Barbara Metzger (11 page)

To London? Daphne sank back on the bed where the baron had recently expired, she thought. There wasn’t even a crease on the cover. Could she have been wrong, or was it all just a bad dream? Perhaps the oysters she ate last night had gone off. No, he’d been there, gasping and wheezing, then neither wheezing nor gasping. He was dead. She knew it. Could God have wasted a miracle on such a sinner? She didn’t think it was likely. But Uncle Albert was gone.

She went back to the breakfast room, a great deal slower. The men stood until she resumed her seat, Graydon scowling. Daphne didn’t notice. Miles did and thought the major was going to scold Daphne for her manners. Frippery fellow had no business calling Miss Whilton to account, had no business being here at all, if anyone asked his opinion, which they hadn’t. But then, the lady had seemed happy enough to welcome him this morning, even effusive. “Had you wanted to see me over anything particular, my dear?” he asked, preparing to leave.

“What’s that? Oh, no, just a detail about the wedding or something.” She waved him away, leaving the butler to walk him to the door.

Yes, Miss Whilton’s manners were sadly lacking. Of course, Mama could take her in hand.

*

Graydon felt better, seeing Daphne’s absent-minded dismissal of her stalwart suitor. Now, if he could just get rid of everyone else, he might have her to himself for the morning. He suggested his father go up and start trying to make his peace with Lady Whilton. “Now that the baron is gone, there is no problem about that money. She doesn’t have to sign anything to get rid of the dirty dish. So go tell her the twenty thousand is as good as hers, for goodness’ sake, to do with as she wants.”

“I don’t know…” the earl began.

“What, are you afraid she’s going to take the blunt and run off with some stable hand after you’re wed? You have to know she’s devoted to you. Besides, the money means nothing to you, and means a great deal to her.”

“No, I meant I didn’t know if she’d see me. I decided last night to swallow my pride, but she won’t talk to me. I tried again first thing this morning.”

“What, in her bedroom?” gasped Cousin Harriet, who was already irritated that young Howell could so cavalierly dismiss a sum of money she’d never see in her lifetime.

The earl gave her a sour look. “Never fear, her maid wouldn’t let me in.” He vowed to dismiss the hatchet-faced abigail as soon as he could, and find someplace else for this sharp-tongued cousin to reside. Maybe Cleo would give
her
the blasted twenty thousand pounds so she could set up her own establishment—in Ireland.

Daphne had been ignoring the conversation, but now she explained: “Mama was sleeping. She took laudanum.” Then she went back to concentrating on the muffin she was shredding.

“You see? She didn’t slam the door in your face. She’ll see you soon, I’m sure. And you can turn on the Howell charm so the banns can be called Sunday.”

“That vaunted charm didn’t work for you, you silver-tongued devil,” Harriet sniped as she left the breakfast room to fetch her pug for its morning walk.

Daphne was still not paying attention. She didn’t even hear Graydon say he had an urgent task in London, that he might leave later that afternoon, or early the next morning. He’d return in a day or so, if anyone had any errands for him.

“I say, Daffy, I asked if you had any commissions in London for me.”

“Commissions? I thought you were resigning yours.”

Graydon shook his head at her vagueness. She didn’t show a great deal more interest in him than she did in the Pomeroy popinjay. Deuce take the female, she was supposed to be relieved now that Albert was out of her hair. Perversely, she was drifting out the door, her brow furrowed with worry, her linen napkin still clutched in one dainty hand.

The earl left to camp outside his lady’s door. Graydon decided not to follow Daphne while she was in this humor. Whatever charm he did possess would be wasted. He went to the stables instead, to notify the grooms he’d be leaving soon, and to see how hard it would be to get Albert into his carriage. The short walk convinced him he’d better go back upstairs and rest his leg before facing that ordeal. He didn’t want Daphne to think him a paltry, whiny milksop, so he snuck in the kitchen entrance and requested a hot bath. Then he hobbled up the back stairs. Lud knew he was familiar enough with the route by now.

Daphne went about her business mechanically. She consulted with the housekeeper about the menus, tallied wedding invitation acceptances with the master guest list, and counted the flower tubs in the conservatory, all in a daze.

