The Second Lady Emily (15 page)

“I will soon be the mistress of Broadbanks Hall,” Fay hissed. “And I will tolerate no interference. If you have some idea of comforting my husband, forget it.”

Cherlynn drew herself up to Emily’s full height – which topped Fay by a good six inches – adopting the same haughty expression Drew had used in the folly. “Your manners are sadly lacking,
Miss
Raeburn. You are not Lady Thurston yet. Nor will a title cover your many flaws. If you hope to be accepted as a lady, you must watch your tongue. Not even Lord Thurston’s credit will excuse such insolence in London – assuming he would even take you there. He is a stickler for propriety, as you must know.”

An evil smile crinkled the corners of her mouth. “I know everything necessary about dear Drew. And I know how to handle anyone who tries to interfere with my life. Either leave or you will find your reputation in shreds.”

She must have heard the gentlemen’s approach, for she glided away without waiting for a response. When the drawing room door opened moments later, Fay presented the picture of a demure angel who had been waiting patiently for them to arrive.

Fay’s outburst hardened Cherlynn’s resolve to free Drew from her clutches, but she must tread warily. Emily’s reputation must remain untarnished. And Fay was not her only problem. Frederick had drawn Anne aside for another lively discussion, reviving Cherlynn’s uneasiness. His dinner conversation had fascinated her, evoking mental comparisons between the Virginia of 1812 and that same valley in her youth. If she understood his descriptions, she had grown up barely two miles from his family farm. But she had difficulty imagining the wild grandeur he knew. Perhaps that was why she had so much trouble selling her books. Too much of the modern world had crept onto their pages.

Her uneasiness suddenly burst into rampant suspicion. Thoughts of her childhood recalled her fourth grade teacher and an interminable class on Virginia history – her own interest in the past had not materialized until high school. Miss Martinelli had lectured on relations between the settlers and the local Indian tribes, closing with the comment that the area had had no further Indian problems. But the events she had described occurred in the eighteenth century.

An Indian massacre that had wiped out an entire family of peaceful settlers less than a hundred miles from Washington would hardly have been ignored. Had Frederick done it himself?
So much blood.
Like Lady Macbeth, he sounded as though he had been there.

Another mystery. One she needed to solve soon. Not only was he lying about his past, he was related to Fay and could be in league with her. And he was paying particular attention to Anne. Were the Raeburns trying to destroy Drew’s family? Yet Lord Raeburn was supposed to be Broadbanks’s closest friend.

Anne was already infatuated with the American, and Cherlynn could understood why. His charm was palpable, reminding her of Willard, whose charm had been legendary. Thus she must discover his motives very soon. It was even more urgent than ending Drew’s betrothal. Anne was too naïve to suspect secrets, and too kind-hearted to bounce back from emotional pain. After enduring Randolph’s deliberate cruelty, deception by someone she trusted would destroy her.

But the drawing room was not the place to question him closely. Exposing his lies would reveal more knowledge of America than she could account for to anyone who knew Emily. And that was especially true of Drew. He was confused enough already. It would be best if he knew nothing of this investigation.

Thus she moved on to speak with Vicar Rumfrey, keeping only a casual eye turned to Anne. She paid little attention to the vicar’s words until he touched on the year’s tragedies.

“So many deaths,” he murmured, half to himself. “It’s uncanny for so small a parish.”

“Have there been so many then?” she asked idly.

“Five so far, and it’s only August. Mrs. Boggs was hardly a surprise, of course. She had been ailing for months. And the same could be said for Bobby Duggan. ’Tis the others that are so tragic. Poor Jack Gardner died back in March, as did Ben Lockyard. Jack had been fighting and was still unconscious when he was found. He died two days later without ever waking enough to tell us what happened.”

“He said nothing?” asked Cherlynn, curious at his odd wording. She shivered.

“He was fevered and mumbled deliriously at first, but it made no sense. He kept urging someone to run – possibly Ben, though they were found two miles apart. Most folks figure it had something to do with smuggling, but whether he was running goods himself or had stumbled onto a landing, no one will say. And most folks don’t care. Lord Randolph’s death claimed their attention.”

“He died at the same time?”

