The Summer of You (20 page)

“Hee!” giggled his other half. “Did you think he was the bogey-man? Mind you, I should be more aggrieved than you! The man made off with my watch; he only got a valise from you!”

“That valise had all my clothes in it!” Mr. Thorndike retorted, his mustache twitching in anger.

At that, Charles and Nevill gave him a look up and down. “Gent did you a favor, old man,” Nevill drawled, sending Charles into a rollicking peal of laughter threatening to take them both down to the floor.

Jane quickly closed the door.

“Nancy,” she addressed the nurse quietly, “perhaps it would be best for my father to retire now?”

Nancy nodded and gently took her charge’s arm. He looked about in confusion, the noise from the hall agitating him in his evening routine. But Nancy smartly maneuvered him out a door that led to the kitchens, promising a glass of wine before sleep.

Jane took a deep and steadying breath before she emerged out into the hall.

“Did you see when he brandished his rifle!” Nevill was saying, in between snorts of laughter. “Egghead here just about lost his wits!”

“Gentlemen!” Jane called out, immediately stilling the foyer, except for a few residual giggles from Charles, who Jane suspected had imbibed about half a flask’s worth of brandy that day on the trip.

“It’s a pleasure to see you. Mr. Thorndike and Mr. Hale, of course, I expected, but Charles, Nevill—how do you come to be in this corner of the world?”

“Little Lady Jane!” Nevill cried, his eyes raking her up and down. It had been a number of years since she had seen Jason’s cronies. “My, didn’t you become all stiff and proper.”

She had changed a bit, she supposed, since she last saw them during her London Season, but she could tell in an instant Nevill had not. Still just as facetious and just as drunk. (Obviously, the other half of the brandy flask had been his.)

“You should have expected us!” Charles interjected. “Because we were expected! I mean to say, we were invited!”

Jane shook off Charles’s puppylike excitability and tried to remain calm. “Jason invited you?” she asked.

The puppy nodded. Jane tried her best to keep the steam from coming out her ears.

“And we ran into these fellows at the posting inn in Stockport!” Charles continued. “Nevill said since we were all going to the same place, they should ride up the rest of the way in our carriage—which was cracking good of Nevill, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Nevill agreed, “and it was all going rather swimmingly, until about an hour outside of this . . . removed place, we ran into some difficulty.”

One look at the faces of Mr. Hale and Mr. Thorndike, and Jane could tell the ride had been less than swimming, even before the difficulty. “Did I hear you correctly before?” she asked the two stewards. “You were overset by a highwayman?”

Nevill nodded again, but luckily, Mr. Hale was quicker with his tongue and managed to answer. “Yes, it happened on the road to Windermere. Suddenly, the horses reared up, and the driver rapped on the roof of the carriage. Then a rifle barrel comes through the open window.” Mr. Hale shook his head and mopped his rather moist brow. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but do you think I might have a glass of water? It’s dreadfully hot.”

Jane nodded and ushered the men into the recently abandoned drawing room, where she rang for a tray and some water—and Charles and Nevill found less sober refreshment in the sideboard. As the gentlemen made themselves comfortable, Jane fetched a footman to her and addressed him under her breath.

“I need you to go into the village and wake Sir Wilton, as he is the magistrate,” she said. “Tell him what has occurred and bring him here.” Then she added, lower, “and dispatch someone to find my brother and bring him home. Immediately.”

The footman bowed and scampered off to do his mistress’s bidding. Jane allowed herself a moment to glower.

Jason had better have the world’s best excuse for inviting Charles and Nevill. He had better have brought them here to perform manual labor or to publish a study on the effects of the northern climate to the uninitiated. But Jane feared that the only reason Charles and Nevill were here was that Jason was desperate to be dragged back down to their level of male stupidity.

And Jane would be damned if she would sit by and allow such a thing to happen.

Jason was found quickly, and nearby. However, as much as Jane wanted to deride him for being drunk in some inn, he was, in fact, perfectly sober and simply out in the stables, discovering he was bored enough to oversee the brushing down of his Midas himself. When Charles and Nevill’s carriage was brought in, he rushed back into the house and was met by the murderous stare of his sister.

He was appropriately chagrined. But not before he embraced his friends and was slapped several times on the back in return, while being filled in on their travels.

Then he noticed the stewards—and it was his turn to give a murderous stare to his sister.

“What are Hale and Thorndike doing here?” he growled, once he pulled her aside.

“I invited them.”

“I’d ask why, but I fear the answer.”

“Because I wanted to help you.” She narrowed her eyes. “I’d ask why Charles and Nevill are here, but I, too, fear the answer.”

