboriously consulted his occurrence book before beginning his report. “I have not been able in the short time available, to track down any of the previous employers of the woman in question.”

Bronson suppressed his impatience with the way the runner was couching everything in obscure terms, as if he were investigating someone’s cheating wife or mistress, which he was probably more accustomed to doing.

“Working through sources that appear to be accurate, I have ascertained that the subject has been employed as governess on three previous occasions.”

Undoubtedly the runner had merely gone to the employment service patronized by Creighton and asked some lowly assistant for the information.

“To my regret, none of the three families are presently in London, and since you requested an immediate report, I have postponed traveling to their country residences to inquire further into the particularities of her employment with them.”

The man paused to consult his notebook again, and Bronson surreptitiously looked at his watch. Much more of this man’s pompous attempt to sound self-important, and the runner would find himself out on the street with no one paying him to go anywhere and speak to anyone.

“I have had more success with tracing her origins, however. She has been using an alias—”

At that word, Bronson lost all his detachment and boredom and listened to every word the runner was saying.

“She is in reality Lady Gloriana Hemsworth, daughter of the fifth Earl of Faussley. In case you are not familiar with him, m’lord, he was shot in a duel some twenty-odd years ago.”

“I know of the man,” Bronson replied.

“It would appear that he was caught out—’

“You do not need to continue. I am well aware of the details of the earl’s manner of life.” As well as his reputation and what he had done to acquire it. Bronson picked up his pen and again wrote out a bank draft, this time sufficient to cover not only the runner’s fee, but also his travel expenses. “I will expect written reports from you weekly, and I will not be satisfied with untoward delays in this investigation.”

Without bothering to ring for Daws, Bronson showed the runner out personally. Hellfire and damnation! Faussley’s daughter ensconced in Wylington Manor. It did not bear thinking about. And Creighton, who was responsible for putting her there, was on his way to join her. Curse the man for the fool he was.

While preparing for bed, Bronson brooded about the news he had learned this evening. Based on Mr. Black’s description of her physical attractions, plus his own knowledge of Creighton’s taste in women, added to her bad blood, Bronson was amazed that the woman had managed to fool her previous employers. Or perhaps she had not fooled them at all.

More than likely, she had managed to obtain and keep her positions by assuming a horizontal position when in the presence of the master of the house. His lips curled into a smile when he contemplated what was in store for her once he took charge personally at Wylington Manor.

It was too bad that English law discouraged branding whores, but with his connections in government, he could probably arrange to have her transported. There was a shortage of women in Australia, so she would probably adjust easily. She might even prosper on that continent, but there was nothing Bronson could do to prevent that, except curse her black heart.

* * * *

“Excuse me, my lady.”

Lady Letitia looked up from perusing the morning paper and saw her butler standing deferentially beside the table. “Yes, Owens?”

“There is a
person
here to see you.”

“At this hour? Is it not a bit early for morning callers, or am I mistaken about the time?”

“I do not think this is a social visit, my lady.”

“Then who, pray, is this person and what is the nature of his business?”

“He says his name is Mr. Black, and as to the nature of his business, he purports to be a Bow Street runner.”

“Indeed?” Lady Letitia stifled a laugh. “Then by all means, show the rogue in.”

“Madame?”

“Come, come, Owens, show this Mr. Black in. And then tell Cook I am having a guest for breakfast. Be sure that she sends up a bottle of port and a thick beefsteak, rare.”

With a very un-butlerish mutter, Owens went to do as he was directed, and only minutes later he returned and announced with exaggerated formality, “Mr. Black is here, my lady.”

“Felix, you rascal!” Lady Letitia clapped her hands in approval.

“Behold, my dear, you see before you what the well-dressed runner is wearing this year.” The Honorable Felix Sommerton, younger brother of Viscount Sommervale, held his arms out to the side and pirouetted gracefully around so that Lady Letitia could admire his costume.