There was only one answer her reeling mind could come up with, an answer so unlikely that a miracle had better odds. Now, of course, the infuriating officer couldn’t be found. Daphne knew Gray had gone out to the stables, she’d seen him head that way, limping badly, the clunch. He must be off on a long ride instead of resting his leg, and then he was leaving for a time. She shook her head.

*

Ohlman the butler was also shaking his head. He knew what he knew, and what he didn’t know, he could find out. That was a butler’s job. He knew the baron’s hat and gloves were still on a shelf in the cloakroom where he’d put them himself. He knew Lord Whilton’s bed hadn’t been slept in. Ohlman checked: No carriage had been called out, no horse was missing, no carter had come by that morning. It was a definite puzzlement.

Ohlman wouldn’t put it past that scamp Howell to have abducted the baron and spirited him away. Master Graydon had been a naughty little boy, a brash young man, and now a decidedly quixotic gentleman. Ohlman had hoped he was settled down enough for Miss Daphne, but if the handsome devil was still getting up to these mad starts…

But what was
the point to abducting the baron? The dastard was still head of the family, to Ohlman’s continued disgust and dismay. He shook his head and continued his chores.

One of those butler’s duties was counting the bottles of champagne in the wine cellar to see if more was needed for the wedding, if there was to be a wedding. Ohlman prayed so, for he dearly loved his mistress, who kept him from having Awful Albert as a master. He’d been here at Woodhill Manor since she came as a bride, and he’d do anything to see her happy, her and Miss Daphne, of course.

And of course he found the baron, satchel and all. So the blackguard really was leaving, without any assistance of Lord Howell’s, it seemed. Albert was obviously trying to pilfer some bottles from his brother’s stock before he went. He’d even brought a quilt with him to keep the bottles from clinking. He must have got cold, though, taking a spasm or something, for he had the quilt wrapped around his shoulders. The villain never had time to lift one bottle. He never called for a coach because he never made it up the stairs.

But the family believed he’d left. They believed it enough to proceed with the wedding, without Albert’s wretched interference. Ohlman knew what he knew, and he knew what had to be done to see his ladies happy. That was a butler’s job. The question was if he was strong enough, and if the baron could bend enough. The rotter never bent when he was alive.

*

An hour later, Ohlman sent two strong footmen down to the wine cellar to move a huge cask of ale into the icehouse. The brew mightn’t stay good till the wedding otherwise, he explained. There were bucketfuls to be sampled, to test the quality, so the lads were happy enough to comply. Albert didn’t complain either.

Chapter Eleven

Graydon knew his way around Woodhill Manor, thank goodness. Having run tame there forever, and having played innumerable games of hide-and-go-seek with Daffy on rainy days, he knew all of the old place’s ins and outs. One of those ins, or outs, used to be a door between the wine cellar and the service drive outside.

After a hot soak and a rest, therefore, Graydon went downstairs to reconnoiter, wandering through the pantry to the indoor entrance to the cellars. He found himself explaining his presence there to Cook, two helpers, and the pot boy, all looking at him curiously.

“Just checking to see if there is any special vintage I can pick up in London for the wedding celebrations. Something they mightn’t have, don’t you know.”

Cook and the others knew Ohlman had spent an hour down there this very morning, checking the stock for the coming occasion. She shrugged and ordered her minions back to work. Cook didn’t know what deviltry Master Graydon was up to now; she didn’t want to know. She banged a few pots and pans as he lit the candle at the head of the cellar steps.

If he remembered correctly, the stairs to the outside door were along the opposite wall to the one he was on, and halfway back. The doorway was installed so large deliveries or huge barrels didn’t have to be carried through the kitchens and wrestled down the narrow stairs. Yes, there it was, bolted from the inside. His luck was in that there was no padlock or key. All he had to do was draw the bolt now, bring his carriage around after dark, load up his burden, and be off.

He decided to bring that burden closer to the door, to save time later. He wouldn’t want to keep his horses standing unattended any longer than necessary. Too, his leg would be less troublesome if he did the carrying in shorter segments.

Graydon carefully unlocked the door, in case there was someone about on the other side. Trust Ohlman to have even this exit so well oiled there wasn’t the slightest squeak. He could only pray Ohlman wouldn’t be around to check the lock today. Next Graydon retraced his steps down the stairs and back to the racks where he’d stashed the baron. Then he retraced his steps again to the racks in the other direction. And back. He ran to the other steps, the ones that led up to the kitchens, to reorient himself. He’d gone straight back last night, then right. No, maybe he’d gone left. Then again, maybe carrying the baron made the distance
seem longer.
He checked every narrow
aisle, behind, under, and alongside every rack.