“Because I wanted to annoy you, Jane,” Jason sniped. “It couldn’t be because I’m lonely and miss my friends . . .”

Jane was about to retort hotly, but for the moment she and Jason would have to remain quietly locked in their battle, as Sir Wilton arrived, and in a perfect lather.

“It has gone too far this time!” he cried, backed up by the frequent nodding of the men he had managed to find at such an hour to bring with him: Mr. Cutler, likely happy to be out of his overcrowded house, two tenant farmers, and the blacksmith Big Jim. Big Jim was likely brought to intimidate should a suspect be captured, as he was overly tall and strong. Although he lost some of his intimidation, standing in the foyer of the Cottage gaping in awe.

“I quite agree,” Lady Jane replied over the nodding and gaping. She stepped over to ring for tea. She had a remarkably full house to contend with. “That is why I have consulted with—”

“This time Sir Wilton will not tolerate it!” Mr. Cutler sputtered. “Worth cannot avoid it any longer. We will settle this once and for all!”

Jane’s head snapped back to face Mr. Cutler. “What?” she cried, turning to Sir Wilton. “You cannot possibly think Byrne Worth had anything to do with this.”

But Sir Wilton remained silent, stewing and grumbling.

“Why?” Jane continued. “Because you dislike him? How can you even dislike him now—considering the great service he has done for your son?”

“Jane—” Jason stepped in to argue but was stopped by her hand.

“Let her speak,” Nevill whispered to Jason, but loud enough to annoy Jane. “Your sister’s always more fun when her color’s up.”

Jane refused to dignify that with a response, instead focusing on the here and now—namely, just how high Sir Wilton’s color had risen.

“His service, while admirable, has nothing to do with the matter at hand,” the now plum-faced gentleman said with a nod from Cutler. “It is the fact that his whereabouts are unaccounted for.”

“Have you asked Mr. Worth his whereabouts this evening?”

“No—it was where we were headed next.”

Jane tilted her head and regarded her adversary. “My brother’s whereabouts were unaccounted for until a few minutes ago. Perhaps he is the highwayman.”

“Don’t think that’s likely, my lady,” Charles piped up. “Think we would have recognized Jase, even if we have had a sip or two.”

“Or twelve,” Jane was certain she heard Mr. Thorndike say under his breath.

“And, madam, the fact of the matter is, Mr. Worth has not been able to verify his whereabouts for any of the attacks,” Sir Wilton reasoned. “At least, he has not done so to me.”

“Madam, if I may,” Mr. Hale calmly interjected, and not a moment too soon, because Jane felt her color rising to unparalleled heights, “perhaps it would be best to go and see this Mr. Worth.”

All eyes turned to Mr. Hale. “As that one said”—he indicated Charles—“we would have recognized your brother. Perhaps we can identify this Mr. Worth as our attacker.” Then carefully, to Jane, “or, rule him out.”

Jane eyed Sir Wilton, to see how he took this proposal. It seemed to temper his rapid desire to crucify Mr. Worth, because he remembered proper protocols, grumbling, “Well, yes, of course. You would have to make an identification, Mr. Hale.”

“That’s all well and good,” Nevill argued, “but I would prefer a rest before I make any identifications.”

“Yes, I ain’t going to go now!” Charles whined. “It’s so late, and we just got here . . . and oh, look, tea’s arrived,” he gestured to the maids who were laying out trays of cold meats and pastries along with pots of steaming tea.

“Well, I ain’t going to let the man make a run for it!” Sir Wilton growled. Jane was about to open her mouth, but for once, it was Jason who acted as the voice of reason.

“Come, sir. The man’s never made a run for it before. Why should he start now?” Jason argued. The reasonableness in his voice was followed up by a clap on the shoulder. “It is terribly late, and my guests have just arrived. Surely they would like to wash. And you and your men would like a glass of wine—”

“While you take down a report,” Jane added quickly. “After all, you must take official reports of the robberies, don’t you?”

And thus, any idea of traipsing out into the hot summer night was ruled out, as Sir Wilton, Mr. Cutler, the farmers, Big Jim, the stewards, Charles, and Nevill all tucked into an evening repast.

Jason eyed his sister speculatively as they sat down together.

“What?” she asked, catching his gaze.

“Nothing,” he replied. “I was simply unaware of your interest in the law.”

“I’m interested in seeing it executed fairly—and even you have to admit that Reston is in a lather to capture the highwayman.”

“Understandably, considering the havoc he’s wreaked.”

