Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"All this hopping and stomping about," Lucien drawled. "Enough to give one a megrim." He smiled placidly at Sir Dashiel and pretended to sip his punch. The stuff was three parts rum, one part cherry cordial with a dash of lightning, and four parts celestial wrath come Sunday morning.

Delicious and perfectly suited to Lucien's mood.

The assembly had inspired the baronet to trouble over his appearance more than usual. His curls were perfectly arranged over his forehead, his cravat was tied with intricate precision, and his smile put the sun to shame.

"I'm told your Aunt Calpurnia has indeed come down with a megrim," he replied, "even without any hopping or stomping. Such a pity to miss all this gaiety." He lifted his glass in the direction of the dance floor, where Dommie de Plessis—suddenly returned from Bath for no apparent reason—was being flung about by the blacksmith's pride and joy amid a dozen other couples.

"Lynnfield is still well represented," Lucien said. "Your Tabitha is the belle of the ball." She'd worn one of her new frocks, and between Thomas's doting escort and the sighs of the local beauties who would never have a London Season, Tabitha was radiant.

"As well she should be. Youth adds such a glow to any woman's attributes, don't you agree?"

By youth, Dashiel doubtless meant na?veté, the lack of experience that made the young gullible. "I prefer some wisdom in a lady," Lucien replied. "Tabitha is adorable, but conversation focused on the qualities of velvet as opposed to satin soon pales. She will nonetheless make quite an impression in Mayfair. You should be proud of her."

Dashiel shifted so Lucien was between him and the dancers. "Speaking of admirable women, where is my dearest Penelope? I know all about making a well-timed entrance, but the evening advances, and I have so looked forward to waltzing with my intended."

Lucien sidled a step to the left, blocking Dashiel's view of the door. "Her ladyship has flown the coop, as the saying goes. Mind of her own and all that. She took a notion to go up to Town, or so she claims."

The dazzling smile vanished. " What the devil ? Gone to London? You're sure?"

"Half the dratted household is bound for London. I show up, the prodigal peer, and the lot of them bolt for Town, and yes, I'm sure. One doesn't confuse London with, say, Edinburgh in the ordinary course. I excel at map reading. All that racketing about the Continent where even the signposts were burned for warmth. Bleak business, that."

"When did she go?"

"Recently." Lucien nodded agreeably to the vicar's daughter.

"Recently when, precisely?"

"Thursday night? No, last night. Said there's less traffic in the dark, and it's the full moon, so away she went. Never been any point telling her ladyship what to do." And never would be.

"The marchioness ordered Penny about a good deal, and as my wife, Penny had best learn to heed the occasional order. "

The set came to an end, and a general stampede in the direction of the punchbowl ensued. The vicar's wife was opening every available window, and Dommie de Plessis was staring daggers at Sir Dashiel.

"Penelope humored the marchioness," Lucien said. "Easier to manage the household if nobody is engaging in tantrums and sulks. I'm sure you'd agree. Why is Mrs. de Plessis rubbing at her eye with her fan?" Her right eye, which in the language of the fan was a request for an assignation.

"How should I know?"

"She's looking right at you." Glowering, while young Danny Smith passed her a small glass of punch.

"Perhaps her eyesight is going. She's getting long in the tooth. Thirty if she's a day. Did Penelope say why she left for London?"

The widow had switched to opening her fan, fluttering it a few times, and slowly closing it. I will marry you. Dashiel took to studying his glass of punch.

"Mrs. de Plessis is still looking right at you, old man," Lucien said. "Handsome woman too. Perhaps you'd best put thoughts of her ladyship out of your head. Opportunity in the hand and so forth."

Dashiel looked up sharply. "Are you daft? Penelope and I have a firm understanding. Our betrothal was to be announced at this very gathering, and now you tell me she's off to Town."

"She said something about scouting the terrain for the marchioness and Tabby, but the marchioness knows London blindfolded. I suspect ‘scouting' is a lady's code for ‘shopping.' Heaven knows Pen could use some new finery."

Dashiel's gaze became considering. "How much luggage did she take?"

"Whole coach's worth. Took the porters hours to secure it all." A vast and strategic exaggeration.

"What of her personal effects? Is that chestnut mare of hers going up to Town?"

