The Notorious Bridegroom (5 page)

Bryce waved him on. “Yes, and do they know where their missing brother is?”

“No, their lips were closed tighter than a nun’s legs. I told them as how the boy owed me money from a card game, and I was meaning to see he came through with it. The one brother blathered on about being his brother’s keeper and such. Couldn’t follow it much. One of the other fellows offered to show me his garden of rutabagas, but before I could find out more, the older one threw me out!” Indignation showed plainly on his face.

“So his family either does not know where young Mandeley is or they are not saying,” Bryce said.

“That’s the way I’d tell it, my lord.”

“And the girl?”

“Sorry, no luck there. No one in Winchelsea remembered a girl like that. There are some what say she may have only been here for the Mop Fair and got a job elsewhere.”

Bryce rubbed his brow and responded thoughtfully, “Yes, hired at the Mop Fair. I had thought—no matter. But I believe she is still around here. We should be able to determine from the locals who hired her. Can you continue that business?”

Red Tattoo smiled. “I shall deliver her and that Mandeley fellow to you on a silver tray.”

Bryce grinned. Red Tattoo, his friend and valet, had overwhelming confidence in his own abilities, most of which was justified. Often were the times that Bryce was glad to have Red watch out for him.

Keegan told Bryce with a wry smile, “This woman must mean something to you.”

Shrugging indifferently, he replied, “Perhaps. I think she might lead to fairly interesting answers.”

Another long day passed quietly, too quietly. Patience sat in the servants’ hall alone finishing her dinner, thinking about events of earlier in the day. She had seen the earl only once in the morning after his return from an early-morning ride when he stopped to talk with Mr. Gibbs at the front door. From an open window, she had studied him unnoticed, objectively, she thought, belying the fast pace of her heart.

His thick brown hair touched his collar. He wore no coat, and his white sleeves were rolled up to reveal tanned, strong forearms. His hands rested casually on his hips. She remembered those strong hands that had warmed her skin. She shook her head. It simply wouldn’t do to remember that night, she admonished herself.

He had a lean, hard look about him, and seemed as if he were never truly at rest, with a compelling countenance warmed by the sun, no doubt attracting many women.

Not that it mattered to Patience, of course. She imagined how disappointed all of his conquests would be when they learned he was a traitor to his country.

When he’d headed back toward the stables, she could not keep her eyes off his formidable, muscled form, outlined in revealing buffed breeches. He strode with an easy assurance and yet lightly, almost as if he knew someone watched him. She’d suppressed a shiver that swirled up her spine, and returned to the required task of mixing white vitriol and sugar for boot polish.

As usual her thoughts were not far from the man who had drawn her and her brother into this little drama of his.

Patience left the servants’ hall and climbed the stairs to the kitchen, which she found empty. Dinner long over, the clock would soon strike ten. The earl and his friends enjoyed libations in the drawing room. Melenroy reclined in her worn seat by the fireplace, snoring while probably dreaming of more tasteless dishes to cook. It had been three days since beginning her still-room maid adventure. Her patience was growing as short as brother James’s sermons were long.

Just then, Lem burst through the kitchen door, glanced around, and ran over to her side. “Miss, I ’ear something. It’s a whinin’ sound. I think it’s comin’ from behind the stables. Come with me and see what it is.”

“Did you ask Lucky about it, Lem?”

“Oh, Lucky can’t ’elp, ’e’s asleep in ’is cups. Ye got to help me. It may be bad.”

As always, Patience found his little round, lively face hard to ignore. “Show me where you heard the noise.”

The back door slammed behind them as they ran outside swinging a lantern, the half moon hidden in the shadow of the clouds. They swiftly ventured across the lawn, colored black in the night, to the stables.

Crickets hummed softly in the unseasonably warm night as the sound of the waves rushing to shore haunted the darkness, even at this distance. A perfect night for a stroll, but a more pressing concern made them quicken their steps.

As Patience and Lem rounded the stables they paused to listen for a noise out of place in the country air. By and by, Patience began to believe what Lem had heard was an owl or perhaps a lost sheep.

“There it is!” he shouted exuberantly.

Indeed, a howl that sounded like an animal in pain split the calm night. A second cry pinpointed the noise. It came from the copse of woods sitting back on a slight slope from the stables.

