Buried Secrets (8 page)

Cord merely nodded as Mr. Jilbert clapped his hat to his head and, wheeling his horse about, clattered off.

At his side, Gillian simply stared at him. Good Lord, even for an idle peer of the realm, Cord’s behavior had been quite rude. And, even from her short acquaintance with him, seemed completely out of character. Why, he had nearly bitten poor Mr. Jilbert’s head off, when the man had only been doing his job. Was Cord so addicted to a life of idleness that he could not bear the slightest interference in his pleasures?

Cord glanced at her, and, as though aware of the character flaw he had revealed, he flushed.

“I’m afraid I was rather harsh with the fellow.”

Gillian could not but agree. She nodded gravely. “Yes, you were.”

Cord smiled disarmingly. “I shall apologize the next time we meet. I shall freely admit that it was ill-done of me to vent my spleen on Jilbert just for attempting to ruin our enjoyment of this lovely afternoon.”

Gillian was far from satisfied by this disingenuous little speech, but she smiled dutifully. She remarked again on the lateness of the hour, and the two continued their ride in more pleasant conversation.

“I was hoping,” remarked Cord as they approached Rose Cottage, “to further my acquaintance with your uncle.”

Gillian’s lips curled derisively. This new ploy was surprisingly obvious in a man of Lord Cordray’s seeming skill in the art of dalliance.

“I’m sure he would enjoy more conversation with you, my ... Cordray,” she replied serenely, sure that Cord had no more intention of sequestering himself with an elderly academic for a serious discussion of the works of the poet Dryden than he had of embarking on a voyage to the Tasmin. “Since his retirement from his academic duties he has few contacts with the outside world. I’m sure a visit or two from you would do him a world of good.”

“Excellent.”

Gillian opened her mouth to point out a particularly ancient oak tree just to the left of their path, but Cord forestalled her by adding casually, “I heard from an old friend at Magdalene the other day that your uncle has developed an interest in a diary written by someone called Pepper or some such.”

Gillian turned to gape at the earl, her blood seeming to congeal into great clumps in her veins.

Chapter Six

“Wh-what?” blurted Gillian haltingly.

“Pepper ... or, no—” Cord snapped his fingers. “Pepys! That’s it. Samuel Pepys.” He watched Miss Tate’s discomfiture with what he knew was unbecoming glee. “You know,” he continued, feigning a wholly innocent interest, “in view of Evelyn’s recently published diary, this—”

“Where—” Miss Tate moistened her lips. “Where did you hear of my uncle’s interest…?” She trailed off with a dismal flutter of her fingers.

“Why, I thought I just said—I have a friend—a don at Magdalene. Perhaps you know him. His name is Edward Maltby.”

Miss Tate merely nodded convulsively.

“He said your uncle is working on a translation of the manuscript. How odd of the fellow to write in code, don’t you think?”

Cord toyed delicately with this theme for a few moments, noting the color that flooded her cheeks and the agitation stirring her magnificent bosom. Good Lord, he had surely hit a nerve. She looked as though he had just proposed swimming naked in the Cam. To his disappointment, they arrived at their destination just as Miss Tate seemed to recover her composure. However, if he’d expected an invitation to dinner, or even so much as a cup of tea, he was doomed to disappointment. When he assisted the lady in dismounting from her horse, she merely gave him two fingers, thanked him for a most pleasant afternoon and whirled away into the house.

Inside, Gillian leaned against the front door, her breath coming in great, gulping gasps as though she had just escaped a band of highwaymen. She struggled for composure as Widdings crossed the hall toward her at a stately pace.

“I was just about to open the door for you, Miss Tate,” he said reproachfully. “I came as soon as I heard the stir of your arrival. His lordship did not see you inside?” His voice contained the barest hint of disapproval.

“Yes, Widdings.” Gillian fought to speak calmly. “That is, no. No. Lord Cordray was obliged to leave.”

To this, Widdings made no response, and, contenting himself with an austere bow, turned and retraced his steps into the nether regions of the house.

Gillian wearily climbed the stairs. She was vaguely pleased to note that she had, after all, arrived home in time for dinner, thus escaping an interrogation by her aunt. In her bedchamber, she tossed her hat on the bed and began fumbling with the fastenings of her riding habit. By now, her emotions had been buttoned into their usual neat bundle of control, but she forbore to ring for assistance. Instead, she flung herself on the bed beside the hat to give herself up to a torrent of cautionary reflections.