The slightest, most welcome breeze stirred through the room. " Do you suppose me capable of talking to animals? As far as I know, the mare has no engagements in Mayfair. Best go easy on the punch, Sir Dashiel. I've been meaning to ask you, where did you come by that exquisite brandy you served me the other day? I would like to get my hands on at least a case. Excellent potation."

Mrs. de Plessis had taken to slapping her closed fan against her palm. The gesture translated easily enough.

"I came by that brandy at great risk to my person, and you will never find its like again. Please make my excuses to the committee. I fear I'm developing a megrim myself."

"You don't look ill, and you haven't danced a single set."

Dashiel took a gulp from his glass. "You prancing nitwit, Lady Penelope has taken her entire stock of clothing and jewelry, but left that flashy horse behind. What does that tell you?"

"That she'll use a lady's mount from the Lynnfield House stable in Town."

Dashiel set aside the dregs of his drink. "No, my lord. She's not staying in Town. She's going up to Town, which also happens to be a busy port and a fine place to confer with one's bankers. She's trying to bolt on me. Bridal nerves are the very devil. Fortunately for me, you've put me wise to her scheme, and I can intervene before Penelope does something she'll regret very, very much."

"Bankers? Her ladyship keeps them on a short leash, always writing back and forth to them. She might be meeting with the lawyers, though."

"Whyever would she do that?"

Lucien glanced around—Mrs. de Plessis had positioned herself near the only exit—and leaned closer. "A gentleman doesn't cry off."

"What are you going on about now?"

"A gentleman," Lucien said, emphasizing each syllable, "does not cry off. The lady does that part. That's how it's done, if an engagement is to be broken. To break ours, her ladyship would have to meet with the lawyers and sign papers before discreet witnesses and whatnot. The lawyers are in London, unless I summon them to Lynnfield. Then they are underfoot, eyeing the silver and eating like stevedores."

Don't overplay the role. Penelope's voice echoed sternly in Lucien's head. Dashiel is desperate but not a fool.

"I can believe her ladyship is terminating her dealings with you," Dashiel said slowly. "You might have guessed that part correctly."

"I think Mrs. de Plessis wants you to dance with her."

"To blazes with Mrs. de Plessis."

"I thought you were concerned about her missing watch? Ready to seize Aunt Purdy in the king's name and bind her over like a common crook, despite a lack of witnesses or a confession? Isn't the new fashion innocent until proven guilty?"

"I am not a barrister, my lord, but I suspect Mrs. de Plessis seeks to dance with you."

The sets were forming, slowly and amid much chatter and laughter. The open windows dissipated some of the heat, and Danny Smith was bowing awkwardly over Tabitha's hand. Lucien was struck by how easily Penelope would have fit in. She would have seen the windows opened a half hour earlier, would have danced with Danny and convinced the lad she'd enjoyed every moment.

"Mrs. de Plessis doesn't look in a dancing mood to me," Lucien said. The widow swiveled slowly from side to side, visually canvassing the room and drawing her closed fan through a curled fist.

"When she does that with her fan," Dashiel said, taking another gulp of punch, "it means ‘please ask me to dance.'"

That particular gesture meant I hate you. "Does it really? How do you keep all the social arcana straight? I suppose that's why you're the magistrate. You have a good head for rules and regulations."

"So I do. Be a good fellow and stand up with dear Dommie, won't you? And make my excuses to Tabitha, too, please. I won't be on hand to see her off on Monday morning, but I expect our paths will cross in Town."

"She needs you to see her off, Sir Dashiel. I well know how difficult leave-taking can be when loved ones aren't on hand to wish us farewell and safe journey."

"I'll see Tabby in London, I promise. Now put Mrs. de Plessis out of her misery. You're the marquess, and you're supposed to be charming."

"Where does it say that?"

"I just said it." He plucked Lucien's drink from his hand and set it on the nearest table. "Be off with you, or the music will start without you."

The line was forming the length of the room, heralding the ritual hilarity of the Roger de Coverley. Enough punch had been drunk that somebody was certain to end up on the floor, and crashing into one's neighbor was all part of the fun.

