A Lady’s Secret (30 page)

“This is Mr. Carruthers, Petra,” the marquess said.

“He’s my invaluable secretary, and I’d only have to relate every detail to him later, especially if action is required.”

Petra greeted the gray-haired man, but warily. Was this her father’s Varzi?

The secretary smiled. “And to think, we were growing somewhat dull.”

As her father had said, there were no servants in attendance. The cold food was spread on the table and a sideboard, and they served each other. Once they all had a cold soup, Petra was invited to tell her story.

She began with Ludovico, admitting some folly, but not the whole of it. She told of her father’s death and her removal to the convent.

“You were a nun?” Portia asked, astonished.

Petra tried to explain about the Sisters of Saint Veronica, but these Protestants seemed mostly bemused.

“Is this your calling?” Lord Rothgar asked, and Petra sensed shielded regret.

“To be a nun? No, sir. But I think I will always concern myself with the welfare of the poor. It is needed.”

He nodded. “Go on.”

As cold pies and salads were passed around, she related her mother’s illness and the frantic plans for escape. When she mentioned Lady Sodworth, she saw the same lack of recognition that Robin had shown. But then the marquess said, “Ah. An ill-mannered couple? He’s in trade? She’s young and strident?”

“Omniscient,” groaned Lord Bryght, adding to Petra, “He does have that reputation.”

Petra sincerely hoped it was overrated.

“He’s Bristol based but has been at Court,” her father said as wry explanation of his knowledge. “If Lady Sodworth helped you, Petra, she deserves our goodwill.”

With a sick feeling in her stomach, Petra remembered the encounter at Nouvion. What if Lord Rothgar brought about a meeting? The woman would mention Robin Bonchurch of Derby.

So many traps beneath her feet.

That was a hypothetical danger, however, and one she could do nothing about. For now, she tried not to give her father reason to feel ill will toward the Sodworths, and presented her flight with Mr. Cockcroft entirely because of Varzi.

“Cockcroft?” Lord Bryght said. “Can’t think of anyone by that name.”

“Nor can I,” said Rothgar. “But if he was traveling post with two servants, he must be of some wealth. Would you say he was a gentleman, Petra, or a rich merchant?”

Petra would have liked to make Robert Cockcroft a merchant, but she was sure it would trip her up later. “A gentleman, I think.”

“A nobleman?”

She hesitated. There was that old signet ring and his familiarity with important French families like the Guise, and he’d said he was highly born. But the nobility of any country knew one another, so that presented particular dangers.

By way of answer, she said, “He explained that in England a person could be a plain mister but highly born.”

“True. So he gave that impression, did he? Cockcroft? A conundrum.”

“What a treat for you, Bey,” said his sister Hilda in a wry tone. To Petra, she added, “He so delights in solving intricate puzzles. You could have brought him nothing better.”

Petra wanted to grip her head and scream.

“Perhaps he used a false name,” Lord Brand said, entering the game.

“Being up to no good?” Rothgar speculated.

“Not necessarily. I know a few titled men who prefer to travel simply—the sort to find the fuss not worth the candle. Ashart’s one. Huntersdown’s another. Done it myself a time or two.”

“Very well. We’ll hold judgment on his identity and rank. Carry on, my dear.”

She was failing, but Petra told the rest of her adventures, careful of every word while trying to sound believable. The adventures at Mère Goulart’s caused amazement and admiration, especially of her part.

“You really are skilled with pistols and sword?” Diana asked.

“Slightly,” Petra said. “I’m grateful I didn’t have to actually use them.”

After that, she skipped quickly to Boulogne.

“These men seized you at an inn, Petra?” Lady Steen said. “How appalling.”

“It was terrifying, but I escaped”—
don’t mention Coquette
—“and Mr. Cockcroft found me. We went on board the ship he’d hired—”

“Name?” Lord Rothgar asked.

“I’m sorry?” Petra asked, staring.

“The name of the ship.”

“Oh.” She was flustered beyond invention here.

“The
Courlis
.”

