The Rake's Unveiling of Lady Belle (19 page)

Perhaps it was as well they were interrupted. This news needed thinking about and a careful plan devised. The fewer people who knew the better. He flashed a warning look at Redding and composed his face into a tranquil expression. It wasn't easy.

Worried as he was, the thought made him open his mouth to chuckle. He spluttered instead as he choked on the water cascading over his scalp, face and shoulders.

He moved back, away from the pump.

‘Enough, thank you,' he said as he shook his head. Water went everywhere as he grabbed the towel Mrs Clamp had given him, and scrubbed at his hair.

The groom jumped out of target and Phillip grinned. ‘Sorry, Freddie.'

Freddie laughed. ‘Aye, better luck next time, my lord.'

Thank goodness for staff whom you liked and got on with and vice versa.

‘Right let's eat, plot, and then we can be on our way.' He led the way back indoors and sat at the table.

‘That smells good.'

‘It was better ten minutes ago,' Mrs Clamp grumbled. There was no heat in her words. ‘Now get it inside you, and don't gobble it up. Indigestion won't help things.'

Phillip smiled. ‘Clampy, I love you.'

‘Get away with you and fill your stomach. I dare say you'll need it.' Mrs Clamp had been his junior nursemaid, and he decided she sometimes still saw him as a mischievous four-year-old, who hid spiders in the sitting room and kept worms as pets. Truth be told, he loved it, and would do nothing to change that state. His stomach rumbled as the rich smell of pigeon pie and game gravy reached him. Mrs Clamp indicated a shirt hung over the back of a chair. ‘Dress, and eat.' She put a large golden-crusted pie, with steam rising from the air holes in the top and an aroma so good it made his mouth water, in front of him. Then she handed him a knife and a spoon. ‘Time to do the honours.'

Phillip put the utensils down on the table and pulled the shirt—one of his he noted, that was almost ready for the ragbag but was clean and ironed—over his head and took his seat.

‘M'lord,' Redding said, urgently, as Phillip poured himself a tankard of ale and took a long swig. ‘We need to talk. It's imperative we return to the capital with all haste.'

‘One moment.' Phillip took up the knife, and split the crust open to let even more of the rich heady aroma surround them all, and then spooned meat, gravy and vegetables onto each plate before he added a slice of crust.

‘Then we need feeding to enable us to do so.'

‘Exactly,' Mrs Clamp said firmly. ‘There's no point in getting tummy ache over unpalatable facts, if that's what the news is.'

Phillip nodded. ‘You are as ever correct.' He bowed his head and gave thanks for the food. ‘Let's eat.' Although he was indeed eager to find out the final part to Redding's news, as they had been interrupted earlier, he did feel calmer knowing that Belinda was unharmed. He needed to feed his body so that he could feed his mind and help get to the bottom of this nasty business. The only noise in the room in the minutes that followed was the scraping of bowls and the odd request for bread or ale. Mrs Clamp soon began to clear the bowls away and then quickly returned with a steaming sponge pudding redolent of figs. She placed it in front of Phillip with some custard in a jug nearby. ‘Get this down you then plan away as I parcel up some food for the journey. If I know you, you'll want to press on.'

Phillip's mind whirled as he tried to fathom out what might be going on. Surely it had nothing to do with Rosemary? Try as he might, he couldn't convince himself of that fact. He remembered the knife and took it out to turn over in his hands. What did it remind him of?

‘Stop fiddling and eat.'

His housekeeper was as tenacious as a cat with a mouse.

It was ten head-spinning minutes later before Phillip, Clamp, Mrs Clamp, Phillip's valet Roger, two grooms and a gardener sat around the table and listened to Redding tell his story in full. Phillip had knocked his original idea of the fewer people who knew the tale the better on the head once he realised his staff could help to negate some of the stories that were bound to fly around the gentry. Servants—even in the country—gossiped between themselves and what better way to put lie to the tittle-tattle by planting other seeds? The next county fair wasn't far off and people from all over the area would gather, and bring each other up to date with the latest news and gossip.

