Strange Capers (6 page)

“What a slow bunch of tops! And
have
you met someone here?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“What a slow top
you
are, too! I shall find you a
parti
before I leave. I hereby make a solemn promise, Miss Constance Pethel, that you won’t be required to return home hanging your head in shame.”

“What a strange thing to say!”

His brows lifted and a rather diabolical smile settled upon his face. “You must have noticed by now that I’m rather a strange, impetuous man,” he answered, then whipped the horses into motion and drove down into the village.

Rachel’s plan of getting him to pay for the shopping was nipped in the bud. He left me the minute we arrived and went his own way, arranging to meet me at the hotel in an hour. I saw him twice during the intervening hour. In one instance he was going into the real estate office—for what reason I couldn’t imagine, unless Mr. Roundtree, the agent, was one of his gambling buddies. The other time he was talking to Mickey outside of the “everything” store. We met at ten-thirty, as planned.

“Are you in a hurry to get home?” he asked.

“Not particularly, but I don’t wish to delay my package too long. Fish,” I explained, handing it to him to stow in the curricle.

“This won’t take long. I was chatting to Mickey, and he invited me over to the headquarters of the militia to meet the officer and discuss their preparations.”

The drills were executed at the east end of the Leas. The headquarters consisted of a little room at the back of the Church of St. Mary and St. Eanswith, which is situated there. The church was heavily involved in the whole defense, and the minister kept watch for bonfires that would send him to ring the bells. The officer was Captain Cokewell, a retired army man. We were considered fortunate to have a real military man in charge of the militia.

We drove directly along to the church, and I saw Mickey’s fine bay mare tethered outside. As we drove up, Mickey and Captain Cokewell came out to greet us. Mickey made the introduction, and Cokewell invited Aiglon in to have a look at his maps and plan of strategy. The defenses were rather pathetic, really—just the furze stacks, men to keep an eye on the coast, and, of course, the local merchants and farmers, who would defend their land with cabbage stumps and hurdle sticks or whatever ancient weapons they possessed. Cokewell realized these inadequacies and urged Aiglon to speak to the powers in London about getting real weapons, while I sat silently on a chair in the corner.

Cokewell wore a moustache and whiskers and possessed a loud, military sort of voice. “We’ve been promised weapons for months,” he told Aiglon.

Aiglon rubbed his forehead, perplexed. “I seem to remember hearing that weapons were on their way to this area some time ago. Did the army preempt them?” he asked.

“Devil a bit of it. They never reached the area at all,” Cokewell said. “The load was coming by sea from Bristol and was pirated. The ship had put in at the Isle of Wight for the night, and no one worried about it. The captain gave his lads the night off, leaving a few guards aboard, of course. The bunch of them got drunk and the guns vanished. I’ll tell you this much, milord, they never showed up in
England,”
he said. His wise face said as clearly as words that the guns had been spirited across the Channel to France.

“I heard nothing about that in London!” Aiglon exclaimed, horrified.

“You wouldn’t have, would you? The navy put a cap on the story to save their faces. We’ve been trying to get another shipment ever since. Sending them by land is the safer way. The Frenchies don’t dare come right into England.”

“What makes you think it was the Frenchies who took the load from the Isle of Wight?” Aiglon asked. “Without an English informer how could they even have known it was there?”

“It would be the smugglers who tipped them off,” Cokewell answered unthinkingly. Mickey made a little coughing sound. “I don’t mean
you,
Dougherty, obviously,” Cokewell added. “Your loyalty is not in question. I don’t know what I’d do without this lad,” he added to Aiglon, while clapping Mickey on the shoulder in a fatherly way. “He’s the best militiaman we have. Some evening you must come out to see his troop parade.”

“You might use your connections to discover who
did
tip the French,” Aiglon suggested to Mickey.

“Assuming I knew anything about it at all—which I don’t—it could cost a man’s life to squeal on the Gentlemen,” Mickey exclaimed. “They operate by gangs, you see, so it’d be the Wight gang that handled the job. Not the Folkestone gang. The last person who’d ever hear anything is a member of another gang.”