There was no reason for her to have flown into the boughs at Cord’s mention of the diary. He had no doubt spoken in all innocence. Why had she taken it as a direct accusation of her part in her uncle’s recent flurry of chicanery? She knew the answer to that well enough! It was her own guilty conscience that had pointed to her like an avenging sword poised to thrust into her very core.

How had she ever been caught up in this impossible situation? How could she ever have been mad enough to involve herself in Uncle Henry’s ludicrous pursuits? Aunt Louisa had tried to dissuade her—but the poor old soul had offered no alternative solution to the problem.

Gillian had warned Uncle Henry of the probable consequences of his obsession. She had listened in growing despair to his cavalier dismissals of her concerns and to his unrepentant declarations of future transgressions. She tried to take comfort in the fact that he had not visited the little library in Magdalene’s New Building for some days. Perhaps his interest in Mr. Pepys’s diary was waning—not likely.

Or, perhaps he felt he had gleaned enough information from the original text so that he need not refer to it on a continual basis.
Yes.
Now, there seemed a more plausible concept. Lord knew her uncle had transcribed enough notes from Mr. Pepys’s six leather-bound volumes to caulk a sinking ship.

Gillian cast her thoughts back to her conversation earlier with Lord Cordray. If Uncle Henry’s name had come up—as it might well have, since the two had met only the day before—in a chat between the earl and an old friend, it would have been odd, indeed, if said old friend had not mentioned Sir Henry Folsome’s fascination with the Pepys diary. After all, tales of her uncle’s skirmishes with the college authorities had been widely circulated through the academic population of Cambridge for months.

Yes. Certainly. There could be no doubt Cord’s question had been prompted by the most casual interest. He had merely been making conversation.

Why, then, had she discerned a gleam of pure mischief in the depths of those jeweled eyes? Dear God, did the earl know something?

Aware that she was indulging in the wildest speculation, Gillian sat up abruptly. There was simply-no point in conjecturing about the earl, either his motives or the extent of his knowledge of her clandestine activities. She had no reason to suppose he was actively seeking proof of wrongdoing on her part. Nor did his queries into Uncle Henry’s work with the diary indicate more than the most casual interest.

Clutching this thought firmly to her bosom, she rang for her maid to assist her in making her ablutions for dinner.

* * * *

The following two weeks passed in relative calm. To Gillian’s dismay, the earl visited Rose Cottage on several occasions, but after the merest greeting to her, he sought the company of Uncle Henry. The two fell into the habit of closeting themselves in Uncle Henry’s study for an hour or two, to emerge on the best of terms, still disputing a point in some obscure passage of Restoration poetry.

Twice Lord Cordray accepted Sir Henry’s invitation to stay to dinner, but the conversation during the meal was unexceptionable.

“Do you mean to say, my lord,” asked Aunt Louisa on one of these occasions, “that Lady Harriet allowed the Earl of Sindwick to kiss her on the lips in pubic?”

“Indeed, Mrs. Ferris, I saw it with my own eyes—and right in front of the Regent!”

“Well, I never!” exclaimed Aunt Louisa. “Things must be coming to a pretty pass in the
ton,
when such behavior is accepted in the highest circles.”

“Yes,” replied the earl languidly, reflecting on the tales told him by Wilfred of the doings of the Regent’s set, “but, one wonders just who inhabits the highest circles these days.”

Gillian pressed her napkin to her lips to stifle an inadvertent giggle. She raised her eyes to intercept a sparkling glance from Cord, and before she knew what she was about, she returned it with one of laughing appreciation.

“You are never saying,” she remarked demurely, “that the Prince Regent is not considered a good
ton
!”

“I would never say anything so treasonous,” Cord replied promptly. “However, there is a school of thought that asserts it does one’s reputation no good to be seen in his company.”

“My lord!” gasped Aunt Louisa, much rattled. “You speak of the First Gentleman of our country—nay, all of Europe.”

“Mm, yes, so I’m told,” Cord responded irrepressibly. Gazing at Mrs. Ferris’s shocked countenance, he relented. “Of course, some may fault the Prince for allowing his friends too much latitude in their behavior, but others contend, with good reason, one might say, that this trait is one of his finer attributes.”