‘So I set off again, once it was all revealed to me, and eventually caught his lordship here,' Redding concluded his tale. ‘It's been an interesting journey, but may I say one I hope never to undertake again for such reasons.'

‘Well I never.' Mrs Clamp thumped the table. ‘And you didn't know all this when you set off?'

‘No, except Macsporran mentioned a white-haired man had been nosing around lots of mews and stables. The cove had been seeking out grooms and runners, and talking when he could to all and sundry to see if anyone knew who Madame Belle was. Evidently he got short shrift, because as it was put to me, no one wants to bite the hand that feeds them, and no hand wants to alienate the hand that clothes them. The message caught me up at Whiston. Then I knew it was all the more important to find you and tell you what was going on. It seems one of the intruders was a man with white hair.'

‘Old or young?'

Redding shook his head. ‘That I don't know, my lord. According to the messenger, Darke just got a glimpse before he was pinked in the arm.'

Phillip stood up so abruptly his chair fell backwards onto the stone floor with a clatter and a thud. ‘That shiv. A white-haired man. Lord Rattenberry's groom.' A hard lump of dread and worry lodged in Phillip's throat. Never before had he experienced that helpless, sick sensation of everything out of reach and unfixable. Up here, in Northumberland, they were so far away from London. It wasn't a mere hour or so to get back to the capital; they had several days of hard travel ahead.

‘That groom has been in trouble before, and I'm damned sure it was a fight with a shiv.' He peered closely at the engraving. ‘It's a crest of some sort. No, no it's not. It's the letters WBR. What's that groom's name? No, no, I get it Willman, Brook, Rattenberry. It's something he'll have added to show who he works for. He's Willman, he used to work for Stephen Brook, and now he works for Rattenberry. His narcissism has caught him out. We'll get everything ready and set off at first light.'

‘I'm all right to go now,' Redding said and spoiled his assertion with a yawn.

‘First light,' Phillip said firmly. ‘When we can see what we're doing, for I intend to press on and these roads are not safe in the dark. I'll take the curricle. It might not be the most comfortable manner in which to travel, but it will be the fastest. Plus I need to pack some things, or Roger does.'

Roger followed his master to his feet, and dipped his head.

‘Of course, my lord, it will be done.' He spoiled the formality by winking at Mrs Clamp. ‘Or it will be mangled shirts, and I don't mean to get the moisture out.'

‘Don't I know it; 'twas always the same.' She waved her spoon at Phillip. ‘I swear he never brought anything home from school or university without it looking like it'd been through a wringer while it was twisted into a rope.'

Phillip laughed. ‘Then it's as well I have you two to keep me from looking like an urchin.' He turned to Redding. ‘How did you get here?'

‘One of your small carriages and hired horses, my lord. Your factors paid.'

‘Then I'll sort that and the horses out, or Pinkham will.' He named one of his grooms who nodded in affirmation. ‘Roger, you'll need to follow with the carriage, so I'll just take a small portmanteau. Redding, go to bed and rest. We leave at six.'

* * *

Tippen glared and pointed at Belinda. ‘You dare leave that bed and Mrs Lovett and I will tie you to it. That's a promise not a threat. You haven't slept, I hear you pacing, and there's definitely a shortage of milk every morning, and a dirty pan in the sink.'

‘At least it's not whisky,' Belinda said, comforted by the fierce expression on Tippen's face. Even after all these years she still felt tearful when she realised how much her adopted family cared about her. Of course she felt the same way about them, but even so. It was, she decided, something she hadn't known before them, not since her mama died.

She should really have washed the milk saucepan up after she'd heated hot milk to try and help her sleep, but she'd been too fuzzy-headed. ‘You can reassure yourself I'm not turning into a sot.'

‘Don't interrupt.' Tippen folded some night-rails and tut-tutted at the rip on one seam. ‘How did you do this? No matter. I'll get Effie to sew it.'

It was just as well because the only answer Belinda would have been able to give was, ‘I have no idea'.

