It Takes a Hero (19 page)

Rebecca didn't glance at Rafe, but at his assistant. The lad's nose dipped even lower toward his plate.

Well, that confirmed Kitling's question. They were investigating the murder. She didn't know whether that frightened her or brought her a measure of comfort.

"Are you truly investigating Sir Rodney's murder?" Miss Honora asked, the admiration in her voice notching up another level. "Sydney has been reading the accounts to us from the newspapers and I find it all terribly fascinating." She shivered. "Murdered in his own home."

"I daresay, some nights I can't sleep thinking about it," Alminta declared. "Terrible tragedy."

"Codlin?" Mrs. Harrington asked, glancing at her daughter then her husband. "I don't see that is a fit subject."

"No, no indeed," Lady Kirkwood declared.

Again, Miss Honora continued blithely on, unwilling to let go of her curiosity for the sake of pleasant conversation. "But are you?" she asked Rafe. "Looking into the Codlin murder?"

He wiped his lips with his napkin and settled it back on his plate. "Yes. I've been studying the matter."

"Oooh," Miss Honora said, her eyes alight. "Did you come here to find his killer? Among us?" She looked around the table, apparently ready to stand as Rafe's second if need be.

"Miss Honora!" Lady Kirkwood intoned, as if she had never been so insulted in her life.

"No," Rafe told the lady. "That isn't what brings me to Bramley Hollow."

"Still," Miss Honora said, "it would be quite a lark to discover who killed poor Sir Rodney."

"Poor Sir Rodney?" Mrs. Harrington huffed. "Odious man. I don't see what all the fuss is about. The world is better off without the likes of him."

"Muriel!" Major Harrington said. "That is enough." His words rang through the room like the retort of the colonel's cannon, startling nearly everyone.

Everyone but Rafe, Rebecca noticed. His gaze narrowed and fixed on the major.

"You knew Codlin?" he asked the man.

"Yes." Major Harrington drove his knife into the cut of beef before him, making it obvious that any further explanation was not forthcoming.

"Have any theories on why he was murdered?" Rafe asked, leaning back in his chair.

The major shifted in his seat for a moment, then regained his composure, taking the stance of a military man trapped on all sides. "Like my wife said, he was an odious human being. Not one to make friends readily, nor did he keep them. Just ask Posthill over there." He pointed at the colonel. "Posthill knew him, as did Miss Tate, when we were all in Calcutta."

The colonel looked up from his meal. "What's this? Who do I know?"

Rebecca took a deep breath.
Please, uncle, tread very carefully
.

"Codlin. You remember him, don't you?" Major Harrington said in a loud voice.

"My uncle is confused, not deaf," Rebecca said.

"Codlin, you say?" Colonel Posthill asked. He scratched his chin. "Hmm, I don't recall a Codlin about. You'll have to ask Ensign Trotter if he is on the company roster. Sorry I can't be of more help, but I can't keep track of every man, now can I?" Her uncle glanced at her. "Bex, where is Trotter? The lad isn't out drinking again, is he?"

"No, sir," she told him. "I believe Ensign Trotter is standing watch this evening."

He nodded. "Good man, Trotter. Always ready to keep a sharp eye on our perimeter lines. Feel better already. When he gets off duty send him over to Major Harrington to help find this Codlin fellow." He returned to his meal with gusto.

Rebecca smiled and shrugged at the rest of the table. "I fear that is the best he can offer. His memory is so unreliable."

"And you, Miss Tate?" Rafe asked. "Did you know Sir Rodney?"

She shook her head. "I know he visited my uncle once on Company business, but I was never introduced to the man."

Rafe looked from her to Colonel Posthill to Major Harrington. "And were you friends with him?" he asked the major.

"Certainly not!" Major Harrington declared. "And I will not be badgered so, not by the likes of you!"

His words were spat out with such vehemence, they made even Rebecca flinch. But Rafe appeared unscathed in the face of the major's ill-temper. There was something to admire about Mr. Danvers' fortitude and cool demeanor.

"My apologies, sir. I meant no offense." Rafe leaned forward and looked the major in the eye. "But I intend to see justice done. For when a man is murdered, no matter his character, it is still a crime."

"Harrumph!" muttered Mrs. Harrington as if she found such noble intentions ridiculous.