Only for you, Pen. As Lucien led his abruptly smiling partner to join the line, Sir Dashiel slipped out the door. He'd taken the bait, the elders were safe for now, and Lucien had a long ride to London ahead of him.

"My lord has such a lovely smile," Mrs. de Plessis observed as the fiddles began the introduction. "What can you possibly be thinking about?"

"A betrothal waltz with my intended. The notion has sustained me through many a dull and despairing hour." He bowed, she curtseyed, and the tune began in earnest.

"You could use a restorative," St. Didier said, passing the Marquess of Lynnfield a generous portion of brandy. "You must have quit Lynnfield directly after divine services." And traveled at a gallop on the Sabbath. Not the done thing, but then, Lord Lynnfield was not the typical peer.

"The brandy is appreciated. I could use a soft pillow on the seat of yonder wing chair too. I'm not the traveler I once was." Lynnfield waited for St. Didier to pour himself a drink before gesturing with his glass. "To your health."

St. Didier was not in the habit of taking spirits before supper, but by country hours, supper would already be on the table. He'd once delighted in country life.

"To happy endings," he said, sipping politely. "My cellar cannot possibly measure up to the vintage Sir Dashiel served you at the Roost, but I assure you that chair is much softer than any saddle. Shall we sit?"

The marquess took his seat with the economy of motion that had characterized him when he'd been in service to the Duke of Huntleigh. Quiet moved with him, along with the self-possession of a man who'd learned to be comfortable in his skin and cautious in nearly all settings.

How tiring, to be ever alert and always prepared.

"My thanks for your gracious hospitality to Lady Penelope," the marquess said. "What have you learned about Sir Dashiel's extraordinarily fine and undoubtedly expensive brandy?"

Straight to business—not the typical peer again. St. Didier took the second wing chair and mentally organized his report.

"We'll get to that part. You are more concerned with how her ladyship is settling in."

This earned St. Didier a faint, tired smile. "Lady Penelope has been in London for an entire day. By now, she will have put the fear of dust and idleness in the town house staff, started teaching the boot-boy his letters, revised and much improved Cook's menus, and collected every shred of useful gossip from St. George's churchyard."

"You miss her, and you've been separated for all of one night."

"I excel at missing her ladyship, and the sooner I conclude my business with you, the sooner I can clap eyes on her."

And hands and lips no doubt. Ah, youth. In the marquess's defense, at the sight of him, her ladyship would doubtless do some clapping of her own.

"Very well, my lord. To begin at the beginning. Sir Dashiel has taken rooms at The Pelican, a modest inn on the fringes of Knightsbridge. Handy to Hyde Park and Mayfair, slightly out of the way. Affordable rather than fashionable. He has not yet called at Lynnfield House. I have notified a dozen of his largest creditors that he's ventured into London. I further intimated that I would inform them of his whereabouts when I'm certain of his direction."

"Thank you. I have little experience with traps and ambushes, preferring a direct confrontation in most cases. That Dashiel is accommodating this plan is both unnerving and reassuring."

St. Didier had little experience with peers expressing gratitude. "Traps and ambushes are the baronet's preferred strategies. Your only hope is to beat him at his own game. He doesn't fight fair. Just ask his creditors and his sisters, all of whom he has apparently robbed. I've recruited Moreland to assist you in catching your weasel, or I should say, Moreland and his duchess."

"The Duke of Moreland? I don't know His Grace well, but we're acquainted."

Did Lynnfield know any of his peers well? He'd perhaps rubbed shoulders with some younger sons in uniform and was said to be well thought of by Wellington, but did Lynnfield have friends? Did Lady Penelope have friends?

St. Didier batted aside those questions as irrelevant to the present report and irrelevant in the general case as well. Mostly irrelevant anyhow.

"Moreland knew your father," St. Didier said, "and Her Grace of Moreland is acquainted with the marchioness. The two ladies are not of an age, but as the numbers thin, the old guard closes ranks."

"They think they failed Pen when she made her come out. They didn't fail her, I did. She wasn't about to accept anybody else's offer of marriage while engaged to me."

"Lady Penelope was and is bonnet over boots for your handsome self, my lord. The whole business makes me feel old and sentimental." Old and weary. Perhaps there was another word for when the heart felt hollow and creature comforts provided little solace .