They raced toward the noise, and at the edge of the woods, they found him. Gulliver, the earl’s greyhound. Patience placed the lantern nearby and saw immediately that the quaking animal’s front paw was caught in a rabbit trap. Using pressure, with Lem’s help she gently pulled open the trap and released the dog’s paw, her hands inked with blood. Patience bristled over the injustice and pain to the animal. Poaching had long been a crime proven mostly unstoppable.

Lem crouched by Patience as she tended to the weak animal, petting Gulliver’s sleek coat with devotedness. “’s such a nice dog. Why did ’e ’ave to get ’urt?” Patience heard the tears in Lem’s voice.

“I don’t know, Lem. But he’ll be fine, we’ll take care of him,” she rushed to assure him.

“The master will be quite angry at the poacher what set this trap,” he said solemnly.

Patience nodded. “Lem, go quick and ask Lucky to bring a cart to carry Gulliver back to the stables.”

Eager to do his part, Lem flew across the expanse of meadow to the stables while she remained behind to comfort Gulliver. She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and wrapped the wound several times to staunch the bleeding. All the while she murmured soothing words to the shaking dog as she stroked his soft fur over and over.

Not long after, Lem and Lucky returned with a cart. The three of them carefully lifted the squirming animal onto the cart and turned toward the stables, with Lucky pulling the cart behind him in a zigzag pattern, given his slightly foxed state. Patience and Lem followed close behind; Gulliver’s eyes never left Patience.

Once safely in the stables, Lucky and Patience worked to create a poultice for the dog. The night air must have helped wake Lucky because as Patience held the greyhound’s head in her lap, the groomsman was lucid enough to apply the thick mixture of water and bruised linseed, and rewrapped the dog’s paw with a clean bandage. Eager to help, Lem provided water, which Gulliver lapped up.

The three of them sat on the floor of the stables and watched over their patient for a time.

Needing to stretch her tired muscles, and confident that Lucky and Lem would see to Gulliver, Patience rose and wandered out of the stables, wanting more than anything to pull off her uncomfortable disguise.

She stopped abruptly when she heard the sound of horses’ hooves pounding down the lane. Puzzled, she looked back to the trees which lined the road and caught a glimmer of a light from a lantern.

Could the earl have an appointment this evening? This might be important. Perhaps if she stayed in the shelter of the trees, she could avoid detection. Surely his lordship was about to betray his hand.

Stars dotted the night sky, forming a quiltlike pattern over slumbering angels whilst mortal men fought their battle below. Where had that poetic nonsense originated from? Bryce wiped the slight moisture from his brow. He wanted to take off his coat but couldn’t. Not when he expected a visitor.

Here in the woods near his home, he planned for any unforeseen events, fingering the steel of his pistol warming in his hand. He had no idea why the French spy had chosen this location, but did not question it. He thought of Keegan back at the house, who was annoyed that he was not invited to this party of two.

But Bryce could take no chances. If the spy thought a trap lay in store for him, all his plans would be for naught.

Shadowy trees shook their leaves in conversation. Strange popping and crackling noises filled the air from a frenzy of animals embarking on their nightly activities. Bryce had relied on Red to arrange this rendezvous, and his valet had not disappointed before.

Finally, after these months of cat-and-mouse games, his mission seemed to be nearing completion. Resting lightly against a large waist-high boulder, he prepared himself to meet perhaps Carstairs’s murderer or Sansouche. He did not know whom to expect, but vowed to unmask a villain this night.

Periodically he flashed his oil lantern toward the road in signal to his prey. A glance at the darkened house assured him all occupants were abed.

Suddenly, a whisper of wind rustled his senses, warning him of someone’s approach. Soft, muffled horse’s hooves rhythmically padded across the forest bed. His horse, Defiance, moved restlessly nearby.

He quickly reviewed his “turncoat” plan. Bryce hoped to convince the spy that he would be willing to trade his country’s secrets for a handsome purse. And in the process Bryce hoped to learn who led the nest of spies here on the coast, and, more importantly, the date of the planned French invasion. He had to convince the spy he was one of them in order to accomplish his plan.

A gruff, raspy voice disturbed the dead of night. “My lord, this is indeed a victory for France. I would have you show your face and proof of your loyalty to our cause.” The spy slowly approached the clearing on horseback; a black mask and black greatcoat cloaked the rider’s identity.

Bryce leaned an elbow on the rock. “You ask for trust but you remain atop your horse and with a mask? Can we not meet face to face, eye to eye?”