‘Now, where was I? Ah yes. Of course you're no gin, oh all right, whisky mistress—you have too much force of character for those shenanigans.' Tippen warmed to her theme. ‘However, you look like death, your eyes are sunk into their sockets and to all intents and purposes appear as if they have no intention of ever sparkling again. Your mouth turns down not up and you answer every question with, ‘as you think fit'. You'll scare the customers away if they see you like this. We've told everyone you've been called to the country, and if you'd agree that's where you would be now.'

‘I can't.' Belinda needed to know what was happening. Well as much as any of them knew.

‘We thought not,' Tippen said in an understanding tone, ‘so as far as anyone is concerned, in the country you are and there you will stay until you get some colour in your cheeks.' She huffed several times. ‘Understand?'

What could Belinda say? She'd looked in the mirror and had to agree with every word Tippen said. ‘Yes.'

‘Good. I'm not having that woman coming here to upset you. “
She'd better see me or else
” my foot. Who does she think she is?'

‘Repellent Rodent Rosemary, who wants to do me harm?'

‘Exactly, but she forgets rodents can be, and will be squashed. Now I'll ask Lovett to bring up the water for your bath, and you have a nice long soak whilst I open the salon, and repel all invaders—not just rodent-like ones.' She whisked around and headed for the door. ‘Oh and don't worry about the finished gowns that just need a final try on. I can do that.'

‘You said I couldn't leave the bed,' Belinda said meekly.

Tippen turned back and grinned. ‘Ah ha, some sauce at last. That's a good sign. I'll change my directive then. You shall not leave that bed unless Mrs L or I give you leave.'

It was strange being the one to receive the orders.

Belinda settled back against her pillows and considered the events of the previous few days.

After the middle-of-the-night disturbances she and Tippen, along with Mr and Mrs Lovett, had searched the salon and house thoroughly. The only signs they could see of anything amiss were scratches along the skirting board in the cutting room, and several pictures askew on their hooks. Belinda surmised the intruders had indeed been looking either for a safe or somewhere else she might hide personal papers. Tippen had taken anything they thought might be used to find out Belinda's background to be lodged in the safe at Coutts Bank.

However, the events had taken their toll. Belinda had experienced one of her rare blinding headaches, where stars danced in front of her eyes for all the wrong reasons, cannons blasted in her head, bright light or noise made her wince, and nausea was uppermost. She began to cough and splutter and her throat was raw. After several attempts to continue as normal, she had reluctantly retired to bed with the shutters closed and taken a tisane of Mrs Lovett's making. Then she'd tried to sleep.

If she were honest, Belinda could think of nothing nicer than Honeysuckle Cottage, but the journey in her present state would be impossible. Plus she was scared somehow her family, her birth family, would hear of it and spoil the privacy.

During those three days, when Belinda was really indisposed, Rosemary had attempted to see her on several occasions. Eventually, after being told yet again that Belinda wasn't there, she left, with threats and a vague message that she knew all and was about to tell those people to whom it would matter.

It was no wonder, Belinda thought, that she couldn't sleep and looked like those images of a vampire she'd seen. She accepted she certainly wouldn't be a good advertisement for ‘Dressed by Belle' if her clients saw her as she was at the moment.

Belinda picked up the sketchpad by her bed and flicked through the pages. The impromptu sketch she'd done after Darke had described the man he'd caught a glimpse of niggled at her mind. White-haired, youngish, roman nose and one ear half missing. Not of the norm was how Darke had described him. Not a gentleman but no common ruffian. He said the sketch was a good likeness. Who did it remind her of?

She stated at the sketch for several minutes but even though something teased the corner of her mind, nothing else came to her. With a sigh she flicked to a clean page and began setting down her ideas for a new day gown. She might as well do something useful whilst she was nigh on confined to her room. Once Belinda started sketching not much penetrated her brain other than what she was working on.

Therefore she had no idea how much later it was when she heard raised voices, and the sound of doors slamming. Belinda put down her charcoal, got out of bed and walked across to the window, which looked out onto Bruton Street. She'd chosen to add lacy curtains over the glass so she was able to see out without being observed

Thank God.

The man who stood outside her premises with a face like thunder was her father.

Belinda's skin crawled, and her mouth became dry. She shuddered as she held on to the windowsill for balance. What was he doing there?