"You are lonely," Lynnfield said. "You should find a wife. I was lonely for years because I'd parted from my best friend, confidante, fellow adventurer, and dearest love."

Good heavens, the man must be beyond exhausted to be spouting that kind of talk. "About Sir Dashiel… I will contrive to get word to him that Lady Penelope and the Lynnfield entourage are invited to Her Grace of Moreland's grand ball and intimate that he could get past the footmen by claiming to be a member of that party. The affair is legendary. Not particularly lavish, though the hospitality is impressive."

"Legendary, how?"

"If given a choice between divine absolution for all sins and an invitation to Her Grace's annual ball most of polite society would grab the invitation and take their chances with Saint Peter's good nature. Spectacular matches are made at that ball, fortunes expanded, futures secured." And more to the point, the evening was usually enjoyable.

"High-stakes gambling?"

"No, and don't get distracted. If Sir Dashiel's creditors have the bailiffs lying in wait on Tuesday night, they can catch him while half of Mayfair looks on." Half of London, really, because crowds always gathered at the Moreland ballroom windows to watch the spectacle within.

"You've been invited?"

"I have." And not because St. Didier had called in any favors. Her Grace invited whom she pleased, and when St. Didier was in Town, that included him.

"Have I been invited?"

"Of course. I am nothing if not thorough."

"Terrifyingly so." Lynnfield sipped his brandy, the clock ticked, and St. Didier waited for the next question.

"How exactly will you contrive to lure Sir Dashiel to the ball?"

"That part is simple. I'll run into Sir Dashiel in Knightsbridge. He's a few streets from Tatts, and he'll want to be seen there for bragging purposes. Please recall he's soon to be married to an earl's very wealthy daughter."

"Right. Of course. Remiss of me to suppose otherwise."

"I will let drop that Lady Penelope is starting off her London tour in style and add that one cannot refuse the Duchess of Moreland's invitations, which is true enough. The rest is so much more playacting. Pretending to spot a blackleg or tipstaff and suggesting they haunt Tatts, which they do. They never arrest anybody on that hallowed ground, but they follow their quarry to quieter surrounds and haul him off to the sponging house all the same."

"You give Sir Dashiel a reason for urgency. He'll have to secure a betrothal posthaste or quit London. Why shouldn't I simply have him hauled away from Tatts?"

St. Didier had to think for a moment. "Timing. The bailiffs and blacklegs are busy fellows, and waiting hours or days for Sir Dashiel to show up asks a lot of them."

"He owes a perishing fortune and a half."

True. St. Didier, privy to many a lord's financial situation, had been staggered to see the extent of the credit that had been extended to a mere baronet in the midst of a disastrous economy. But then, Lady Penelope's wealth was also formidable, and Dashiel had repeatedly intimated that her fortune was soon to become his.

"He owes so much," St. Didier said, "that even if he sells the Roost outright, he will likely die in debtors' prison. That will have consequences for his sister."

"Assuredly. Consequences I will mitigate, assuming all goes to plan, and as to that, Sir Dashiel might have the sense to avoid Tatts. What then?"

No wonder the marquess prevailed against most opponents on the chessboard. "Then, I will casually encounter him at The Pelican. They haven't the staff to bring meals up to the guest rooms, and even if they do, they know not to bring meals up to him."

Another smile, this one a bit more vigorous. "Well done, St. Didier. Remind me never to cross you. "

"Stay in Lady Penelope's good books, and I will have no quarrel with you."

"I'm supposed to stand now, aren't I?" Lynnfield said, finishing his brandy. "One is daunted by the prospect. Hard riding is no longer in my gift as it once was." He rose nonetheless, and if his hips, ankles, and knees screamed in protest, his expression remained mild.

No wonder Wellington had appreciated the marquess's talents.

"Get some sleep," St. Didier said, rising and accompanying his guest to the parlor door. "Don't go off on any goose chases, and by Wednesday morning, life will look much rosier."

"Waiting does not agree with me. Drives my Pendragon half daft too. We're not a patient pair."

He called his intended Pen and Pendragon. "One does what one must, unless one is a scoundrel like Sir Dashiel."

They ambled down the corridor at a tired pace.

