Strange Capers (13 page)

“Why was he talking of selling our house if he was as rich as a nabob?” Meg asked me.

“Maybe he sold it already, and that was the purchase price,” Willard suggested, and was roundly condemned for a cloth head.

“We don’t know that it was Aiglon’s money,” I pointed out.

“We know it wasn’t mine or yours or Willard’s,” Meg retorted sharply. “And if it belonged to the mistress, she wouldn’t be calmly sitting upstairs reading that everlasting book. She’d be off hollering to the constable,”

This irrefutable logic did indeed point back to Aiglon as the possessor of the money. Shiftwell was summoned, and he turned a blank face to us all.

“His lordship did not travel with any large sum of money,” he stated firmly. And added, “Quite the contrary,” in a way that suggested pockets to let.

“There’s a riddle wrapped up in a mystery then,” Meg declared, and drew out her coin.

It was newly minted, which set my mind at rest on one bothersome question. When Meg mentioned Rachel reading that “everlasting book,” I feared Rachel had outsmarted me and gone on to find some buried treasure after all. But the coin Meg held was not more than a few months old, to judge by its sheen.

I went upstairs to speak to Rachel and found her lying on her bed, though fully dressed. She was too far from the lamp to have been reading.

“Rachel, what should we do about the man in the cellar?” I asked.

“You’d best mention it to Aiglon when he returns.”

“It’s important enough that we should send someone into town to get him!”

“No, he won’t want any publicity,” she said. It was unusual that she didn’t even bother sitting up to talk to me, but remained lying down.

“Are you not feeling well? Would you like a headache powder?” I asked.

“I’m just a little tired. I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m very worried about Aiglon’s goings-on here. You know where that money came from, of course?”

“No, I have no idea.”

“It’s the money he got for selling those arms to the Frenchies. That’s why he was careful to hide it in the cellar. And it is also why he wouldn’t thank us for raising any alarm at its loss. He can’t even report the theft. It serves him right,” she said grimly.

“That can’t be it, Rachel!” I objected, but I remembered his extraordinary ability with a lie and found myself in great doubt.

We discussed it for a few moments. We were still doing so when Willard knocked at the door and was told to come in.

“There’s company downstairs looking for his lordship,” Willard said.

“Is it the law?” I asked, my bones turning to ice.

“Oh, no, miss. It’s nothing like the law” was Willard’s strange reply.

“Well, who is it?” Rachel demanded, finally lifting herself to an upright position.

“He says the name’s Sir Edward Retchling, but folks call him Beau. Have you ever heard of him at all?”

“No, but it sounds like a name worth investigating. The Retchlings are more than respectable. We’ll be down presently, Willard. Give Sir Edward a glass of wine and make him comfortable,” she said.

“He’s already given himself a glass,” Willard replied, and shuffled out, his poor shoulders stooping.

“Don’t speak of the man in the cellar or the satchel of gold in front of Retchling, Constance. Let me talk to Aiglon about it first,” Rachel instructed.

She also suggested I make myself presentable, employing her rouge pot if necessary, for I looked like a ghost. The tallow had also stained my gown, so by the time I changed and went below, Sir Edward was comfortably ensconced. His clear, fluting voice struck my ears from halfway down the staircase, but his physical presence was more striking by far. I had never seen such a pretty gentleman.

Sir Edward was at least six feet tall with broad shoulders, so it is strange that the overall impression when first laying eyes on him was that he ought, by rights, to be wearing a bonnet. I don’t know whether it was his languid, die-away air or his fine-featured face that first put the notion into my head, but, once there, I could hardly look at him without smiling.

He had baby blue eyes, heavily fringed, a pouting set of lips, and a weak chin, but to counteract these adornments, he also had a nose of considerable proportions. He arose to make a ludicrously graceful bow when Rachel and I entered. I observed at once that I had another elegant person to contend with. There were no wrinkles in his well-fitted jacket, no tarnish on its large brass buttons, no dust on his boots, no intimation that he had traveled any distance since leaving his dressing room.

“Ladies, your servant,” he said, scraping a leg most artfully.

“Sir Edward, I’m Aiglon’s cousin, Lady Savage. Allow me to make you welcome at Thornbury,” Rachel said, and went on to make me acquainted with him.