“Still, it seems more probable to me that it was a member of the Folkestone gang who knew the arms were on their way,” Aiglon suggested. “The Channel is full of ships. How did they know that particular one held arms?”

“They’ve ways of knowing,” Mickey answered unhelpfully. “The fact of the matter is, the Gentlemen are the first ones to have the finger pointed at them. Any number of people knew about that cargo. The lads in London who ordered it in the first place, the navy, every man on the ship, and, likely as not, the officials in Wight knew, too. But it’s the poor old Gentlemen who take the blame for it all.”

“There’s something in what Mickey says,” Cokewell defended. “In any case, land is a safer means of transportation for the next load.”

“If there
is
a next load,” Aiglon added doubtfully.

“If there isn’t, then the fall of England is on the heads of the powers at Whitehall. And on the head of any gentleman who doesn’t do everything in his power to get us those weapons,” Cokehall said stiffly, whiskers twitching indignantly at his unhelpful caller.

Aiglon’s eyes turned to the far wall, where a pathetic collection of rusty blunderbusses and assorted sticks and poles rested to defend England. “I see your point,” he replied. He didn’t make any promises, but by that mute code of the English gentleman it seemed to be understood that Aiglon would bestir himself to do what he could.

Cokewell offered us wine. Aiglon declined, and we left. Mickey walked out with us. “How is Lady Savage this morning, Constance, my flower?” he asked.

“Not much changed from last night,” I told him.

He turned his attention to Aiglon. “How long do you think it will take before we’re armed?” he asked.

“I shall do what I can. Speed, I assume, is of the essence.”

“The sooner the better. We’re expecting company to land on the first night of calm sea and heavy fog. It’ll be a grand fight, Aiglon. Tell me the truth now. Didn’t you come clattering down here for no other purpose than to be in on it?
I
wouldn’t miss it for all the poteen in Ireland!”

I considered this a grave misreading of Aiglon’s character, but when I looked at him the expression in his dark eyes did not differ much from Mickey’s own. It was a dancing, anticipatory, delighted look. “One
does
get tired of shuffling papers,” he admitted.

“I think you’re
both
insane!” I exclaimed.

“Come along, Constance, my flower,” Aiglon said, and put his hand on my elbow, with a parting nod to Mickey.

It is one thing to be called “Constance, my flower” by Mickey, who calls Rachel “darling.” It was quite a different experience to hear those intimate words on Aiglon’s noble lips. I was quite simply astonished. As we walked away, Mickey called after us. “I should warn you, Aiglon, it’s a wildflower I meant.”

Aiglon looked back, a smile lighting his face. He looked from Mickey to me, as though figuring out what species I might belong to. “She’s no tame blossom. I’ve learned that much already.”

This was the most arrant nonsense. I hadn’t yet done a thing to reveal a wild streak. This was some kind of masculine competition, each pretending that he knew me better than the other. I might have been as ugly as a frog and it wouldn’t have mattered.

“A wild rose with thorns,” Aiglon said as we went to the carriage. I believe that he was feeling a little foolish, now that we had gotten away from Mickey and he was left to face me alone.

I felt more like a climbing rose as I attempted to vault into the curricle. Then we were off in a fine rattling of harnesses and whinnying of eager horseflesh.

“Did you conclude your business successfully?” I asked, determined to keep a polite tone.

“Quite.”

“Mr. Roundtree is available for gambling this evening then, is he?”

“Gambling? No, no, it was Mickey and some friends of his I met last night. As you’ve been spying on me again, let me put your mind at rest. I went to see Roundtree about selling Thornbury.”

This horrendous announcement was uttered without a blink. “Selling Thornbury!” I gasped. “But what about Rachel?”

“She is forever complaining about it. She’ll be delighted to be relieved of the onerous chore,” he said.

“But where will she go?”

“I have no idea. But I’ll tell you where she will
not
go and that is to Westleigh.”

As my senses stopped reeling, I rallied to Rachel’s cause. “No, she would be much happier in your London residence,” I answered calmly.

Aiglon’s dark head turned slowly in my direction. His brow was cloudy, and the words he uttered then are not for this polite document.