“Possibly. Miss Raeburn and I discovered his body the next morning. What a shocking sight for a girl who had accepted Lord Thurston’s offer barely an hour before. I am amazed that she did not fall into hysterics. Lord Randolph had fallen over the cliff just west of Broadbanks. Plenty of men had seen him drinking at the Blue Parrot, so there was little question how it came about, but his death sat heavily on Lord Broadbanks’s shoulders. It was a lucky thing that Thurston returned home, for his brother had run the estate ever since his lordship’s health worsened. Now that duty rests with the heir.”

She refrained from comment. Fay had lost no time in turning up the body once Drew had succumbed to her blackmail. The vicar would have made a perfect witness. He was dull enough to be easily led. If Fay ever decided to expose Drew for his supposed crime, she would convince Rumfrey that he had seen the irrefutable clue that proved Drew’s guilt. She might even have planted such evidence before she dragged him out there.

The vicar moved on, allowing an elderly spinster to commandeer her attention. Miss Langley lived in the village.

“Mrs. Rumfrey just told me the most shocking story!” she said without preamble. “Jaime Potts lost more in a card game last night than he can possibly pay. He’ll be in debtor’s prison by week’s end.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the man. Is he accustomed to deep gaming?”

“Oh my, yes!” said Miss Langley, glad to have a new audience. “He’s a terrible card player. And not much better at other things.” She launched a lengthy monologue that described Jaime Potts as a farmer whose finances usually flirted with ruination because he spent most of his meager income on drinking and gaming. His bad luck and lack of skill were legendary. Many avoided playing with him either from compassion or because winning was too easy to be fun.

After disposing of Jaime’s current ill fortune, Miss Langley moved on to caustic comments about Maude Gardner, who had run off some months earlier; the innkeeper’s daughter, who was looking unusually pleased with herself; and a host of other local girls and boys, who she implied were unchaste.

Cherlynn listened with half an ear, making appropriate noises whenever the lady paused, but her attention remained on Anne and Frederick. They were still together. Anne must have lost all sense of time. If she didn’t circulate among the guests, she would draw undue notice and speculation, particularly from people like Miss Langley.

Finally excusing herself, she moved off to pry Anne loose. How ironic that the student must rescue the teacher from a social
faux pas.

CHAPTER TEN

“You are mad, Potts!” sputtered Lord Raeburn, his face purple with indignation.

“I know what I saw, my lord,” insisted the farmer implacably.

“My daughter would never behave so dishonorably.” But his voice lacked conviction.

“Ask her to explain why she didn’t discover Lord Randolph’s body until the next day.”

Jaime Potts watched complacently as Lord Raeburn’s face darkened even further. He hadn’t meant to put the touch on Raeburn. Everyone knew better than to annoy the man’s daughter. But his luck had turned sour, threatening him with debtor’s prison if he didn’t come up with some cash. He’d considered selling his information to Lord Thurston, but the man would hardly complain about an action that had saved his life. Miss Raeburn would never do, of course. She’d see him in debtor’s prison before lifting a finger to help him, even if that meant exposing his tale to public scrutiny. But Lord Raeburn was different. Since the man hadn’t been there, the careful wording that condemned Fay’s actions without actually lying would go unnoticed. Raeburn wouldn’t want his own name tarnished by his daughter’s misdeeds. And a Swell would never miss thirty pounds. Or so he’d thought.

“I won’t pay you a farthing,” snapped the baron. “If Fay has erred, she will make a public confession and restitution. But she won’t be cowed by your drunken fantasies. Wait here while I fetch her. Let’s see if you dare accuse her to her face.”

Potts frowned once Lord Raeburn left the room. This was not going as planned. He had expected Raeburn to give up the paltry sum to save his family name from disgrace. Miss Raeburn needn’t have known anything about it. Would Raeburn arrest him for blackmail? Not that it mattered. The choice had come down to transportation or debtor’s prison. He’d chance the first to escape the second. And it was too late to turn back.

What would she do? Rumors had long hinted that she was a witch. She might ill-wish his farm. Even worse, Potts was one of the Broadbanks tenants, so she could make trouble for him once she became lady of the manor. Ignoring the voice that berated him for joining that card game at the Blue Parrot, he pondered how to approach this confrontation. Would Raeburn really expose his own daughter, or was he bluffing? Should Potts change tactics and approach Lord Thurston or Lord Broadbanks instead?

