The Man in the Green Coat (22 page)

Warned by Billy’s heavy tread, Sir Oswald was halfway to the door.

“Everett!” he exclaimed. “What a surprise! That stupid man of mine did not tell me it was you, or of course I should not have denied you. What brings you to this neck of the woods? Sit down, man, sit down. And these are . . .”

“Friends,” said Mr Everett briefly.

Billy and Albert took up posts on either side of the door. Under their concerted stare, the baronet shifted uncomfortably and ran a finger around his collar. His plump face was so pale that the dark, bushy eyebrows to which his stepmother so objected stood out like a smear of ink on a blank sheet of paper.

The uneasy silence was broken by a rumbling of thunder.

“Ah, you were passing by and came in to take shelter from the storm!” said Sir Oswald, grasping at a straw. “Delighted to be of service. Let me call for refreshments.” He reached for the bell-pull.

“No!” Mr Everett’s shoulder was pounding, making it hard to think. He tried to support the weight of his arm with the other hand.

Sir Oswald swallowed nervously and pulled at his collar again. “Come from Wrotham?” he asked. “How’s your brother?”

“I come from London. I went up especially to visit a lawyer, Hubble by name. We had a most interesting interview.”

“Oh yes? Legal problems, eh?”

“Not mine,” Mr Everett assured him. “Yours.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Unnoticed, Albert had slipped around the room to a desk on the far side and ransacked it, swiftly and silently. He took a pistol from the bottom drawer, ejected the charge, and tossed it to Billy.

“Take a gander at this 'ere, sir,” said Billy, presenting it to Mr Everett.

“It looks remarkably like one that was found in my father’s study,” he said. “Have you by any chance lost its twin, Sir Oswald? It is, I should say, a duelling pistol, one of a pair?”

A flash of lightning illuminated the baronet’s face, eyes popping, forehead bedewed with sweat. Thunder crashed as if the very heavens were accusing the malefactor. And he seemed to think so, as his bravado evaporated wholly.

“You don’t know what it was like,” he said in a rapid monotone. “The stupid old woman squandering all that blunt on her precious refugees, while I have a position to keep up, a family to feed, my wife always complaining, my daughter wanting a season in London. I left her plenty, more than most people spend in a decade, I daresay. She just needed to hold household a bit. God knows I’ve had to.” He looked up at the ceiling as a new outburst of rattling grew to a roar that shook the room.

“Taking the Lord's name in vain?” asked Mr Everett.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I knew you were investigating, had to stop you. It seemed like a perfect opportunity. I was sure those papers must have something to do with it. I just meant to shoot out the light, then grab them while you couldn’t see me.”

“Haw!” snorted Billy.

“It’s true, God help me!” He cast an anxious glance at the ceiling but the skies ignored him. He jumped up and started towards the desk.

Billy and Albert flanked him immediately.

“I’m just going to get the papers. Tell them, Everett. You want them back, don’t you?”

“If you have no further use for them.”

“Use? What use are they to me? I’ve no interest in Prinny’s conversation. My God, you don’t take me for a spy, do you?”

“The possibility had crossed my mind. You are apt to ask too many questions.”

“No, really, just curious, I assure you! You can search the room, search the house, whatever you want!”

“Oh we’ve a’ready done that,” Billy assured him jovially.

“In the clear, you was, till this little business come up. ‘Ave to send in a report, won’t we. This it then? Confidential Foreign Office papers found in baronet’s desk. Don’t look good, I ‘as to say.”

As Sir Oswald sank into his chair, thunder sounded again, more distantly, and a few heavy drops of rain hit the windows.

“Everett, what shall I do? I swear I’m no spy. You’re in charge of that department, you can clear me.”

“I ought to report our find to the Foreign Secretary…”

“To Lord Hawkesbury? No!”

“But I am devilish tired of writing reports. Of course, there is the other matter to be considered also.”

“I’ll pay her back! I swear it! She’ll get every penny from now on.”

“For your sake, I hope so.” Mr Everett rose wearily from his chair. “Billy, Albert, you’ll hold your tongues unless I give you the word. Oh, you can tell Mr Davis, of course, but not a hint to anyone else.”

“Mum’s the word,” promised Billy.

Rain was falling in sheets, but Mr Everett refused the baronet’s eager offers of shelter and refreshment. Leaving Albert at the inn, they set off for Wrotham. The country lanes quickly turned into a muddy morass, and it took them over three hours to cover the twenty miles.