He nodded. “The ‘Curlew.’” He didn’t say that the ship could be found, but she knew that was the fact—unless Robin had thought to bribe Captain Merien to silence. She was making a mess of this, but couldn’t find a better way. She proceeded to Folkestone and the smugglers, pretending not to know their names.

“Don’t worry,” her father said with a twinkle in his eye, “we won’t bring down the law on them.”

Petra smiled her thanks. “I would like to reward them, for they were all kind.”

She couldn’t mention “Captain Rose,” for even though that was surely a false name, it might lead directly to Robin. Sharing the address—the Black Swan Inn, Stowting—would be fatal. She couldn’t mention the fight, for these people might know about one of their own who’d been wounded recently.

Trying to hide panic, she said, “Once we were out of Folkestone, our routes parted, for Mr. Cockcroft had urgent business in Cornwall. His mother is ill. He explained the coaches and such, and gave me money for the journey. I had to walk at the end because it was Sunday.”

“An astonishing story, Petra,” said Lord Steen, with perhaps a hint of skepticism. “You are to be congratulated on your enterprise.”

“Or, speaking as a father, to be chastised for impulsive folly,” said Lord Rothgar.

Petra twitched, but he seemed to be teasing.

“That’s unfair, Bey,” Portia said. “If Petra hadn’t gone with this Cockcroft, the horrible Varzi would have won.”

“My wife,” said Lord Bryght, “is somewhat impetuous herself.” His wife swatted his arm.

“And Petra managed to extricate herself when captured,” Rosa said. “How brave of you.”

But Lord Rothgar looked at Petra. “You said one of Varzi’s men died in England.”

Petra went cold. Had she? Yes, she had, earlier in the day. “Oh, did I miss that? He was watching the road out of Folkestone and tried to stop us, but one of the smugglers hit him over the head.”

“A very careless type of villain,” Lord Brand remarked.

“And a strange thing to forget,” Lord Bryght said.

Petra knew she was red. “It happened so quickly. R-”—
maledizione!
—“Mr. Cockcroft tried to fight him, but he was losing. It was lucky that the smuggler had a cudgel.”

“Very,” said her father, showing no sign of doubting her. “I do hope to be able to find this Mr. Cockcroft and reward him.”

Petra wondered if she could believe that. There was something not quite true in the tone.

“You must give Carruthers as much detail as you can, my dear. Such as the gentleman’s first name, perhaps?”

Of course he’d caught her slip.

Striving for an innocent tone, Petra said, “Robert, I think.”

“Excellent. Now we must turn our attention to the unpleasant signor Varzi. He must be stopped.”

“Bey,” said Rosa. “I know you don’t read the lighter parts of the newspapers, but I could swear that in one of yesterday’s I saw an advertisement that mentioned that name. I wasn’t paying much attention, but the name struck me as odd. Someone offering a reward for news of the man, I think, with something about an attack.”

“A lesson to me to read every word,” said Lord Rothgar. “Carruthers?”

The secretary was already leaving the room.

“So who,” asked the marquess, “is seeking our villain?”

“Cockcroft, I assume,” said Lord Steen flatly, in the manner of one cutting short a game.

“Cockcroft,” agreed the marquess. “My dear Petra, it seems your protector didn’t entirely abandon you.” There was clear speculation in his eyes now.

“He didn’t abandon me at all,” she said. “A sick mother must take precedence. I can’t imagine why he’d take the time to do this.”

She could, though, she could.
Oh, Robin, faithful protector to the end, but you’re ruining everything.

“We’ll deal with this Varzi,” said Lady Rothgar, as if the man’s arrest was unquestionable, “but we must also decide how to establish Petra in her new life with as little disturbance as possible.”

“I don’t wish to be any trouble to you,” Petra said.

“Rothgar feeds on trouble,” Steen said. “You may as well surrender.”

“Would you be willing to take my name?” the marquess asked.

Petra stared at him. “Become a Malloren?”