But that alternative was no more viable than before. Broadbanks had caught him lying in the past, so he would never believe this tale. And though Thurston and Fay were betrothed, it was an arranged match, so he might not care for her enough to cover any misdeeds.

It was too late to change course anyway. Raeburn had already heard his accusations. Recanting at this point would leave him in even worse trouble. Damn his luck of late! What was taking the man so long?

The door opened, admitting Fay. “So you believe you saw something odd?” she asked, her sultry voice raising the temperature of the room several degrees. “Why did you wait so long to mention it?”

“’Tweren’t my business.”

“But now it is?” She moved closer, her eyes moving slowly from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

“I’ve hit on hard times, ma’am. I’ve nothing else to sell.”

“Not necessarily,” she murmured. “You’ve any number of options. Have you considered accepting a job?” One hand slid up to caress his cheek.

He looked frantically at the door, stepping back to keep the witch at a distance.

“Papa left the negotiations to me,” Fay said, her feral smile raising both heat and panic. She slid fifty pounds into his hand. “You’re a fine figure of a man, Jaime Potts.” One finger trailed lightly down his chest. “You’re working for me now, and I’ll expect more than sealed lips for my money.”

God help him, he couldn’t refuse.

* * * *

Cherlynn sat in the drawing room, idly leafing through Anne’s copy of
La Belle Assemblée.
She had declined to accompany Anne and Lady Clifford on their visit to the vicarage, citing continued weakness, but the lie was wearing thin. It wouldn’t hold up much longer.

Since the dinner party, Lady Clifford had stepped up her campaign to spend the remainder of the summer in Brighton. And her thinking had clearly shifted. While she had originally claimed that public appearances would rescue Emily’s reputation after her fall, now she seemed determined to marry Emily to Lady Ledbetter’s son Rupert. The lad sounded liked a typical Regency wastrel who had not a brain in his head. Emily would be miserable with such a husband. But why was Lady Clifford so anxious for the match? Granted, Lady Ledbetter had been her bosom bow at school, but that was no excuse. As a baronet’s younger son, Rupert was hardly a desirable mate for an earl’s daughter.

She froze. Damn! It was her fault. Emily had hidden her relationship with Drew from her family. But his hovering in the sickroom and their tête-à-têtes since must have started rumors. Fay might even have contributed to them. She’d threatened to destroy Emily’s reputation. Fearing her daughter had been irredeemably compromised, Lady Clifford wanted her married off before the tale spread beyond Broadbanks.

Thus she faced yet another danger. So far, Charles had resisted Lady Clifford’s pleas. But that could easily change, especially if her behavior made him suspicious. He would not tolerate her hanging out after any man, let alone one who was betrothed. And if he discovered Drew’s feelings, he would not only leave post haste, but would likely terminate his friendship. Thus the pressure was increasing, the available time was rapidly running out, and she was caught in a trap of her own devising. If she was to discredit Fay, she needed to talk to people, yet the weakness that held Lady Clifford at bay tied her to the house.

Anne’s return jerked her thoughts away from this conundrum.

“We just heard the saddest news,” she said, but her voice held ambivalence.

“Terrible,” concurred Lady Clifford, not at all sincerely. Her expression was smug. Plotting already animated her eyes. For all her uneducated stupidity, the woman could be deviously shrewd when she wanted something – a fact both Grace and Drew had mentioned.

Anne shook her head. “Lord Raeburn suffered an apoplexy last night and is said to be a death’s door.”

“How awful!” Cherlynn’s mind raced. This could change many plans, mostly for the worse. “Will that mean postponing Lord Thurston’s wedding?”

“He must!” exclaimed Lady Clifford. “It would be scandalous for Miss Raeburn to wed during mourning.” The words made her thinking obvious. Without the excuse of an imminent wedding, Charles would have to take them to Brighton.

“Lord Raeburn is not yet dead,” protested Anne softly. The abashed countess flushed at losing her composure.

“And he could recover,” added Cherlynn. Apoplexy was a euphemism for stroke. Even without the clot busters and other wonder drugs of her own time, stroke was an unpredictable ailment. But she could safely foretell Raeburn’s immediate future. Since Emily had done nothing to bring on the attack, history remained unchanged, so the wedding would proceed as scheduled. “It would be gauche to don black prematurely.”