At last they turned in at the gates. Luke ordered the groom to drive to the Dower House. He wanted to tell Lady Harrison of his success, and to bask in Gabrielle’s admiration. They pulled up at the front door.

Billy lumbered up the steps to ring the bell, then returned to help him down. Suddenly weak, he leaned heavily on the big man’s arm, and found himself swept off his feet.

“Overdone it, ‘asn’t you,” said Billy severely, and carried him past Tombaugh into the house.

Chapter 20

“I’m perfectly all right,” protested Luke.

Arms akimbo, Gabrielle looked down at his pale face. “I want to see that shoulder,” she repeated obstinately.

“C’mon, chief, best do like the lady says,” urged Billy.

Luke swung his legs off the sofa on which his bodyguard had deposited him, and stood up. He swayed.

“Sit down!” said Gabrielle and Billy in chorus.

Ruthlessly, but with amazing gentleness, Billy untied the sling, eased off coat and shirt, exposing a bandage stained with red.

“You have started it bleeding again!” Gabrielle frowned. “I knew I should not have let you out of my sight. Men simply have no idea how to take care of themselves.”

She sat down beside him and began to unwind the bandage. Acutely conscious of her closeness, Luke watched her intent face. Her cropped hair had grown out into dark, glossy ringlets; long lashes veiled her eyes; her mouth was soft, serious, the tip of her tongue visible as she concentrated. He was shaken by a fierce desire to hold her in his arms, yet he hardly dared breathe for fear of drawing her attention to his emotion.

Her hand brushed his skin. As if the shock that ran through him touched her also, she raised her eyes to his momentarily and a deeper rose tinged her cheeks.

“There!” she said quickly, handing the soiled linen to Billy, who passed it on to the hovering Tombaugh. “It is bleeding only a little now, and I can see no sign of infection. If you promise to follow instructions faithfully, I will not send for the doctor. Tombaugh, bring fresh linen and the basilicum powder, if you please. And tell Mrs Tombaugh that Mr Luke will be staying here tonight.”

Luke grinned. “She will have to make up a pallet for Billy beside my bed,” he said. “A large pallet. I cannot persuade him to leave my side until we return to London and Davis relieves him of his duties.”

“Very well,” said Gabrielle, looking up at Billy, who nodded. “I hope Baxter will not take it as a reflection upon his abilities. Now put your feet up, Luke, and while we wait for Tombaugh you shall tell me what you have been doing since you left.”

Luke complied. He had just reached the village of Goudhurst and removed his sling, to Gabrielle’s exasperation, when Lady Harrison rustled in, looking not a day older than thirty-five in a gown of blue and grey striped silk.

“Mr Everett, you have seen Oswald? Who is
ce gros garçon
and what does he here? Gabrielle, it is not at all
convenable
for a young lady to consort with a gentleman
demi-nu
!”

Gabrielle draped Luke’s shirt across his chest.

“He has been telling me about his interview with Mr Hubble, madame, and had nearly come to Sir Oswald.”

“
Recommencez
!” requested her ladyship. “I cannot follow a story begun in the middle.”

Luke stopped gaping at the transformation of elderly dowager into handsome matron, pulled himself together, and obligingly returned to Lincoln’s Inn.

The story had to be repeated again when Gerard returned from visiting Rolf at the Great House. He was inclined to be disappointed that no duels had been fought, but Lady Harrison and Gabrielle were as grateful and admiring as Luke could have hoped. That Alain de Vignard had returned to London only added to his expectation of an enjoyable recuperation, and he retired to bed at an early hour, somewhat greyer in the face than Gabrielle liked but in high spirits.

Gabrielle kept him at the Dower House for three days. He was not difficult to persuade. All his family came to see him there, except Rolf who was, however, suffering more now from boredom than anything else.

No trace of boredom marred Luke’s convalescence. When there were no visitors, he sat with Gabrielle in the parlour or in the sunny garden, talking quietly or simply enjoying each other’s company.

Billy was their constant chaperon, but he managed to make himself remarkably unobtrusive in spite of his bulk. He would sit just out of earshot, watching them with a benevolent expression. After a voluble explanation on his side and no more than a pair of words on the other, he had come to terms with Baxter. Luke had never been better looked after in his life.