I went tearing into the house the minute Aiglon brought the curricle to a stop. Rachel was not to be found in any of her regular spots, so in desperation I ran down to the kitchen. There I found her rinsing her hands, apparently after a spell of gardening.

“I must speak to you at once, Rachel!”

“Don’t tell me you couldn’t find any fresh fish in town,” she replied, a frown of vexation creasing her brow.

“In the study, the instant you’re free,” I insisted, and rushed back upstairs to store my pelisse and bonnet. It wasn’t long till she joined me.

“Where is Aiglon?” she asked.

“I don’t know—at the stable, I think. Rachel, Aiglon’s been to a real estate agent and has put Thornbury up for sale!”

A strangled “Aaagh!” came from deep within her throat. “What did he say? What is the reason? He can’t sell it now. It’s impossible!”

There was a very gentle tap at the door, and Aiglon himself sauntered in, holding the packet of fish. He held it away from his body, as the wrapping had become soggy. “You forgot this in the carriage,” he said, handing the parcel to me.

I put it aside on a table and turned to observe the cousins’ exchange.

“Aiglon, you can’t be serious!” Rachel charged, her eyes flashing.

“I’m afraid it’s true,” he answered mildly. “Miss Pethel did indeed desert the carriage and leave her important parcel behind.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! You know we’re not talking about codfish,” Rachel answered angrily.

“Cod?” he asked with a disillusioned eye at the soggy parcel. “I was hoping for shellfish.”

“Is it true you’re selling Thornbury?” she demanded.

“It is certainly true I have put it on the market. Whether it finds a taker is, of course, another matter.”

“But why?”

“Because it is nothing but an expense to me. This is the first time I have ever set foot in the place, and I daresay it will be the last. It’s poor economics to carry a place that gobbles up money for maintenance yet produces nothing.”

“But it’s such a charming old home, and has been in the family forever,” Rachel pointed out, gliding swiftly past the shoals of maintenance monies expended.

“I happen to be dipped at the moment,” Aiglon replied, and looked out the window, already bored with the conversation.

“How can you possibly be dipped? You get ten-thousand a year from Westleigh, to say nothing of—”

His head turned from the window. “I wouldn’t dream of burdening you with the details of the sordid tale,” he said blandly. “Suffice it to say, I need some cash rather urgently, and Thornbury is the item I am most willing to part with. I can give you a few weeks to clear out, Cousin.”

“A few weeks,” she said pensively.

“I shouldn’t think I’d find a buyer who wants occupancy before that time.”

“If it’s just a temporary shortage, Aiglon, why don’t you mortgage the place?” she suggested.

“Because mortgages have to be repaid. When an estate produces nothing but bills, it makes no sense to hold on to it,” he explained patiently.

She took a deep breath and asked, “How much are you asking?”

“Roundtree suggested two thousand guineas. Does that sound a fair price to you, Cousin?”

“Two thousand guineas for this crumbling heap?” she asked, and laughed merrily but unconvincingly. “You’ll be fortunate to get one thousand.”

“Now
that’s
odd!” Aiglon said. “Roundtree first suggested twenty-five hundred, but when he realized I was interested in a quick sale, he knocked it down to two thousand.”

I realized then what Rachel was up to. She meant to buy Thornbury herself! This surprised me as she never had a good word to say for it. She had occasionally mentioned removing to Bath or even to a small flat in London, but buying Thornbury and settling down there to grow old ... No, I must have misunderstood her thinking.

“The man is a lunatic,” she declared roundly. “There is no land to speak of, and the whole place is blasted with antiquity.”

“But the seaside location is attractive,” he pointed out. “The house has historical associations as well. It was a Royalist rallying place when Cromwell and his firebrands were kindling strife.”

“No one cares about that sort of thing nowadays,” she told him.

“I must disagree with you. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of historical-minded people in the kingdom who would be delighted to inhabit an old home such as this. Important battles were fought here in Cromwell’s time. Thornbury boasts the remains of a chapel somewhere on the grounds, too.”

“Yes, if you can find the chapel under the rubble,” she riposted sharply. “It would cost a fortune to bring the place into livable condition.”

“How can you say that, Cousin, after the fine and expensive job you have done keeping everything shipshape?” he asked, his eye sparking a challenge.