Strange Capers (12 page)

I sat staring, my mind alive with the most pleasant conjectures. “Do you mean it’s all a hoax, that letter from Whitehall? You never were responsible for losing that shipment at all? Is that it, Aiglon?” I asked eagerly, hopefully.

He wouldn’t tell me, but the smile that graced his lips spoke volumes. “Do you think I would leave an incriminating document lying about instead of destroying it if there weren’t a very good reason?” he asked.

“But who was to see it, hidden beneath your linens?”

“I counted on Willard, or Meg, or Rachel herself. Mind you, I didn’t count on meeting someone whom I would hate to have such a bad opinion of me. You mustn’t breathe a word of this, Constance.”

“Oh, no, I shan’t, Aiglon, but neither will Rachel. If you want that story to get abroad, you’ll have to think of something else.”

“Yes, I must get quite bosky this evening at the White Hart and let the letter fall out of my pocket. I didn’t want to rush things, you know. First I establish my insobriety, then I drop the letter. It’s more credible that way, and there’s no great hurry. The shipment won’t be coming for a few days yet.”

I stared at his healthy, vibrant young face. “I knew you couldn’t be an habitual drunkard. Do you go stumbling out of the White Hart at night, too, the way you stumble up the stairs at home?”

“Certainly I do. I considered sobering up before I got home, but servants are such excellent tattletales that I didn’t want my conduct at Thornbury to be startlingly different from what it is abroad,” he explained.

“You really should tell Rachel. She’s very worried.”

“I’d like to, but she sees a good deal of Mick Dougherty. She might refute some other notions I’ve been carefully planting in his head. He talks to so many people, you know, that he’s one of the main sources of gossip in town. I’ve done such a thorough job of convincing him I’m a reprobate that he’s already offered to take me on a run to France on the
Mermaid
when she arrives.” He shook his head and laughed at what strange twists this double life was leading him into.

I smiled, too, with relief and joy. Aiglon was what he always seemed to be to me. An upstanding gentleman, even heroic and gallant. And here he sat with me, Constance Pethel, on a rock in the garden at Thornbury, soon speaking again of our visit to Westleigh. Anything could happen in the next week or two. It was even possible that when Aiglon left for good, I might go with him.

It was one of the happiest afternoons of my life. A sort of calm before the storm, but I didn’t know that then. I only knew I was fast falling in love, and I thought Aiglon was, too.

Love is blind, and though I was enamored, I was still able to see that Aiglon was an extremely accomplished liar. How glibly he had explained the interwoven series of lies to me before he broke down and confessed the delightful truth. The condemning letter from the Admiralty was a hoax—there was no treachery, no drunkenness, and no gambling. The lie about planning to sell Thornbury was to buttress the lie that he was short of money. He was a man who could lie his way out of hell, and it disturbed me that he had such a facility for lying.

Perhaps his fondness for me was a lie as well? What reason would he have for this implied lie? He hadn’t actually said in words that he cared for me. Was I being buttered up in preparation for some part in his scheme? Surely not! My every instinct rejected the very idea, but some measure of cold reason remained.

I listened carefully to every word Aiglon said during dinner. He was teasing Rachel about selling Thornbury, asking if she had made up her mind where she would go to live instead. It could have been construed as cruelty, had he not already told me that he would offer her a flat in London. Of course, Rachel was getting off pretty lightly, considering all the stunts she had played on Aiglon over the years.

He joined us in the saloon after dinner for half an hour. First Rachel was urged to take a seat at the clavichord, then I. Rachel could play well and enjoyed playing for company, so I was surprised when she declined, and in no polite way, either. I don’t play at all and declined more politely. Rachel was restless that evening. I put it down to ill humor over losing her sinecure at Thornbury.

When the conversation flagged, Aiglon announced his intention of taking a run into Folkestone. I was sorry but resigned. Rachel couldn’t conceal her delight. As soon as he went upstairs to prepare himself, she left the saloon, and I waited alone, hoping for a word with Aiglon before he left. It was the matter of Madame Bieler that kept me there. Of course he would say he was going to the inn to see what he could learn about the stolen shipment of arms, but his way with a lie troubled me.

“You’re off to the White Hart, are you?” I asked when he came down, dressed for outdoors.