“Oh, yes.” Aunt Louisa beamed once more in innocent agreement. “I’ve heard that the Regent is extraordinarily condescending to those in his circle.”

Shortly after dinner was concluded that night. Cord made his departure. He never stayed late at these visits to the Folsome ménage. Not that he wasn’t tempted. An evening spent by the fire with the enticing Miss Tate would have been much to his liking. Unfortunately, such an evening would also have included the presence of her aunt and uncle. Sir Henry Folsome and his sister were sterling individuals, but Cord’s idea of companionship for an evening did not generally run to sterling individuals.

In addition, Miss Tate never indicated by the slightest nuance of behavior that she would have welcomed an additional few hours of his company.

In fact, reflected Cord as he wended his way back to his own domicile. Miss Tate showed no inclination to encourage his attentions at all. Charm he might ever so diligently, she seemed immune to his efforts to separate her from her virtue.

Once more, his thoughts turned to the rider he had encountered on the night of his arrival at Wildehaven. The more he knew of the proper Miss Tate, the less likely a candidate she seemed for his midnight marauder.

It was all but impossible to imagine this beautiful but eminently proper spinster, donning breeches and tucking her hair under a cap for an excursion in the small hours of the night.

Was it possible she crept out to meet a lover? Highly unlikely, he thought. Even if she were so inclined, there were easier ways to contrive an assignation. At this time of year, there were innumerable leafy bowers available in which to while away an afternoon in illicit pleasure.

No, if his mysterious visitor was indeed Miss Tate, the most logical explanation involved her uncle’s preoccupation with the writings of Samuel Pepys. Impossible as it seemed, was she stealing volumes of the diary for Sir Henry’s perusal? Had her ride over the starry hills of Cambridgeshire been a one-time occurrence, or had she been out since then, booted and capped? More interesting, was she likely to venture forth again? And how would he know of such an outing? He did not fancy patrolling the grounds of Wildehaven in the dead of night on the off chance he might see her.

The answer to his unproductive musings was provided one afternoon a week hence. Cord had just emerged from Sir Henry’s study, laughing dutifully at one of the old gentleman’s more ancient jests. To his pleasure, when they entered the parlor. Miss Tate was seated in a cherry-striped wing chair near the window. She rose at their approach, gathering up a handful of embroidery silks and the handkerchiefs she had been monogramming. Even before she spoke. Cord sensed an unusual tension fairly vibrating through her slender form. She greeted him distractedly, her gaze swiveling between Cord and her uncle.

“Did you two have an, er, interesting discussion?” she asked at last.

Cord sensed that she held her breath until her uncle replied heartily, “Of course, we did, my dear. I am still trying to tell this young whelp that he’s absolutely wrong in his interpretation of Dryden’s
Annus Mirabilis.”

The old man swung to his guest, but not before Cord observed Gillian sag in noticeable relief. Sir Henry continued, “You see, my boy, it portends to relate to the Anglo-Dutch Naval War, but in reality— By Jove, now, who’s that?”

The question was prompted by a knocking at the door, followed a few moments later by the entrance of Widdings, who was in turn followed by a tall young man. He could not have been more than nineteen or twenty years of age, and, though he was shabbily dressed, his demeanor was dignified and open.

“John!” cried Sir Henry delightedly. “Do come in, my boy.”

Gillian’s smile was almost as bright as that of her uncle, and Cord knew a wholly unwelcome stab of jealousy. Could this unprepossessing sprout be the object of Gillian’s theoretical yearnings? He pulled himself up short a moment later. What was the matter with him? The boy was scarcely of an age to shave his chin. Not that it mattered to him where Miss Tate’s maidenly affections might be engaged.

In any event, despite the brilliant smile, Gillian did not seem pleased to see the young man. She had stiffened perceptibly at his entrance, and her face was pale. Her hands trembled as she requested Widdings to see to refreshments. With a nervous gesture, she led the young man to a comfortable chair.

Cord thrust out his hand as Sir Henry made introductions. “My lord, may I present John Smith? He is an undergraduate at St. John’s College. John, meet our landlord, the Earl of Cordray.”