Nor had he ever been happier. It was his nature to anticipate problems—to consider alternatives, ponder possibilities, lay out a course of action. But with Gabrielle beside him, he found it easy to live in the present. He was no nearer being able to support a wife, let alone her brother and her possibly indigent father, if and when that gentleman appeared, so he deliberately avoided thinking of the future.

Gabrielle, once she was satisfied that Luke’s wound was healing properly, was happy too. Not until he removed to the Great House did she ask herself why.

The answer shocked her.

She was in love.

How comfortable, in retrospect, it had been to have Luke for a friend! Ever since her arrival in England she had had someone to turn to for advice and assistance. She had considered the possibility of marrying him, but only if Papa failed to turn up. Now the thought appalled her: to be married to a man who was merely fond of her, when she adored him! Not that he had ever given her the slightest hint of wishing to marry her. She was sure that he was fond of her, that he liked to be with her. It was not enough.

She sat up in bed, hugging her knees. Papa, come quick! she cried silently, desolately. I need you!

* * * *

Lady Harrison was already making plans to return to London. With her finances at last in order, she had decided the time was ripe to refurbish her house in preparation for the Little Season in the autumn. Rolf and Dorothea were both dismayed at the prospect of losing their new friends, the one still confined to his bed, the other in the megrims after bidding Alain farewell. The Everetts invited the Darcys to move up to the Great House for a few more weeks. That satisfied Rolf and Gerard, but Dorothea was all too conscious that, with Lady Harrison gone, Alain would have no more excuse for visiting Wrotham.

Gabrielle was torn. Luke was well enough now to go back to his work. If she went with Madame, she might see him in town; but how painful it would be if he was too busy, or not inclined to visit. She opted to stay with his family and hope that he would come down often.

As for Luke, forced at last to consider the future, he came to the conclusion that there was no hope for his courtship. There was simply no way he could support a wife In desperation he cast about for reasons to stop loving Gabrielle, and could find none.

He and Billy escorted Lady Harrison back to London, borrowing the Everett travelling carriage for the purpose.

Lady Cecilia waved goodbye, then turned to her husband.

“A word with you, my lord,” she requested.

His arm about her waist, he led her to the study. She sat down on a sofa, pulled him down beside her and kissed his cheek. For several minutes he was too busy to ask what was on her mind. At last she moved away a little and took his hands.

“My dear,” she said, “I am sure you no longer doubt Luke’s feelings for Gabrielle.”

He stood up, crossed to the window, and gazed out. “No more than I doubt my own feelings for you, Cecy. But of what is to be done I am less sure. I have no more idea who Miss Darcy is than I had when she first came here. What is her father? An adventurer, a black sheep, the skeleton in some noble family's closet? Or a mere nobody who thought to make good abroad? I told you I found her face familiar, which leads to concerns...as to legitimacy.”

“You still have not recalled whom she reminds you of?”

“No. It cannot be anyone I know well. And even if it is her real name, there are a hundred families called Darcy. I daresay I never met more than two or three of them in my life.”

“Well, no matter. You remember that I told you I should not let pride stand in the way of Luke’s happiness. I was not thinking of pride of birth at the time, but in the end it is as unimportant as any other kind. If Luke loves her and wants to marry her, neither her lineage nor his straitened means shall prevent it, if I have any say in the matter.

“Henry, I had a letter this morning saying that my parents will travel to Tunbridge Wells next week, to take the waters. Wrotham is not far out of their way and I should in any case have invited them to break their journey here.” She went to him, put her arms around him and laid her cheek against his back. He was rigid, breathing shallowly. “When they come, I am going to ask them for money.”

He turned in her arms and held her tight.

* * * *

The Earl and Countess of Ipswich arrived in due course, with three carriages, eight servants and a mountain of baggage. They brought with them another guest, whose train consisted only of two carriages and five servants.

“I made sure you could have no objection, Cecilia,” said Lady Ipswich, a majestic figure in purple gros de Naples, topped with a huge frothy hat adorned with no less than five dyed ostrich plumes. “Lord Charing is practically a neighbor of yours, after all. He happened to mention to Ipswich that he intended to stay the night in Wrotham. His health is not good, unlike your father’s, and he does not care to travel above thirty miles in a day. He and Ipswich were friends many years ago. We did not like to think of him languishing at an inn when our daughter resides not a mile distant.”