We all sat down before the desultory embers in the grate and stared at one another. “I’m afraid Aiglon is out for the evening,” Rachel explained. “He may not come home for a few hours. If you are anxious to see him, you’ll find him at the White Hart in Folkestone. It’s only ...”

“Your excellent butler was kind enough to tell me so, ma’am. I have taken the liberty of having Shiftwell sent off to fetch him. He should be here soon,” Retchling replied.

The casual use of Shiftwell’s name, along with the rather encroaching way of using Aiglon’s servants, suggested that Sir Edward and Aiglon were close friends. Rachel had soon made inquiries in this direction.

“Bosom bows,” he confirmed, “I come with tidings of great joy. You heard of the Kirkwell fracas?”

“Yes,” Rachel replied, nose sliding chinward.

“I have the honor to be Aiglon’s second in all his duels. I am happy to be able to inform you that your cousin acquitted himself admirably. A good but not fatal hit, and Aiglon was three sheets to the wind at the time, too. But to be defending the honor of a lightskirt! ‘Twas farce, not drama. Still, all’s well that ends well. The fellow has recovered sufficiently to inflict himself on society once more. I immediately dashed forward to tell Lance.”

“He has already heard it,” Rachel told him. “Someone else wrote the news to him. You shouldn’t have bothered driving so far, Sir Edward.”

“I spare no exertion where my true friends are concerned,” he professed nobly, then ran on as frankly as if he sat alone. “I wonder if Lance will know I knew Riddell wrote. I must come up with a better excuse, as that one has evaporated like dew in the morning sun.”

“Why don’t you tell him the
reason
instead?” Rachel suggested, and her curious glance added that she wouldn’t mind hearing it herself.

“One will end up doing so in the end. Pockets to let,” he mentioned. “Bailiff roosting at Watley Hall—my own country place. He’s counting the silver to see I don’t pawn or sell it. Entailed, of course. Still, Lance won’t cavil at that. He’s in much the same boat himself.”

I had come to accept that Aiglon was an accomplished liar. I now had to swallow either that Retchling was equally accomplished or that Aiglon was, in fact, in the basket. And if he had lied to me about that, what confidence could be placed on any of his other explanations? Most of all, I was chagrined to hear that the duel had involved a lightskirt, and that it was, apparently, one of a series of such disgraceful exhibitions. He had never denied the duel or explained it to me.

“You have come to stay a while then, Sir Edward?” Rachel asked, trying to conceal the wrath that I knew must be roiling in her breast.

“For a
petit
sojourn by the sea, but I shan’t be any trouble to you, Lady Savage. I shall quietly inhabit the library. In my more cerebral or at any rate less physical moments, I enjoy to brush minds with other geniuses.”

“I see,” Rachel answered, biting back a smile. “And are you a genius as well, Sir Edward?

“It troubles my modesty to say so, but I have at last submitted to popular clamor and acknowledge it. My collection of
Pens
é
es
was well-received. Rather in the manner of Blaise Pascal, but less theological. Pascal with muscles, the critics said. Rather clever of them. I slipped the phrase to Hazlitt but can’t claim credit for the
bon mot
that was circulating at court. ‘Twas said I set Pascal ablaze. Blaise Pascal, you see. A pun. A lowly joke, and not even my own.”

Sir Edward soon admitted that he was feeling peckish, so Rachel ordered him some cold food, and no sooner was it consumed than Aiglon arrived.

Sir Edward jumped up from his chair, where he had been eating with a plate on his lap. “Lance, dear boy, what a world of good it does these tired eyes to see you!” he exclaimed, and paced forward to shake Aiglon’s hand.

I compared the two, marveling that despite the similarity in build, they looked so very different. Retchling was perhaps eight or ten years older, but the greater disparity was in their air. Retchling was an affected fop, and it seemed strange to me that the pair could be intimate friends.

“What a surprise, R—”

“No, don’t call me Retchling!” Sir Edward interrupted, shaking a playful finger under his host’s nose. “It is the style since your departure to call me Beau. I am locked in mortal combat with Brummell for the title of greatest dandy in all of England. Tell me truthfully, now, Lance, what think you of this jacket?” he asked, performing a pirouette for Aiglon’s benefit. “It may not sit quite so well between the shoulder blades as Brummell’s, but it shows to better advantage in the sleeves, don’t you agree?”