"About the brandy, St. Didier? What have you learned?"

This was another reason the Marquess of Lynnfield had been such a valuable resource to British intelligence. Even exhausted, preoccupied, and in love, he kept hold of the details.

"Interesting tale there. The vintage in that bottle, Chateau de la Forêt, is no longer made. Napoleon tried to protect France's wine-growing resources, but with limited success. Between the revolution, the reprisals, the aristocracy being hounded from their ancestral possessions and loyal retainers going with them, the French countryside took a beating even before the Grand Armée opened for business."

"All of Europe has been taking beatings for centuries. Please get to the point before I fall asleep on my feet."

So polite. "The main points are as follows: The winds of war were blowing, and the family who owned the la Forêt vineyard, having seen the same weather in many a previous generation, arranged to send their entire inventory into the safekeeping of a Spanish monastery dedicated to St. Agnes of the Goats, or something. By dark of night and disguised as window glass and tent stakes, the brandy made the journey. The chateau itself eventually went up in flames, et cetera and so forth, and the decision was made to sell off the greater portion of this liquid treasure and bring the remainder home."

Lynnfield put on his top hat. "Allow me to conjecture. Bandits intervened, or Spanish monarchists, or a besieging English army, and the remaining brandy was thought lost, when, in fact, it was sold by the bandits who gave up their thieving ways and became monks in the order of St. Agnes. Though Agnes means lamb, not goat."

"Not quite." St. Didier passed over a pair of dusty spurs. "English forces gained control of the land on which the monastery sat. The monks, being thoroughly disenchanted with storing contraband spirits, arranged to smuggle the brandy out the cellar door and into French hands, where it rightfully belonged. Or perhaps somebody alerted the French to what treasure lay in the monastery cellars, and Boney's boys retrieved it. In any case, the brandy was spirited away. Shortly thereafter, reports sprang up of French soldiers using that brandy to barter with their English foes for bread."

Lynnfield wiped his spurs on his sleeve. "Ah."

He bent to put on a spur, paused, and steadied himself against the sideboard. In another five minutes, the marquess would be snoring genteelly on St. Didier's parquet floor.

"What does my lord mean with that ‘ah'?"

"Sir Dashiel committed treason. As a member of the quartermaster's staff, he would have been among those sent to reconnoiter the monastery's stores, and he's enough of a snob to have known what the brandy was worth. He allowed the French to have most of it—doubtless in exchange for a fortune—knowing full well they'd use valuable spirits to supplement their meager rations. That's the treason part. He kept enough for himself to sell a bit off every spring when fashionable Society gathers in London. My dear auntie has probably been inveigled into smuggling his contraband up to Town for him."

"You can't prove any of that."

The marquess stashed his spurs into his jacket pocket. "I don't have to prove anything. Sir Dashiel was all but hurled from camp on short notice, though he was neither stripped of rank nor court-martialed. That tells me his senior officers had already discovered the brandy-for-bread scheme Dashiel put in motion. They knew and kept it quiet, lest morale or parliamentary support falter. Proof exists somewhere, and that's all that's necessary for my purposes."

"Why don't you look like a man whose suspicions have just been vindicated?"

"Because I am exhausted, and because I have the sense that I'm still not seeing the whole picture. I'm too busy examining snuffboxes."

Incoherence was a harbinger of collapse in the overly tired, though in Lynnfield's case, the same symptom apparently went hand in hand with brilliance.

"Take my coach, my lord. You're dead on your feet, and one doesn't like to think of a marquess fainting on the streets of London."

"Thank you, but the walk will revive me."

St. Didier respected Lynnfield's dignity almost as much as he respected Lady Penelope's temper.

"Must I knock you flat? If any harm befalls your lordship between my doorstep and Lynnfield House, Lady Penelope will take her wrath out on me, and understandably so. I will not survive the encounter with my self-respect intact. Ergo, you will take my coach."

His lordship blinked, he frowned, he scowled, and then he nodded. "Valid point. The oversight is mine. Your coach will be much appreciated."

Five minutes later, St. Didier bundled his guest into the cozy confines of the town coach. His lordship slumped against the squabs, and St. Didier would have bet his favorite spyglass that the marquess was asleep before the horses picked up the trot.