Shady Lady (6 page)

There was a thoughtful silence, then Mrs. Daventry said, “Do you think he’ll press charges?”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s any doubt of that.”

“Then what are we going to do?”

Jo tried to concentrate, but reaction was setting in, and she couldn’t see further than the next hour or two. “What we’re going to do,” she said slowly, “is settle up at the Red Lion and leave for London before Harding sets his brother on us. He’s the constable, by the way.”

“Yes, I know. Phoebe told me. It’s iniquitous, that’s what it is. But, dear, you surely don’t mean to cross Finchley Common at night? What about”—she looked down at Eric and whispered—“highwaymen?”

Jo was too tired to argue. “We have no choice. Besides, we have a pistol. If I see a highwayman, I’ll shoot him.”

Eric, who had been following the conversation with interest, piped up, “Aunt Jo isn’t afraid of anything.”

Mrs. Daventry laughed. Jo managed a weak smile.

They were passing the Green Man. There was no sign of Mr. Bowman or his carriage. He must have taken her at her word and decided to push on to town. She was wishing now that she’d been nicer to him and taken him up on his offer. She had so many burdens to juggle—Chloë, Eric, and now the authorities. It seemed to her that Waldo Bowman was the kind of man who would make short work of them all.

This was fatigue speaking. She didn’t need a man to take care of her problems. She was quite capable of taking care of them herself. Not that that would impress Mr. Bowman. According to Chloë, his taste ran to alluring, fashionable beauties who had made a study of pleasing men. Women like her mother, she supposed.

Now, where had that last thought come from? Certainly not from Chloë.

The chaise hit a pothole, jerking them forward then back. Eric gasped and curled into Jo. Very tentatively, she put her arms around his thin shoulders to steady him. He didn’t flinch or try to pull away, and she wondered if he knew who was holding him.

“Eric?” she said softly.

He stirred and turned his face up to her. “Mmm?”

Maybe he couldn’t see her clearly. “It’s me, Aunt Jo.”

“What is it?”

There was an odd sensation in her chest. “Nothing,” she said, and swallowed hard.

When the chaise turned into the Red Lion’s stable yard, Mrs. Daventry took charge. “No, you stay where you are, Jo, and look after Eric. I’ll settle up and get our boxes.”

She went off with one of the postboys. Eric didn’t say anything, but his breathing was quick and shallow, and Jo was becoming anxious. Her mind wouldn’t be easy until he’d seen a doctor, but that would have to wait until they were clear of Barnet. If the authorities caught up to them, she had no doubt that they would take Eric away from her, and she wasn’t going to let that happen.

As gently as she was able, she eased away from him and got her pistol. Cradling it in the crook of one arm, she kept her gaze fixed on the yard. So far, so good. They were still in the clear.

Mrs. Daventry returned, the boxes were stowed, and they were soon on their way. It wasn’t until they’d left the lights of Barnet behind that Mrs. Daventry told her the bad news.

“The porter fellow from the school was there, Jo. No, he didn’t see me. But I don’t think it will be long before they’re after us.”

Eric’s voice held a betraying quiver. “What are we going to do, Aunt Jo? Mr. Harding will kill me for running away this time. He told me so.”

In the face of Eric’s terror, her own fears were easily quelled. Her voice was light and easy. “I’ll just have to shoot him.”

A laugh was startled out of Mrs. Daventry. Eric smiled. And Jo yelled to the postboys to spring the horses.

C
hapter
6

V
iscount Morden shrugged his broad shoulders as his manservant brushed down the nap of his fashionably plain evening coat. Though the viscount was only in his early thirties, his receding hairline made him look older. He wasn’t a handsome man, but he was compelling. As Earl Brinsley’s only son and heir, he’d been raised from the cradle to become the head of a great and noble house as well as master of considerable estates and fortune. He knew his own worth and it showed.

He was in his suite of rooms in Piccadilly House, the magnificent home the Brinsleys occupied when they were in town, and he was dressing for a reception his parents were hosting for his betrothed and her parents.