“All the more reason for its proper employment,” Jane countered in her sweetest tones, “and not going off and arresting men without cause.” She paused for a moment and considered her brother. “I’m sure Dr. Berridge would agree with me.”

It was unfair, really, for her to mention the doctor. But she knew her brother suspected that she had formed an attachment to him—and if he became suspicious for a moment that her true interest was Byrne Worth, well . . .

It would be giving up her secret. The one fragile thing that made the days go by. Even in light of her recent cowardice, her oddly changeable and deepening feelings, she couldn’t let Jason know. Not now. Not yet.

“Perhaps I should send him a missive,” she continued. “After all, it would be worthwhile to have his medical opinion available tomorrow, especially considering the state of Mr. Worth’s injury.”

But even with Jane’s goading, all Jason did was shrug and say, “Likely a good idea,” and head into the drawing room.

“Jason!” she cried, forcing him to turn around before he reached the door. “I was unaware of your interest in seeing the law executed fairly.”

Jason was thoughtful for a moment, considering his answer. “I may not like the man personally, but I saw what Mr. Worth did for Joshua Wilton, too. Sir Wilton is just under pressure from Ambleside and larger towns to take care of this ‘problem,’ I imagine. He’ll come round.”

Jane regarded her brother—her reckless, feckless brother—with something akin to admiration.

“What?” he asked, growing sheepish.

“Nothing,” she replied with a smile. Although she did have one last question: “You would defend the man . . . even as it’s your friends who were robbed?”

At that, Jason smiled—his reckless, feckless smile. “Are you joking? Charles and Nevill will dine out on this story for a month. It’ll be the best thing that happens to them this trip, I’ll wager.”

THE next morning, a coterie of gentlemen and Lady Jane descended upon Byrne Worth’s small house that edged Merrymere.

Needless to say, he was surprised.

He counted no fewer than ten men—recognizing the Marquis of Vessey, Sir Wilton, Dr. Berridge, Mr. Cutler the town solicitor, a few men he guessed were tenant farmers, and the brute force of the local blacksmith. The four men he didn’t recognize were divided easily into two camps: the sober and neat, and the rumpled and hungover.

Well, this should be interesting.

“Gentlemen,” he called out in greeting from the wrought-iron chair and table he had placed on his front porch. “I’m afraid I would have made more tea had I known to expect you.”

He was not dressed for receiving guests. He had recently concluded his morning swim—the first he’d partaken in since his confinement. His breeches were plastered to his thighs, he had on no shoes or shirt—just a towel wrapped around his shoulders. His hair was dripping down in points, wet from the lake, but he ran a quick hand through it. “My lady,” he acknowledged, leveraging himself up from his seat and putting his weight on the table as he bowed to Jane.

She curtsied back politely, murmuring, “Please sit, Mr. Worth.”

If she or any of the gentlemen were averse to her seeing him in his current state of undress, they did not mention it. They were intent upon a mission, it seemed. Her eyes never left his face as he thankfully took his seat, but he could tell she was wary, watchful. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as he addressed the crowd of gentlemen.

“My lord, Sir Wilton, Doctor,” he acknowledged in quick succession. “How can I help you?”

“Oh, don’t bother, Jase,” one of the hungover bucks said. “I don’t recognize him.”

“It seems there was another highwayman attack last night, Mr. Worth,” Jason explained. “My friends were the victims.”

Byrne felt his jaw tighten. “I see,” he growled. “And you are here to accuse me?”

“No!” Jane cried, before she went silent again, a blush covering her freckles.

“What Lady Jane means to say is,” Jason continued, “Sir Wilton has taken statements from my friends and now asks that they see if you can be identified or effectively ruled out. Correct, Sir Wilton?”

“Humph,” was the ambiguous response. “Where were you last evening, Worth?”

“Here,” he replied slowly and clearly.

“None with you?”

“My man rode to Manchester the day before last; he should be back sometime today.”

“Then you have no alibi.”

Byrne felt his temper flare. He tamped it down. “But you have my word.”

Sir Wilton indicated the four gentlemen to his left. “Would you be so kind as to let these men look at you?”

Byrne narrowed his vision to look over the four unknown gentlemen who stood in a line, looking him up and down, except the last one, who had already spoken and seemed to be dozing on his feet.

“I’m sorry,” the thinner of the sober gentlemen said after a moment, “I cannot tell.”

“There, you see?” Jane said quickly. “He’s not your man; let him enjoy his tea in peace.”

“Hold on a moment, my lady,” Sir Wilton countered. “Mr. Hale, you said you could not tell. Explain, please.”