“You
are
a Malloren, but if I present you to the world as Miss Petra Malloren there will be no doubt as to my feelings on the matter. That also acknowledges the truth of your origins, which you may not like, but the resemblance between us is marked. Not so much now, of course, but there are enough people who remember my wild youth.”

“There is an alternative, Petra,” said Diana. “You could remain the contessina Petra d’Averio, and we would sponsor you into our world as friends of your family.” She smiled. “Whichever you choose, I doubt your name will remain unchanged for long.”

Marriage? At the moment, Petra couldn’t face the thought.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “The truth is known in Milan, which means it will arrive here eventually. Not my father’s identity, but that I am not the true child of il conte di Baldino, so my mother’s reputation is lost in any case.” She fought tears.

Lord Rothgar said, “It seems your brother has disowned you, but if you take my name it will ensure he has no ability to disturb you ever again.”

Petra inhaled. “Then I choose to be Petra Malloren, sir, and I thank you.”

“You honor me,” he said. Innocuous words, but Petra’s eyes suddenly filled with tears at memories of Robin, of heaven and hell.

“Oh, my dear!” Diana rushed over to embrace her and offer a handkerchief.

Petra was saved from complete embarrassment by the secretary’s return with a number of rather battered newspapers.

“We pass them to the servants’ hall,” her father explained, opening one and scanning it. Other family members were doing the same, simply pushing aside plates and wineglasses with no ceremony at all.

“Here it is!” Portia exclaimed. “
‘Reward. For any information leading to the location of a signor Varzi of Milan, lately come to London and suspected of involvement in a broad-daylight attack on a gentleman in Kent. He is of middling height, round build, and with thin, graying hair….’
I must say, he doesn’t sound dangerous. This is your terrible villain, Petra?”

“Yes, I assure you.”

Portia shrugged.
“‘Information will be received and rewarded at Messrs. Grice and Hucklethwait, Chancery Lane.’”

“Excellent,” Lord Rothgar said. He didn’t say that tomorrow someone would be seeking information of Messrs. Grice and Hucklethwait; it didn’t need saying. But they were probably Robin’s lawyers and would lead right to him.

Robin, I’m sorry. I tried.

Others had been finding the identical advertisement, which provided no new information. Lively speculation was interrupted by Diana saying, “The masquerade at Cheynings.”

“Oh yes,” said Portia.

“Intriguing,” said her father.

Petra waited warily to be enlightened.

Diana did so. “Bey’s cousin, the Marquess of Ashart, has been feverishly refurbishing his family home. To celebrate completion he’s holding a Venetian masquerade. When? Two weeks or thereabouts? I believe he has Mistress Cornelys arranging it for him so it will be correct in every detail. She is Venetian, you see. She was an opera singer to begin with, but now hosts such events in London in the season.”

Teresa Cornelys?
Could things become more tangled?

“The timing is perfect,” Diana said. “Just long enough for you to become comfortable with the family and English ways, but not so long that it would be difficult for you to avoid society’s attention. If we can keep your arrival secret, the masquerade will be the perfect occasion to present you to the world.”

“And keeping secrets,” said Lord Steen, “is another of Rothgar’s talents.”

Perhaps he wasn’t as fond of his brother-in-law as the rest of the family.

“And you can advise us, Petra,” Portia said brightly.

“Have you attended a masquerade in Venice? Bey has, and Bryght, but none of us ladies.”

“Yes, of course,” Petra said, carefully not looking at her father.

It had been at a Venetian masquerade that he’d met her mother, and where she had been conceived.

O
n Monday afternoon, Thorn visited Robin and said, “Something, perhaps.”

“About Petra?” Robin asked. “At last!”

“About Varzi. From Grice and Hucklethwait. A customer at a coffeehouse in Fernleigh Street—the Arabian—reports that a gentleman who’s taken rooms there might be our quarry. He claims to be a Spanish scholar by name of Garza, but the respondent has spoken to him and doesn’t think his accent is Spanish.”

“And ‘Garza’ is close to ‘Varzi.’”

“Which may be misleading,” Thorn warned. “But Garza wears a bob wig, which was knocked askew one day when he was jostled. The hair beneath was thin and graying. Hardly, I must point out, unlikely.”