“That will do, Bates,” he said with his customary half smile. “I’ve been thinking about what you told me, and there are some points I’d like to go over. Shall we sit down?”

Bates took the chair the viscount indicated, close to the fire, but he declined the offer of brandy. Though he appreciated the gesture, he had a highly ingrained sense of what was proper between master and servant. There was mutual respect and trust here, but he did not aspire to be treated as an equal.

For over forty years, he had been in the family’s employ, first as a bootboy at the age of eleven, then working his way up to his present prestigious position. He was more than a valet, more than a footman. He was his lordship’s personal manservant and answered to no one but the viscount. Over time, he’d become the viscount’s confidant. Lord Morden frequently referred to him as his right-hand man, and Bates tried to live up to that tribute. There was nothing he would not do for his master.

The business of Lady Chloë Webberley was a case in point. He did not know all the circumstances, and he did not want to know. When they alluded to her, they spoke in vague terms, though there was never any doubt in Bates’s mind that she had sealed her own fate when she’d threatened to ruin the viscount. At any rate, Lady Webberley was no longer a problem. Now all that remained to keep his master’s secret safe was to find and destroy Lady Webberley’s diary and any correspondence that might be incriminating.

To this end, at his lordship’s behest, he had personally hired an investigator. But Taggart had come up empty-handed. This did not seem to trouble the viscount overmuch. He believed that if anyone knew where the diary was, it would be Lady Webberley’s closest friend, Mrs. Chesney. All they need do was wait for Mrs. Chesney to make her move.

The viscount took the chair on the other side of the hearth, drew on a cheroot he’d lit with a taper, and exhaled a stream of smoke. “This fellow Taggart,” he said. “You’re sure he can be trusted?”

“Quite sure, your lordship. We’ve used him before. He’s not interested in finding out who is paying him, only that he gets paid.”

The viscount nodded. “Then you can begin by telling me, again, precisely what happened last night in Barnet. He lost her. How can that be? And how does Waldo Bowman come into it?”

Bates spoke soothingly. “That was unfortunate. It appeared that the ladies had retired for the night, so Taggart decided to keep an eye on Mr. Bowman. He was curious to find out what the connection was there. It seemed suspicious to him that Bowman would turn up just when Mrs. Chesney made the move we’ve been waiting for.”

“But there’s nothing suspicious about their meeting?”

“Apparently not. According to Taggart, they met by accident. Words were exchanged, not a quarrel exactly, but close to it. Mr. Bowman insisted on driving Mrs. Chesney back to her hotel. Taggart could not follow because he was on foot, so he waited for Mr. Bowman to return to his friends. At some point, he overheard Mr. Bowman tell his companion, Mr. Ruggles, that they were to call for Mrs. Chesney in the morning and escort her to town.”

The viscount’s tone was dry. “So Taggart went to bed and, while he was sleeping, our quarry slipped away.”

“I’m afraid so. Bowman didn’t fare any better. When he called at the Red Lion this morning, he seemed genuinely surprised to learn that Mrs. Chesney and her companion had decided to push on to town last night.” He hastened to add, “It’s only a matter of time before he finds her, unless she has gone into hiding.”

The viscount frowned. “Did she spot Taggart? Does she know she was followed?”

“No. Taggart thinks it’s Mr. Bowman whom Mrs. Chesney is trying to avoid.”

“I see.” After a moment’s reflection, the viscount went on, “Well, I hope we have someone keeping an eye on Lady Webberley’s house. Mrs. Chesney is bound to turn up there sooner or later.”

Bates allowed himself a faint smile. “That’s already taken care of, m’lord. One of the gardeners is Taggart’s man.”

“It would be better if he were one of the inside servants.”

“There are no footmen in Lady Webberley’s employ, but she relies on the gardeners to help the maids with the heavy work.”

“Just make sure he knows what Mrs. Chesney gets up to.”