The table fell silent, and Lady Finch signaled for another course to be served. Any distraction to help save her sinking party.

"Will your business, whatever it may be, keep you here in Bramley Hollow long, Mr. Danvers?" Lady Victoria asked.

"No, I doubt it," he said. "I plan on returning to London very soon."

Not soon enough
, Rebecca wanted to add.

"How delightful," the young lady said. "Then I can expect to see you again, sir, in London." Her mother shot her a scandalized glance. Lady Victoria ignored her.

"I don't mix often in society," Rafe told her.

"Good reason for that," Mrs. Harrington muttered under her breath.

"Then I must cling to the hope that I have the chance pleasure of your company yet again," Lady Victoria said, nearly purring.

"What do you hear from town? How is the Season progressing?" Lady Kirkwood asked her hostess, trying to direct her daughter's attention away from Lady Finch's questionable guest.

"Oh, yes," Charlotte Harrington enthused. "What is happening in town? I cannot believe I am truly going this year."

Lady Finch happily launched into a discussion about the fashion mistakes of several well-known ladies and a few well placed bits of advice on which mantua makers to avoid.

Charlotte and Lady Victoria chattered on about their plans, ignoring Rebecca as they did on most occasions.

Rebecca smiled as best she could, nodding when appropriate, but she found the talk disenchanting. What did she care for prattle of new gowns, balls and musicales when her life was set in a path as insurmountable as the high mountains of Tibet?

"It seems an advantageous time to go to town in search of a husband," Kitling drawled, leaning back in his chair, with his arms folded over his chest. "You ladies will have the men all to yourselves. From what I hear, with all this
Darby
nonsense there is talk of turning Almack's into a poorhouse." He chuckled, but it was obvious Lady Kirkwood and Mrs. Harrington saw nothing funny in such a notion.

"Heresy," the countess sputtered. "Why the very notion of perfectly good vouchers going to waste while these foolish girls squander everything their mothers have worked so hard to see to fruition is an abomination."

Mrs. Harrington nodded. "Exactly my thoughts." She shot a slanted glance at her daughter.

It was as if she had literally prodded Charlotte with a hot poker. The girl forced a grim line to her mouth and said, "I've never read the
Miss Darby
novels. I find such fiction tedious and by no means improving."

Rebecca thought Charlotte was going to have to practice her lines a little better if she were going to use them on the patronesses of Almack's.

"The author should be tried for treason and given an appropriate punishment," Mrs. Harrington said.

"I would think a medal is in order," Jemmy remarked. "Sounds like town has finally become a safe haven for a gentleman."

Lady Kirkwood ignored him. "Why someone hasn't discovered that miscreant's identity and sent them packing, I don't know."

Rebecca took a hasty sip of her wine and did her pointed best not to look at Rafe. Better to remain a coward than confront the enemy, she decided, no matter what the intrepid Miss Darby might do in the same situation.

"Perhaps the beleaguered patronesses should hire you, Mr. Danvers, to find this purveyor of corruption," Kitling joked. "Break their arm, or some such rot, eh?"

"I don't break arms," Rafe said, despite the coughing from Cochrane's end of the table. The boy looked ready to interject another comment, but the dark glance from his employer silenced him immediately. "Though I hardly think writing novels warrants such drastic punishment."

Lady Kirkwood was not done with her diatribe. "But you do agree, sir, that this author is a criminal? A despicable creature?"

He took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. "I would venture that while current opinion tends toward that description of the person, the author could just as easily be someone at this table."

"Sir!" came the affronted gasp of Lady Kirkwood, while the rest of the table set to speculating who was the most likely suspect amongst them.

Rebecca raised her resolute gaze to meet Rafe's. What she saw there terrified her—his unyielding desire to unmask his prey.

You will not undo me, sir
, she silently challenged.

His gaze mocked hers.
Perhaps I already have
.

"Mr. Danvers, you do tease," Lady Victoria said.

"And what is your opinion of the
Darby
books, Lady Victoria?" Rafe asked.

"You don't mean to imply my daughter is capable of—" Lady Kirkwood looked ready to have a fit of apoplexy.

"Oh, mother, Mr. Danvers is only doing his job," Lady Victoria said, smiling at the man as if she'd be willing to submit to a full interrogation. A very private one. "You really want to hear my opinions?"