“Except that most men wearing that sort of wig are bald or shave their heads. It has to be investigated.”

“There’s more,” Thorn said. “The coffeehouse also serves as a receiving point for post, but the letters are merely left out on a side table. The man thinks—only thinks—he might have seen Garza pick up a letter there. But he asked, and the owner of the place said he’d seen none for that name.”

“It may be nothing, but it must be checked,” Robin said, excitement building. “How do we arrange this?”

“Report him to the authorities as discussed earlier?”

“I know the man. I can make sure.”

“He’s dangerous.”

“I’ll be careful.” Robin sat down to write a hasty note.

“I don’t know how you can scribble so neatly.”

“My only talent.”

“Who’s the blessed recipient?”

“Christian. Once I confirm his identity, we’ll give the military the honor of arresting him on suspicion of espionage. That’ll work around the normal forms for a while.”

“Only a temporary solution.”

“Then I try to nail him for that attack outside Folkestone and see him hang.”

Men were sent to the Arabian to find out if Senor Garza was there. If so, they were to watch and follow him if he left. By the time a message came back to say he was in his room, Christian had arrived.

“I’ll arrest him,” he said, “but you’d better hope he doesn’t have some sort of diplomatic credentials. And I’d rather you stayed out of it.”

“I can recognize him,” Robin repeated. “Don’t worry, I’ll be armed.”

“You’re hoping for an excuse to shoot him,” Christian said.

Robin’s jaw tightened. “Unreasonable?”

“No, but have you ever shot anyone?”

Robin had to admit he hadn’t.

“It isn’t as easy as you might think, even if the opponent is thoroughly evil. When he’s old enough to be your father…remember he’s a bad man, Robin.”

Robin remembered Petra and Coquette and the attack on his men. “Oh, I won’t forget that.”

Less than an hour later, Robin limped into the coffeehouse, his heart beating faster. Thorn would follow shortly, and Christian was already placing his men at front and back. The clientele seemed a normal collection, from clerks to gentlemen, young to ancient, merry to quiet. Many were reading the newspapers provided, but some were simply talking. He wondered which was the informant.

A servant came to take his order, but Robin said, “Senor Garza? Which room?”

The man hesitated. “Shall I get him for you, sir?”

“I prefer to go up.”

Robin saw some coffee drinkers look behind him and turned, but it was only Thorn entering and strolling over to look at the letters on the table. He was attempting to look ordinary, but, as usual, it didn’t work.

Robin turned back and found the waiter gone. He saw him disappearing upstairs and followed, cursing his leg. It made stairs particularly difficult.

As he neared the top the waiter appeared, hurrying back down. The man stopped, eyes going wide.

“Which room?” Robin asked.

“Don’t know…”

Robin pulled out his pistol. “Don’t be foolish.”

The man swallowed. “First on the right, but…”

“But he’s going out the back way,” Robin completed, hearing noises as he pushed past the man. He yelled back to Thorn, “It’s him!” and turned right into a corridor to see a man’s back—a man in a dark suit and a bob wig.

“Halt,” he said, unable to resist adding, “Your money or your life, signor Varzi.”

The man turned, pistol already aimed, and fired. Robin fell to his knees by instinct, cursing searing pain in his leg, deafened by the gun roar, feeling the ball slam into wood by his head.

He shot the man.

Varzi clutched his chest, huddling in as if in self-protection, looking more surprised than anything, but then his eyes filled with pure malevolence before glazing over as he crumpled.

Robin stayed where he was, his ears ringing, his mind numb until pain shot through his leg again and he clutched it. A mass of soldiers burst from the back stairs, hiding Varzi; then Thorn knelt at Robin’s side. “Did he hit you? Leg again?”

Robin could hardly hear him, but his sense of smell was working. The stink of Varzi’s blood and excretion was joining acrid powder in the narrow space.

“Is he dead?” he asked, not even hearing himself clearly.

“Definitely. Are you hurt, Robin?” Thorn shouted.