Unless there was another wine cellar altogether, Awful Albert was altogether missing. And Graydon’s leg was throbbing again from tromping around the cold, damp, dirt floors.

He sat himself down on an upturned barrel to think about this new twist.

*

Jake would have been happy for a barrel or anything else to keep him off the cold, damp, dirt floor of the old cottage. But they’d burned the last stick of furniture in the place yesterday, just to cook a rabbit Sal brought in. Jake had set some snares last evening, but Sailor couldn’t find them, and Handy couldn’t bring himself to dispatch the trapped game anyway.

His head wrapped in a dirty bandage, Jake started to explain his new plan. The boys liked the old one better, where they’d go get positions at the manor house. They’d have dry beds instead of a pile of straw on the floor, and hot meals instead of the dog’s leavings. Jake tried again for the fourth time, which was all right, because he was seeing two of each of them.

They couldn’t go up to a nob’s house looking like they were living off the land, he told them. No one was going to hire a down-at-heels vagabond to polish the silver. The servants might give them a bowl of soup, looking the way they did, but that was all. That was enough for Sailor and Handy.

“Then what about tomorrow and the next day, you misbegotten moth-brains?”

There were other big houses, weren’t there? Sailor and Handy saw nothing wrong with making a living asking for positions but accepting hand-outs. They didn’t even have to do any work that way.

They also couldn’t provide for their poor old uncle, who cuffed Sailor along the head. “My way, we won’t have to work for a long time neither, not none of us. We’ll be on easy street with one quick job.”

All they needed before approaching Woodhill Manor for that wedding was a stake. Clean clothes, a wash, a shave for Sailor, a haircut for Handy. Then they could even rent horses to make their getaway, Jake elaborated, forgetting that neither of his nephews had ever been on a horse. They’d never been footmen before, either, he said, brushing off their complaints. They just wouldn’t make as fast a getaway, he reassured the boys, knowing that once they’d handed the sacks of booty to him through a window, he didn’t care if they escaped or not. He’d be too long gone to know. Blood might be thicker than water, but it sure as hell wasn’t as thick as the gold from melted-down candlesticks.

His new plan involved the rusty old saw he’d spotted in the back of the cottage. They’d lop a tree down right at that narrow part of the road, so carriages would have to stop. None of this getting mowed down by a fast-moving coach. When the guard got down to move the obstruction, Jake would aim his pistol at him, while the boys relieved the passengers of their valuables.

The plan was so simple, it had to work, if Sailor and Handy weren’t simpler. They couldn’t find the narrow part of the road, then they couldn’t find an appropriate tree. They finally found a half-dead birch leaning against some others that seemed to fit the bill. If they could just push it hard enough, it might topple far enough into the road that they could drag it the rest of the way or roll it.

While they were preparing, Jake came walking down the road to see what was keeping the bacon-brained idiots. Two carriages had gone by and there’d be another any time now.

“One…”

“What the deuce is taking you nodcocks so long?”

“Two…”

“It doesn’t have to be a big—”

“Push!”

“—tree—eeyee.”

The birch tree didn’t hit Jake. He jumped out of its way just in time. He did catch his foot on a protruding root, though, twisting the ankle so badly that he fell over, into a growth of stinging nettles that went right through his clothes but didn’t manage to cushion his fall enough to keep his head from contacting yet another rock.

The boys dragged Jake back to the cottage, once they found it.

The next coach did come by shortly, but it was no grand equipage, which would have made Jake’s regrets less, if he were conscious to appreciate the fact. The carriage, in fact, did not even have a guard or groom. It merely had one dour driver and one prissy passenger, Terwent, the baron’s valet.

The driver refused to leave his cattle, smelling a trap. Terwent refused to leave the carriage, scenting hard work. So they sat there arguing long enough for seven gangs of cutthroats to steal the baron’s baggage. Luckily a farmer came by in his empty wagon first, anxious to get to the bank to deposit the earnings from his successful sale. He kicked the birch aside as if it were a twig, spat on the ground, flicked the reins over his mules, and patted the heavy purse tucked into his shirt. Poor Jake. He’d have gone after the wrong vehicle anyway.