“Well, just that, sir. I cannot tell if he is the man who robbed us, or isn’t. ’Twas very dark, you see, and the man had his face covered, and commanded we keep our gazes down.” He looked to his friend for confirmation. “Mr. Thorndike?”

“Quite,” the mustachioed Mr. Thorndike replied. “I had thought I would be able to recognize a voice, but . . . I’m sorry.”

“Can we go now?” the nondozing gentleman whined. “It’s bloody hot, and I’ve had far less sleep than I require.”

“Excellent suggestion, Charles,” Jane said smoothly. “Mr. Worth, if you would excuse us . . .”

“No need, my lady. Thank you for acknowledging my presence and not acting as if I were invisible.” His eyebrow went up as he looked over the gentlemen of the party, the one controlled movement he allowed to express his anger. But at least one man did not heed the warning of that black wing.

“Hold a moment,” Mr. Cutler said, his voice concerned and paternal. “Mr. Worth, I thought your leg too strained for activity.”

Byrne was not used to people knowing his whole history, medical or otherwise, so even though he could trace the source of the information back to the ladies of Reston, it still made him edgy.

“It has been,” he replied, his voice a paced warning. “But I am too strained to be still a moment longer, and so, resumed my swimming,” he answered, his voice as cold as ice. And really, on such a day as this, where the sun threatened to bake them into the earth by noon, one would think these gentlemen would have noticed.

But they didn’t.

“Aha!” Sir Wilton cried, following his friend’s logic. “If you are well enough to swim, then you are well enough to be seated on a horse last evening.”

Byrne would have rolled his eyes if he weren’t so intent at staring daggers at the foolish man. And Sir Wilton was inclined to throw caution to the wind and stare right back.

“On the contrary,” Dr. Berridge spoke up, dissolving any tension. “I suspect that had Mr. Worth ridden a horse last evening, he would not have felt well enough to swim this morning.”

Byrne saw Sir Wilton shift his glare to Dr. Berridge. A crack or two showing in the friendship, Byrne thought with a wicked satisfaction. Hopefully this little betrayal wouldn’t ruin the doctor’s chances with Miss Victoria, but Byrne still had to be a little grateful for this smattering of common sense.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Worth,” Jason began saying, tugging at Sir Wilton’s arm, as the crowd tried its best to disperse.

“All right, Mr. Worth, it seems that the only way to resolve this situation,” Sir Wilton said, pulling his arm free of Jason’s hand, “is for you to allow a search of your property.”

“What?” Jane cried, followed by an “I say!” from the doctor and a surprising, “Yes, let’s!” from one of the tenant farmers. Apparently, there had been far too many dramatics without any shattering of china and rummaging for his taste.

“Not on your life,” Byrne replied easily, calmly. Too calmly. His hand shook as he rolled his cane between his palms to calm himself.

“You, Sir Wilton, have been in my house just this past week. As have you, Mr. Cutler,” Byrne pointed out, to Wilton’s consternation.

“Yes, but we weren’t looking for anything,” Sir Wilton argued, but Byrne still shook his head, so he turned to his friend.

“Mr. Cutler, surely you can think of some way . . .”

The solicitor looked bewildered for a moment. Then . . . “My lord,” Mr. Cutler turned to Jason, “as he’s a tenant of yours, you may give permission.”

“Actually, I cannot,” Jason replied. “First of all, if he was a tenant, he would be my father’s, not mine. And secondly, the house belongs to him; it was willed to him. Its contents are his and his alone.” Then, to an astonished Jane, he added, “I looked it up.”

“Then let me in, damn you!” Sir Wilton cried to Byrne, coming just short of stepping onto the porch and barreling through.

“Ah ah ah,” Byrne wagged a finger at Sir Wilton, “if you step on my porch, you are guilty of trespassing.”

“Please,” he said, the word coming out of his mouth in a long, slow hiss.

“Why on earth would I ever allow such an invasion?”

“Because I don’t want to accuse you anymore!” Sir Wilton cried, sending more than Byrne’s eyebrows up with shock. Indeed, Cutler looked as if he had swallowed a rather large insect. “I don’t want to have to be the man who arrests the man who saved my son!” He paced back and forth in a regular lather. “What I want is to go to my wife, and the town hall, and the magistrate of Windermere and say that I have concluded beyond a shadow of a doubt that Mr. Worth is not the highwayman. But I cannot do that if you bar me from this house!”

He broke off, breathing hard, all his spleen vented. The reasoned argument struck at the core of the assembled group, Dr. Berridge and Jason looking at the red-faced Wilton with consideration. Even Jane . . .