Rebecca carved at the piece of meat in front of her, stabbing it with a little more vehemence than necessary. So now that he had finished "questioning" her at Bettlesfield Park, he thought Lady Victoria was the author of
Miss Darby?
That vapid, ridiculous, spoiled…

"I'd love to hear what you have to say," Rafe was saying.

I just bet you would
, Rebecca thought.

"I simply adore the
Miss Darby
novels," Lady Victoria exclaimed. "I was a watering pot for a month after I read the last one. Poor, dear Lieutenant Throckmorten, how I grieved for his loss."

"Victoria," Lady Kirkwood said. "That is enough."

"Mother, you know as well as I that I am not the author of these books. And it isn't like you haven't read every single one of them. Twice."

Lady Kirkwood turned a bright shade of red at this disclosure.

"Well, I think Miss Darby is a splendid chit!" Jemmy said. "You could have used her a time or two in Spain, eh, Rafe? Like when you were tracking that French messenger along the Guadiana and he was so determined to foil you, he tossed his dispatch box in the river!" Jemmy started to laugh.

"Oh, my," Miss Honora said. "How ever did you get it back?"

Rafe grinned at her. "I tossed the Frog in after it."

There was a moment of silence, and then everyone at the table laughed as if they had never heard such a jest.

"But truthfully," Kitling said, "why go to the bother of dunking the poor fellow, when the contents inside were most likely ruined."

"Not like you would think," Jemmy said. "Most French dispatch boxes have a secret compartment in them. Sealed in tight to keep their missives safe from harm and prying eyes."

Rebecca's chest constricted and her gaze wrenched upward to meet Rafe's to see if Jemmy's fateful words had registered with him.

And to her horror she saw the light of discovery blaze to life in his dark, fathomless gaze.

Most French dispatch boxes have a secret compartment…

"Oh, dear," Rebecca cried out as she sent her wineglass tumbling over, claret spilling over the table.

She rose from her seat, blotting at the stain with her napkin, apologizing profusely to Lady Finch. "I fear I've ruined your cloth, my lady. Please forgive me."

"Accidents do happen," Lady Finch said, waving for one of the footmen to clean up the rest of the mess.

Accidents, indeed
, Rebecca thought. How ironic! It was as if the Fates were bound and determined to aid Rafe Danvers in his mission to uncover her.

And the light in his eyes, when she dared once again to look at him, revealed the truth—like her, he didn't believe in accidents or fate. But unfortunately, he was only too happy to pounce on those fortuitous gifts from above, especially when they showered down upon him with the naked truth as clear and evident as drops of claret on a white tablecloth.

Rebecca wandered through the neatly kept aisles of the enormous Finch orangery. While there were the requisite large pots of citrus trees, the baron's beloved orchids took up much of the space, tended like they were his children. And they showed it in their rare displays of delicate blossoms.

Around her the conversations rose and fell, like the varied winds of the seasons. Colonel Harrington's wintery bluster, Mr. Kitling's flowery discourse like the rich, warmly scented breezes of summer. And blithely moving about the room fell Lady Victoria's billowy, tinkling voice, like the music of spring, light and airy and welcomed by all.

And by the lady's side walked an attentive Rafe Danvers. He appeared to hold each of Lady Victoria's words with untold interest.

But the fragrant air and the calm beauty of the long gallery offered no solace to Rebecca's panic.

Rafe knew
. Knew her innocent travel desk was a French dispatch box. Knew that inside it lay the keys to proving his case against her.

So what was he doing strolling along the aisles with Victoria Manvell? Some runner! Why, he was within a hairsbreadth of discovering the truth and what did he do? Invite Victoria to take a turn about the gallery with him. Of all the insulting…

Rebecca didn't particularly believe that the winsome blonde held his attention, not for a moment. It was part of his carefully wrought plan to uncover her identity, for what else could it be? As much as she didn't want Rafe Danvers paying
her
the least bit of heed, when the rakish devil and Lady Victoria paused in their stroll and the earl's daughter looked up at him with a flirtatious smile, her head tipped just so and her lips parting expectantly, Rebecca found herself ducking behind a particularly full orange tree, one that afforded her an excellent vantage point for…