The viscount sipped his brandy and drew on his cheroot as he silently reflected on the course of action he had followed to protect his position in society and everything that mattered to him. He’d told Bates that Lady Webberley had threatened to ruin him. In fact, it had not gone that far. But he had no doubt that it would have if he had not stopped her before she could act. He knew she was Lady Tellall and wrote for the
Journal
. She would not have hesitated to publish what she knew in her column. Even if she could not prove anything, he could not afford the scandal that would arise, not when he was on the point of marrying the Marquess of Kintyre’s daughter. Chloë was no longer a problem, but until he got his hands on her diary and destroyed it he would never feel secure.

To be fair to Taggart, he’d been thorough. They might not know where Chloë’s diary was, but they knew where it was not. It was not in Chloë’s house, nor in Mrs. Chesney’s house, nor at the
Journal
’s offices. Jo Chesney was his last chance to tie up loose ends. If she could not lead him to the diary, no one could. He doubted that she would understand the threat to him. Even Chloë had not understood until that last evening of the house party.

If he’d been thinking straight, he would never have taken up with her. She was older than he, more sophisticated. And he’d been besotted. But besotted or not, the thought of marriage never once crossed his mind. He knew what he owed his family. His bride’s reputation must be spotless. Chloë was a woman of the world. It was too bad she could not keep her nose out of what did not concern her.

He poured himself another brandy. Sipping slowly, he focused his mind on Taggart’s report. As the thoughts occurred to him, he said, “Who is this boy, Eric Foley? She went out of her way to visit his school. Why? And what was in the parcel?”

“Taggart is looking into her connection to the boy. It’s probably quite innocent. The same goes for the parcel. After all, it was the vicar’s wife who gave it to her.”

“I’m aware of that. My point is that Taggart needs help. The job is too big for one man. I can’t afford to wait while he checks things out. I need answers
now
.”

Bates did not reply to this, though he thought that the comment was unjust. His lordship hadn’t wanted more than one or two men on the job.
The fewer people who know about that confounded diary the better
were his exact words.

“No need to frown, Bates. I’m not alarmed. It’s early days yet. With any luck, Mrs. Chesney will lead us straight to what we want.”

The viscount’s charm worked. Bates’s frown vanished and he gave a little nod.

“Now tell me about Mr. Bowman’s visit to the
Journal
. He quarreled with Mrs. Chesney, you said?”

Bates swallowed a sigh. They’d been through this before. All the same, he said pleasantly, “Mr. Bowman was furious and didn’t care who knew it. Seems he didn’t like what the
Journal
had been printing about him and he was threatening to sue Mrs. Chesney.”

“And they continued their quarrel when they came face-to-face in Barnet?”

“The quarrel was more on the lady’s part, I believe.”

The viscount was silent. He was calculating the odds, wondering if Bowman’s quarrel with Mrs. Chesney could work to his advantage if anything were to happen to her. He didn’t dwell too long on that thought. All going well, he would get the diary, destroy it, and that would be that.

“Sir?”

He had mangled his cheroot. With a grunt of derision, he threw it in the fire. “Bowman,” he said, as if that explained the mangled cheroot. “You’d never know it, but he served with Wellington in Spain. Now look at him! The man is a thorough-going libertine. And does society care? Far from it. He’s the most popular man in London. Ladies sigh over him, gentlemen want to call him ‘friend,’ and fond mamas trot out their unmarried daughters whenever he comes into their line of vision.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “It’s true what they say, then. Everybody loves a rogue.”

Bates thought he understood, and sympathized. The viscount had been bred to be the kind of man his father wanted. Duty and loyalty to family came before everything. A marriage had been arranged to a most suitable young woman, but the viscount had not chosen the girl for himself. His father had done that. Perhaps he envied Bowman his freedom.

“Not everybody loves a rogue,” Bates said. “Mrs. Chesney, for one. She was overheard by a postboy to say some very nasty things about Mr. Bowman. A jackass, I believe she called him.”