“Not shot. My leg…” He moved his leg slowly with his hands so he could sit at the top of the stairs and stretch it out, but that meant he faced the crowd trying to come up to see what was happening.

“Help me up,” he said to Thorn, “and get me out of here.”

Thorn did so, but the stairs were blocked by now. “Back way,” he said, turning and taking Robin’s limping weight.

“Why didn’t I expect him to shoot without warning?”

“Because he was old and looked harmless,” Thorn said. “Christian warned you. Take the lesson to heart.”

Robin’s ears were clearing, but that made the cacophony of voices worse. They were nearing the corpse. “Have you witnessed violent death before?”

“Not unless you count a hanging,” Thorn said.

Robin caught a glimpse of the body as they squeezed past. Varzi’s limbs splayed and his wig had fallen off, revealing straggly graying hair. Death had no dignity. “There was Varzi’s man outside Folkestone,” he said, “but I didn’t actually do the deed. Perhaps one becomes accustomed.”

A hand gripped his shoulder. Christian. Christian, who’d fought in battles and presumably become used to killing. “You did what you had to do, and a damned good shot, too. Right to the heart.”

“Blind instinct.”

“Then you have good instincts. The man was a coldhearted villain, a cur.”

“And a cur one merely shoots,” Robin said wryly.

Christian slapped him on the back, hard. “Remember how he threatened your men and would have abducted your damsel in distress.”

“Old enough to be my father, though.”

“Then old enough to know better. Thorn, get him out of here and get him a brandy. I’ll clean up the mess and keep both your names out of it if I can.”

Robin made his way down the back stairs and out into fresh air, where he began to feel better, though he didn’t think he’d ever forget the sight of the man dying only yards in front of him. Dying at his hand.

Two soldiers were standing guard by the door. Thorn left Robin with them and went to summon the sedan. When it came, Robin managed to get into it, a hand to his bloody thigh. “Surprised I can tear the stitches by now, but I think that’s what I’ve done.”

Thorn swore and ordered the men to make haste.

Robin pulled down the blinds and bobbed by the crowd gathering outside the Arabian, hearing rumors spin.

“Foreign spy…”

“Assassin.”

“Tried to kill a duke.”

“Soldiers took him down….”

He rested his head back and closed his eyes. He sometimes wondered whether there was any solid truth at all in the world.

Robin’s mother, rigid with anger and distress, insisted on inspecting the wound herself. Two stitches had given way, leaving dried blood and swollen flesh. “How could you go off to do such a thing? You are an earl. You must behave like one!”

“By staying at home while others do my work?”

“Such work, yes!”

“Thorn went, too,” he pointed out.

“Fah! He is no better, and he, he has no brothers so he is worse. It is all to do with that woman, is it not?”

“I believe I was raised to protect the weak.”

“Fah! You will stay in bed now until you are completely healed.”

He owed her that, so he said, “Yes,
Maman
.”

“And soon you must come home, where I can prevent such follies.”

Robin knew he did need to go to Easton Court soon to take full control of his earldom, but not yet. He wasn’t ready for that struggle and he needed to find Petra, to tell her that her enemy was dead. And other things.

“In due course,” he said, seeking an excuse. “I must let my leg heal, and then I have a mind to attend Ashart’s Venetian masquerade.”

Being an invalid did not come naturally, but Robin’s friends flowed through the house, ready to gamble, play music, or just share what gossip there was at this time of year. No one brought any news of Petra d’Averio, or of a mysterious Italian beauty by any other name. Robin could be sure that Varzi was no longer a threat to her, but he had to find her. He had to be sure she was well and happy.

He had to try to persuade her to give him another chance. Given his behavior, his untruths, he couldn’t blame her for not trusting him. He would never force his attentions on her, but he couldn’t endure not knowing where she was.

Even from his bed he could organize searches, starting again from the Gainer farm and from Micklebury, but they achieved nothing. He set a watch on Teresa Cornelys’s house, but nothing indicated that Petra was there. Thorn had returned to his estate and had men asking questions all over Kent, but Petra d’Averio had disappeared as if she had never existed. All Robin had as evidence were a few precious remnants—her cross, her rosary, and the one blotched letter.