“It is no worse than Brummell’s,” Aiglon decided after careful consideration. Retchling looked quite crushed. I thought Aiglon could have added one harmless little lie to his total since it was obviously a matter of such importance to his friend.

“Ah, to the quick! You strike me to the quick,” Retchling said sadly.

“What calamity has forced you beyond London, Beau?” Aiglon asked, walking in and taking a seat. Perhaps he read the eagerness in my face, for he sat beside me. I was on thorns to tell him of my experience in the cellar and to learn if he was involved.

“My old chronic complaint,” Retchling admitted. His financial troubles were apparently well-enough known that no further elucidation was required. “But I’m not here to beg, old bean. Never fear it. I know you are not well-to-grass yourself at the moment. I am almost on the point of taking your advice and marrying myself a plump heiress. Plump in the pocket, I mean.
Ça va sans dire.
I could never tolerate a squabby woman.” He looked hopefully toward myself at this speech. Aiglon just shook his head to denote my lack of funds. Next Rachel was examined as a possible bride. She was, I think, two or three years older than Retchling, but in the dim lamplight she passed for a little younger.

Her quick eyes didn’t miss a move. I was surprised to see a little look of pleasure on her lean countenance. I had never thought of Rachel as being at all interested in marriage, perhaps because we met so few eligible gentlemen at Thornbury. She immediately turned her attention to Retchling and began offering him wine and plum cake, both of which he accepted.

While this was going forth, I spoke in low tones to Aiglon, informing him what had happened during his absence.

“Was it
your
money?” I asked fearfully. He hadn’t appeared the least dismayed to learn that it was gone, so I was inclined to think he knew nothing about it.

I must have spoken the word
money
louder than I intended, for suddenly both Retchling and Rachel were looking at me, their faces alive with curiosity.

“No!” Aiglon answered, greatly surprised.

Retchling spoke up then, before I could ask more questions. “Did I tell you I have a few messages for you, Lance? Lord Tate has written about buying your grays. I indicated a keen lack of interest on your part, to drive up the price. Lady Alice insists you return for her ball, and Taffy Wade says he requests the return with interest of the loan he made you last July. Here, the demmed papers are ruining the set of my jacket.”

He arose and handed a few letters to Aiglon, who pocketed them without looking at them. I was somewhat surprised when Aiglon mentioned what I had been at pains to keep private.

“What’s this about some man in the cellar, Rachel?” he asked, right in front of Retchling.

“Ask Constance. She is the one who saw him.”

I told my story once more. It attracted its proper share of interest and concern. Aiglon and Retchling asked a million questions. Wasn’t I hurt? Did he strike me? Aiglon asked these with enough anxiety to please me.

“Oh, I say, no gentleman would strike a lady!” Retchling objected.

“No gentleman would be lurking about in the cellar,” Rachel mentioned.

“ ‘Twould be odd, but I don’t see that it would be bad ton,” Retchling told her after careful consideration.

“We’d best have a look,” Aiglon decided, and we all trooped down to the kitchen after him, carrying tapers and lamps to light our way.

“You won’t find nothing,” Meg told us. “Me and Willard have been over the cave with a fine-tooth comb, and he hasn’t left a sign, not so much as a hair of his head or the mark of his boot.”

She was right. There was nothing to give any indication who had been there or what he had done with the gold. We returned abovestairs to discuss how the intruder had gotten into the cellar. Though Aiglon insisted his servants were a bunch of saints, we considered them the culprits, and he agreed to question them.

“We’ll have a look about outside tomorrow,” Retchling remarked, but only to pacify Rachel and myself. “And now, dear boy, if you’d be kind enough to point my nose in the proper direction, I shall betake myself to bed.”

Rachel had passed Willard the word to make one of the guest rooms ready, and she took Retchling up herself, which left me with a moment of privacy with Aiglon. There were half a dozen things I wanted to talk to him about. The duel over a lightskirt, the note from Lady Alice bidding him to her ball, just what he had accomplished in Folkestone before being called home, and was he or was he not short of money—these were a few that rose to mind. But, of course, it was of the intruder that he spoke first.