“Duty before pleasure, alas!” he said, sweeping me an elegant bow. “Why couldn’t you have been a man, Constance, so you could come with me? Or even a lady of less stringent propriety,” he added.

“Like Madame Bieler, you mean?” I asked, happy to have found a quick and plausible way of mentioning her name.

“No, I couldn’t wish to see you so changed as all that!” he exclaimed, and laughed lightly.

“You’ve met her then?” I was becoming somewhat adept at implying a lie myself, for I knew that he had, but tried to sound surprised.

“In the course of business only. I’m having myself a new gown made up” was his facetious explanation.

“She’s very pretty.” I mentioned this offhandedly but took a sharp look to read his expression.

“She is, and, more important, she is very French,” he pointed out. There was a meaningful look in his eyes.

“Is she in on it, Aiglon?” I asked. This was a startling idea despite her nationality. Madame had been here before I arrived at Thornbury five years ago. She was such an excellent seamstress that her being French was overlooked. She didn’t seem at all the kind of woman to be involved in anything dangerous. She was so exquisitely feminine. Of course, she retailed the silk and small lots of brandy for Mickey, but there was no danger for her in that.

She was completely an indoors woman. One seldom saw her on the streets. So far as the feminine citizens were concerned, she lived in her shop, and the men would only enlarge her horizons to her saloon. She didn’t receive feminine callers in a social way. She was petite, elegant, and cultivated in accent and speech. It would be hard to imagine a less likely criminal, unless it should be myself.

“That is what I’m endeavoring to find out,” he replied.

“You’ve been to her house, then?”

“I dropped in for a few minutes with Mickey one evening. She doesn’t trust me yet. She served us tea,” he said.

“I see.” I disliked the prissy sound of my own voice.

“Now don’t be like that, Constance,” he wheedled, taking my hand and squeezing it. “It won’t be for long, you know. Why don’t you plan a picnic for us tomorrow afternoon? We’ll have another lesson with the grays.”

This was some consolation. “All right. Where would you like to go?”

“Surprise me,” he suggested. His eyes glowed, and his lips parted in a smile, revealing a flash of white teeth. “The destination is not important; it’s the company I look forward to.
A demain, ma fleur petite. “
On this outburst of French, he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles.

“It is the current style in London to offer the open hand for osculation, Constance, not the fist,” he informed me, biting back a laugh. “Like so.” He pried my fingers loose and kissed the palm of my hand, holding it a moment against his face. His chin and cheeks were perfectly smooth. At these close quarters, I noticed a pleasant scent of cologne emanating from him. I didn’t think these were preparations to seduce the gentlemen at the White Hart.

This done, he cocked his curled beaver at a rakish angle over his eye and left, with a flourish of cane and walking stick. I looked out the window, noticing that he entered his traveling carriage, not the curricle. I was unhappy to think of him going off, possibly to visit Madame Bieler, but I consoled myself with tomorrow’s picnic.

I went to the kitchen to speak to Meg about a lunch. We always took roast squab on our picnics at home. I imagined myself with Aiglon under the trees at some picturesque spot, perhaps the grounds of one of the local castles that were open to the public. We would have wine, cheese, bread, and some of Cook’s wonderful sweets. The subject of Madame Bieler would not arise. He would tell me about his brother, Nicholas, and I’d tell him about Prissy and my other sisters and brothers. Perhaps a discreet mention that Prissy, my younger sister, was on the verge of marriage...

“There’s no squabs in the house,” Meg said in her surly way. “What you’ve got is ham and mutton. There’s an end of Stilton, not too dry and hard. It’s not my day for making bread. What I made yesterday will have to do. Do you want some of the wizened apples put into the basket?”

“No, thank you, Meg. But do you think you could make some cream buns or perhaps your delicious apple tart?”

“I’ve just made a plum cake. Who’s to eat that if I go making up apple tarts?” she demanded. “I’ve got a dozen mouths to feed, with all his lordship’s fine servants ordering up gammon and eggs all hours of the day. I’ve only got ten fingers, miss. It’s eight by the clock, and not a dish is in the water yet from dinner. I’m a servant, not a slave!”

“You’re right, Meg. The plum cake will be fine. Where’s Willard? I’ll want some wine from the cellar.”

“He’s up with the mistress. And
he’s
ragged as well, poor soul.”