His mother attempted to choose a new secretary for him, and when he refused to permit it, she left for Easton Court. He was sorry to be at odds with her, but he had to establish his authority, even if only bit by bit. In some way he couldn’t quite define, he owed that to Petra. Change had been forced upon her, but she’d faced it with strength, determination, and courage. He could try to do as well.

Once his mother had gone he set about interviewing secretaries, but his mind was on Petra at all times. When Christian dropped by to keep him company, Robin said, “I’ll never rest easy until I’m sure Petra is safe and well.”

“If it’s still eating at you, why not advertise again? It worked last time.”

“I won’t set hounds after her.”

“You don’t have to. Make it a message
to
her, asking her to let you know she’s safe.”

Robin was intrigued, but he said, “What are the chances she’d read it? Do you read those things?”

“Plenty of people commented on the Varzi one. You just have to make it unusual so that people will chatter about it, and put in something that will catch her attention.”

“It’s an amusement, at least.”

With Christian’s help and a shared bottle of claret, he came up with:
Who did kill Cock Robin? No, not the sparrow with its bow and arrow, but a bird that has flown, with its sling and stone. News of this bird will be generously received by
—Robin smiled—
Mr. Goodfellow, at the Arabian Coffeehouse, Fernleigh Street, London.

“That’s a little risky,” Christian said.

“Why? I want Petra to know I had a hand in Varzi’s death, and I need an address where she can send a message. Above all,” he said, draining his glass, “I need to receive that message.”

“Have you seen this?” Portia asked, entering the tapestry room on Thursday, a newspaper in hand.

Petra was sitting with Rosa, embroidering a smock for Rosa’s daughter, Jenny. She only glanced up. Portia had become obsessed with advertisements and notices, seeking hidden meanings in the simplest requests for employment or for assistance finding a lost dog. But when Portia read the strange announcement out loud, she had to struggle not to leap up and grab it.

“Who did kill Cock Robin? No, not the sparrow with its bow and arrow, but a bird that has flown, with its sling and stone. News of this bird will be generously received by Mr. Goodfellow, at the Arabian Coffeehouse, Fernleigh Street, London.”

It was a plea, and more, it told her Robin had been connected to Varzi’s death.

Of course he was. She’d known that despite her letter, he wouldn’t have stopped trying to keep her safe, and guilt at her silence had been eating at her. She had no means to send a letter secretly, however. She went nowhere because her presence was being kept secret until the masquerade, and she was hardly ever alone.

“Isn’t it mysterious?” Portia said. “Do you remember, Petra? Your signor Varzi was killed at the Arabian Coffeehouse.”

“You think there’s a connection?” Petra asked, because she had to say something.

“It’s hard to see what,” Rosa said. “Your Varzi is dead and gone, and he had nothing to do with birds, did he?”

“No,” Petra said. “I’m sure it’s a private joke of some sort and the coffeehouse is simply a coincidence.”

Varzi’s death had been much discussed here, of course, and with great satisfaction. Lord Bryght seemed to suspect that it had been his brother’s work, though Rothgar had denied it. Petra believed her father. If anything, he seemed annoyed at being forestalled. Everyone seemed to accept the idea that Varzi had been dabbling in espionage for Austria as well as seeking her, and that that had been his ruin.

Petra had found no connection to Robin in any of the accounts.

He’d been killed by soldiers under the command of a Major Grandiston. A little oblique questioning had revealed that Grandiston was an experienced officer in the Horse Guards who had been on duty at court until recently, so he certainly hadn’t been traveling northern France as Robin Bonchurch.

One account had speculated that Varzi had been planning to assassinate a duke, perhaps one of the king’s brothers. Robin certainly wasn’t one of them.

She’d eventually accepted coincidence, but now it appeared otherwise.

“Why Goodfellow?” Portia muttered, still trying to decipher it.