“A jackass?” This time, the viscount’s smile was genuine.

“Then there’s his father. According to belowstairs gossip, there’s no love lost there. No one knows what the origin of that quarrel is, but rumor has it that Mr. Bowman was sorry when the war ended, because it deprived him of a valid excuse to stay away from his home.”

“But he’s the heir. One day everything will come to him.”

“True. But he won’t exert himself to heal the breach or earn his father’s favor.”

His lordship shook his head. His own life was devoted to making his father proud of him. He looked at the clock, drained his glass, and got up. “Time to go,” he said.

At the door, he said, “Tell Taggart to employ as many men as he needs. I want to know how Bowman and that boy fit into the picture. I want a watch on Mrs. Chesney at all times. Tell him.”

“Yes, your lordship.”

Bates waited until his master was descending the stairs before he shut the door.

If Viscount Morden wished to know how he would look in forty years, all he need do was look at his father. What little hair was left to the earl was snowy white, but in everything else there was a close resemblance between father and son. Lord Brinsley was broad-shouldered and carried himself well. He had a piercing gaze that was known to transfix underlings who provoked his flash-fire temper. The viscount had been the object of that formidable temper on more occasions than he cared to remember. Tonight, however, his father was pleased with him.

They were in the earl’s library, drinking brandy and sharing what should have been a companionable moment between father and son after the dinner guests had gone home and Lady Brinsley had retired for the night. The viscount, however, could never be comfortable with his father. He was always striving to please him. Even as a boy, he had never quite measured up to what his father wanted in a son. His betrothal to Lady Margaret, the daughter of a marquess and therefore a step above an earl, had helped his credit considerably.

The earl said, “Just remember, my boy, there must be no hint of scandal before the wedding, or there may not
be
a wedding. Your future father-in-law dotes on his daughter. He believes this is a love match, and I want him to go on thinking it until long after you and Lady Margaret have made your vows.”

The viscount made no reply. Inwardly, he was reflecting on his parents’ marriage. It was no love match either. But the earl and his countess seemed resigned to their lot. His mother could hardly be pried away from their country estate near Henley. His father preferred to live in town. Naturally, he had a mistress. What man didn’t? But his father was discreet about it. And if his mother knew, she was too well-bred to let it show.

As if picking up on that thought, the earl said, “Lady Margaret may not be a raving beauty, but she’s a well-bred girl. Add to that, she’s an heiress. You couldn’t do better.”

The viscount, in all honesty, was able to reassure his father that he was perfectly satisfied with the girl who had been chosen for him.

A silence ensued, broken at length when the earl exhaled a long sigh. “We can only hope that the girl is also a breeder.” He took a long swallow of brandy. “Because, without sons to carry on our line, the whole business becomes an exercise in futility.” He looked at his son. “You know what I mean.”

The viscount laughed and got up. “Don’t worry, Father. I know my duty. Here, give me your glass; I’ll top it up.” He walked to the solid mahogany desk, replenished both glasses from a crystal decanter, then returned to his chair. “You’ll have your quiver of grandsons before you know it.”

“Hah!” The earl accepted the glass his son held out to him. “It’s not as easy as that. Look at your mother and me. It’s not that she didn’t conceive, but she couldn’t carry to term.”

“Until I came along.”

“When I was practically in my dotage and had all but given up hope. A vigorous dotage, you understand.” The viscount and his father exchanged a quick smile. “We had to keep trying. People in our position . . .”

The viscount had heard it all before. Without a son to inherit, the estates and the title would pass to a distant relative, to a branch of the family that his father detested, who did not hold to the family motto of duty before everything.

It was his father’s guiding principle, and his also. That was why he had to get hold of Chloë’s diary and destroy it. He would not see his family disgraced.

His thoughts drifted to Waldo Bowman. He wondered what principles guided his actions . . . and what was really behind his relationship with the Chesney woman.