“I’ll get the wine,” I said to appease her, for I could see that she was up to her elbows in work.

I took a tallow candle, lit it, and opened the door to the cellar. It was as black as midnight down there, but I left the door open behind me. Before I descended one step, Meg banged it shut, complaining of a draft. I descended into the bowels of the cellar, not afraid, for I’d been there dozens of times and knew the wine racks were close to the bottom of the stairs. I wanted a claret for the meat and a Madeira for afterward.

I found the claret with no trouble and proceeded along the racks toward the end, where the sweet wines were kept. My candle flame was unsteady in the damp, drafty cellar. Its acrid odor was in my nose, and I knew the smoke from the tallow was blacker than it was from beeswax, though I couldn’t see it. The top racks were empty, and I crouched down, lowering my candle to read the labels. I didn’t want a Marsala, only a good Madeira.

Something peculiar struck my ear as I crouched in the darkness. It sounded fearfully like the rustle of a rodent just behind the racks. I set down the bottle of claret, held the candle higher, and peered around the end of the racks. There was a suspicious feeling of motion, but in the shadows I couldn’t actually see anything. It was only a sound and perhaps a movement of air. The sound was heavier than what a rat or a mouse would make, however. I thought it must be Bijou, Meg’s cat, who is occasionally put down to chase the mice.

Meg had been so busy the past few days that it was possible she had forgotten all about Bijou. The poor thing might be thirsty and lonesome. “Here, kitty. Come, Bijou,” I called, taking a step forward. The motion was repeated, retreating now. I looked around the little puddle of lighted area, moving my candle to and fro, wondering why Bijou should be afraid of me. I saw a black leather bag, not unlike a doctor’s satchel, on the floor. I had never seen it before and was curious enough to lift it. It was very heavy.

From within, a metallic sound could be distinguished, possibly a doctor’s instruments. It was an unusual thing to come across in a cellar, particularly since no doctor had ever inhabited Thornbury as far as I knew. I tried the fastener and found that it was not rusted as I thought it would be. It slid open fairly easily. I was just about to open it wide when a pair of black arms flashed out at me. From somewhere above the arms came a ferocious growling sound.

I dropped both satchel and candle and ran for my life. All I could think of was a bogeyman, that imaginary character invented to frighten children. Unreal, that was how it seemed to me. But the single golden coin that fell out of the satchel was not imagined. It plinked with the sound of metal money and rolled in a circle. I ran, screaming, up the stairs into the unwelcoming presence of Meg.

“What’s the matter then, rats?” she asked, scowling. “I’ll put Bijou down there tomorrow, see if I don’t.”

“A man!” I managed to squeak out. “There’s a man down there, Meg.”

“Woosha,” she said, unbelieving. “How would a man get past me in the kitchen? There’s nobody down there but a shadow.”

Still, she called Willard before returning below. Emboldened by their presence, I went with them, telling my story as I went. My guttered candle was on the floor behind the wine racks to substantiate my tale, but of the satchel there was no trace. The possibility of one sole coin still being somewhere on the floor, however, induced Meg to make a thorough search, and there, just under the edge of the wine rack, was the guinea.

“Well, as I live and breathe!” she exclaimed, delighted with her find. “Take a look at this, Willard.” She bit it and declared it to be genuine. The most complete search of the cellar did not discover the mother lode from which it had come, but it did reveal that the outside cellar door was unlocked. It locked from the inside, and was always kept locked. A stranger’s entrance by that means required a cohort in the house.

“God love us, I hope his lordship didn’t have his gold hidden down here, to be stolen out from under our noses!” she exclaimed, and sequestered the coin in the bosom of her dress.

“That’s what it is!” Willard said. “His servants have been in and out of this cellar a dozen times, choosing wines for Lord Aiglon. One of them opened that door and went slipping in from the outside so we’d not see him. It’s not on our heads, Meg. I’ll speak to her ladyship.”

“Lock the door first, gudgeon!” she ordered, and he did.

Then we all went back upstairs and Willard went to Rachel. I was sure she would join us to discuss this major event, but she only sent Willard back down with word that she knew nothing about the matter, and if Aiglon was foolish enough to carry such sums about with him and to employ larcenous servants, it had nothing to do with her.