“If we were civil men, I would have been asked to your study and not to the woods.” The black stallion remained steady beneath tightly controlled reins.

“Ah, then we must not be civil men. Let us not waste our time. Our meeting here was for your safety, not mine.” Bryce’s words were cool and dispassionate.

A snicker behind the mask. “My safety? Your concern is touching. My contact tells me you are anxious to take Carstairs’s place. Why the hurry? After all, he is dead.” The throaty voice breathed smugness.

Bryce’s jaw tightened, but he offered no riposte.

The masked spy continued, “Although many might wish to join our forces, all do not serve. Why should I consider you?”

“You already have, your presence implies that. Before I tell you what I have to offer, I would like to know if I deal with a second or Napoleon’s own man.” Brow furrowed, Bryce stared at the figure, trying to discover any clues to his identity. The lantern at his feet helped little to discern any distinguishable features. But he was certain the rider was not Sansouche.

“Due to your worthy status”—the masked rider dipped his head in mock honor—“I thought to meet you myself. I know much of you and believe not that you wish to change sides. What can you offer me that might change my mind?”

Bryce controlled the urge to knock the pompous ass off his horse. He sauntered closer. “Do your sources tell you that I have the locations of all England’s military army settlements along the coast? Of which I am looking for a buyer. Is this enough proof?”

He reached his hand up to his coat but his actions stalled.

“My bullet will be between your eyes before your next breath.”

Patience settled comfortably into a tree with knotted vines draping old and young branches. The earl and his friend met a few yards away, but through the foliage it proved difficult to see very well. The wind blowing and the night suddenly noisy, she even had difficulty following their conversation. She dared move no closer without being caught.

A few words floated back to her tree nest. Could the earl actually be planning to sell his secrets to another spy?

Biting her lip in frustration, she decided to move farther out on a dipping limb. She felt safe among the profuse scattering of leaves and gnarling branches, and confident her movements would not be detected by the spies.

Patience took a deep breath to slow her racing heart and edged closer to the edge, the rough bark poking her sweaty hands. So intent and excited about hearing words of great import, she scarcely noticed the branch trembling beneath her weight.

A loud crack signaled her first sign of trouble before she felt the support give way beneath her. Patience clawed wildly for a lifeline but came up empty.

The pistol-sounding pop alarmed the other forest visitors. They both sensed a trap, and the rider spun around and shot wildly in the direction of the noise, then turned to fire at Bryce.

But the earl had vanished. With a jerk, the stallion and rider leapt back into the satanic folds of the forest.

Bryce watched in anger from the shelter of the rock, his pistol cocked, as his prey flew from his hands. He could hardly prove his loyalty to the spy by shooting at him, although he acknowledged to himself it was probably too late.

What was the noise? The Frenchman certainly would not have shot at his own men. Could it have been Red or Kilkennen following him? After a quick search in the mossy rooted forest, he caught sight of a still figure at the foot of a nearby tree. A trained finger on the trigger, he slowly approached and studied the scene carefully.

The broken branch nearby explained everything but the mysterious intruder’s identity. At a glance, Bryce could tell it was not one of his friends. Upon closer inspection, he discerned the figure to be a woman in a common housemaid uniform.

Anxiously, he turned the woman over and felt for a heartbeat. Steady and strong. He let out a sigh of relief. He did not know where she had come from or what she was doing here, but he would glean all of her answers, and soon. First, he must see to her welfare.

A quick examination revealed her left arm had been shot and blood seeped out of the wound. He whipped out a handkerchief to bind her injury, knowing he had to get her back to the house to care for her. He picked up the unconscious woman in his arms, found her spectacles nearby, and mounted Defiance. They managed a slow procession back to the house with Bryce holding the slight form in his arms. What had she been doing out here? Spying? On whom?

Able to slip undetected into the back entrance and then into his room, Bryce laid the stilled woman gently on his bed. He had nowhere else to take her that would not bring on endless questions by the curious. The young woman’s countenance was as pale as the white linens on which she lay. He threw off his greatcoat to attend to her. She had not yet awakened, and Bryce thought to have a physician called.

He removed her shoes and cloak before turning to her mobcap which covered much of her face. He reached up and cautiously removed her cap. Deep brown hair spilled across his pillow in a sweep of silky heat. Bryce rose and stepped back, too astonished for words.

It was she. The woman from the fair, the one he had been searching for, Mrs. Grundy. And somehow, he was not surprised.