“Er, Mr. Worth, maybe it would be prudent to allow . . .” Jason began, coughed, and then began again, “That is . . . if you have nothing to hide.”

Byrne set his jaw, took a moment. He could let them in. They would probably glance about, check his trunks, his writing table, and then tip their hats and leave. They were very unlikely to find anything. He saw Jane’s deep brown eyes, wide and beseeching, intrigued by the idea. He could do it. He could put this whole highwayman thing behind him, be accepted by the town, be left in peace. Unless . . .

Unless one of them thought to look beneath the floorboards.

“I have nothing to hide,” he said finally, looking up from his feet, “and if I did, I would not have allowed your wife, Sir Wilton, or the rest of the ladies in town, or the gentlemen, for that matter, to traipse through for the past week.”

“But a search—” Sir Wilton began, only to be cut off by Byrne’s vehemence.

“But nothing, sir! I have been more than accommodating for the past week to the whims of this town, lying down like the most wretched dog to win their favor. And I tire of it!” He stood, raising his cane in front of him like a sword, a weapon. “I will not have you or anyone else entering my house! I am done with you all! Begone!”

No one said anything for several moments. Byrne held his gaze steady, his breath forceful but even.

“You will not allow us in?” Sir Wilton asked cautiously.

Byrne pounded his cane on the wooden porch, a terrible and startling bang, cutting off Sir Wilton or any other entreaty.

Wilton’s shoulders slumped as he shook his head. “Then you leave me no choice but to still consider you suspect.”

So be it, Byrne thought, damned once again to his unhappy station. The crowd seemed no more pleased with the outcome. Jason, Dr. Berridge, Mr. Hale, and Mr. Thorndike all looked aggrieved.

“Are we done, then?” one of the pale and tired young fools asked. “Good, let’s go. Jase, you owe us one hell of a game of cards for this.”

With the quiet murmur of, “Sorry to intrude on your morning,” from one of the gentlemen, the party turned and began to walk up the path by the lakeshore, back to the Cottage, and away from his offensive self. Only Jane lingered for the briefest moment, the disappointment and pity apparent on her face.

Pity. Now she definitely pitied him.

The group disappeared into the trees. And suddenly he was alone.

You fool.

That lingering voice in his head drifted back, washing over him like waves on the shore, stripping back layers of sand. Suddenly the day was too bright, he could not abide the pure life of the sun. He hobbled indoors.

You fool, it repeated, over and over and over. Go on, then. If Jane pities you, there is no one left to care. Dobbs is in Manchester, your brothers all the way in London. Who’s to care if you pull up the floorboards? Who’s to care if you allow yourself oblivion? After all, you destroyed all your goodwill in town; why not destroy everything else you’ve worked so hard to build?

It began to taunt him, that voice, echoing in his hollow chest.

Do it.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror.

Do it!

He was bereft, stripped bare.

DO IT!

“No!” he yelled to the empty room, banging his cane into the cluttered side table, oversetting no small number of enamel flowered candlesticks. The stupid things shook on delicate wires, bouncing from being jostled—and as he watched those enamel flowers wobble, he began to laugh.

Laughter. First at the assembly, now at porcelain flowers. He had earned back the ability to laugh at his situation. Jane had given that to him. He would never jeopardize it again.

You find this funny? You’re in quite the scrape.

“I know,” he answered to no one in particular. “And I have no idea how to fix it.”

His eyes fell to the packet of papers on his writing desk. The copied pages from the magistrate ledger. He’d read them over twice now, but . . .

Why not start there?

Seemed like enough of an idea. And so Byrne sat down and began to read, again, scouring the pages for what he might have missed.

For what might save him.

It was hours of pure hell before Jane was able to again leave the Cottage. Charles and Nevill were actually the easiest to accommodate, as they simply wanted their beds. Mr. Hale and Mr. Thorndike, having endured the torment of the last few days, were very eager to begin working with Jason, which was the purpose of their traveling so far. But Jason did not plan on accommodating them. Luckily, the Duke was up and about by now and having a good morning, so much so that he monopolized the stewards over a pot of tea in the drawing room, and Jane felt it necessary to help Nancy keep an eye for signs of strain.

Big Jim the blacksmith was due back at his smithy, and the farmers had already taken a morning away from their work, and so they took their leave quickly, but Sir Wilton was of a mind to rant and pace. And he decided the best place to do so was in the library of the Cottage—and incidentally wear a hole in Jane’s mother’s previously impeccable carpet. Jason, Mr. Cutler, and Dr. Berridge were on hand to calm him. But occasionally, Jane could hear an expletive float across the hall.