Strange Capers (8 page)

He took my hand again, and we left the chapel to stroll back through the overgrown path to Thornbury. His groom brought the yellow curricle around, and I was assisted up into it. It’s great height and precarious seating seemed less odd and dangerous on this second trip. It was an excellent vehicle for both speed and sightseeing. We drove southwest along the coast road past Folkestone and Hythe. I suggested that we stop at Saltwood Castle, but Aiglon was more eager to continue our drive. With the unappetizing marsh spreading out before us there wasn’t much to see, so we turned around and started home.

The traffic was not heavy during the late afternoon, and Aiglon took it into his head that I should have a lesson in what he called “handling the ribbons,” which meant driving his team. The team darted along, paying no heed to my restraining orders, but at least they had the wits to remain on the ironed road, so I didn’t complain. I sat in silent anguish, frightened to death, while Aiglon merrily told me this was the very thing I needed, a new pastime to alternate with sitting on the pile of rocks and looking at the derelict garden. The excitement put some color into my cheeks, he said. It also blew my hair all over my face and left me breathless, but he was kind enough not to mention those details.

We shot home at a reckless pace till we were just past Folkestone. That is where we met the tranter’s wagon, which was removing a house of furniture on a flatbed, drawn by four husky nags. They were an ill-natured team. I’m quite sure Aiglon’s grays could have gotten past them without incident if the leader—the tranter’s leader, I mean—hadn’t decided at that precise moment to stand up on its hind legs and neigh.

The grays had city manners and weren’t accustomed to such incivility. They bolted faster, breaking their gait and causing the curricle to jerk dangerously. The reins pulled painfully at my fingers till I was quite sure I had broken one or two of them. I let out a howl of pain sharper than the tranter’s neighing nags and dropped the ribbons. This gave the grays the notion that they were to step up their pace even faster. It was very fortunate that Aiglon had the wits to lunge for the dropped reins before they became entangled in the grays’ legs or we might have ended up in the nearest field. As it was, we got no farther than the ditch. Nothing was irreparably damaged, not even my pride.

“Why did you pull them off to the right?” I attacked before he could beat me to an accusation.

“It’s a little hard to pull straight when you’re not in the driver’s seat!” he pointed out. “Why did you drop the ribbons? The first lesson you have to learn, Constance, is never to drop the ribbons when your nags are in full gallop.”

“No, the first lesson is never to take hold of the ribbons when you don’t know how to drive!”

“How are you ever going to become a first-class fiddler if you don’t take the ribbons?” he countered.

“I’m not likely to become a first-class fiddler in the space of the day or two you’ll be at Thornbury,” I reminded him.

“Day or two? I plan to remain till Thornbury is sold. I’ll be here for a month at least, possibly through the summer,” he said. “Now, take the reins again and get us out of this ditch,” he ordered calmly.

“I wouldn’t touch them if my life depended on it,” I answered, and folded my arms over my chest.

“Driving is like riding. You have to get back in the driver’s seat immediately after a little mishap or you’ll never regain your nerve. Here, take ‘em.” He tossed the reins at me and they landed in my lap, where I left them.

Meanwhile, the team was becoming a little restive. They were finding their own way out of the ditch without much trouble. I thought Aiglon would be gentleman enough to take up the reins, but he did nothing of the sort. He just let the nags climb up by themselves and meander down the road. The mishap and their ascent from the ditch appeared to have tired them somewhat, for their pace slackened to about ten miles an hour. This was still faster than I usually drive the gig, but seemed safe compared to the speed of our former dash. When one of the team began eyeing the grass by the roadside, I took up the reins and pulled it into line. We got home without further mishap, but I was as angry as a hornet and determined that I wouldn’t subject myself to another ride in Aiglon’s fearsome curricle.

“We’ll drive east toward Dover tomorrow,” he informed me when we reached the stable.

“I’ve had enough driving for the present,” I declared, and hopped down from the perch.

“Would you prefer to ride?” he asked, not displeased with this notion. I saw him looking at his mounts, a pair of vicious-looking brutes pawing the earth in their boxes.

“No, Aiglon, I would prefer to walk. Or, better yet, to stay safely at home!”

He flung the reins to his groom, then took my arm to walk to the house. “That’s the wrong attitude. You should always take full advantage of any interesting possibility that comes you way, Constance,” he said earnestly. “Now confess the truth: Wasn’t the riding lesson more fun than sitting on your rocks?”

“It may seem so someday in retrospect. At the moment, I am tired and hot. My fingers are broken, and my hair is falling into my eyes,” I told him.

He stopped and brushed my hair back. “But it’s done wonders for your complexion, Constance, my flower. We’ll have a glass of wine and a rest, which will take care of the fatigue and the heat.”

There was a playful, flirtatious air about him as he made these comments. His head inclined toward mine, his eyes dancing. I was not totally immune to his persuasions, but I was not about to be lured back into the death curricle, either.

“That just leaves my broken fingers,” I replied, and tried to resume walking. Aiglon held me immobile with one hand.

“We’ll have to get you a thicker pair of gloves. You can wear mine till then. Our hands aren’t that different in size,” he pointed out, and used this as an excuse to fondle my fingers, stretching them out along his. “Tell me truthfully now, are they really hurt?” he asked.

“Yes, but not broken apparently. Despite the way you’re twisting them, I don’t hear them cracking.”

Then he released my hand and we resumed our walk. “You haven’t been heeding my lessons, Constance. The curricle isn’t the only object that’s been thrown in your path, to be taken advantage of. It also comes with an excellent driver.”

He peeped a saucy smile at me. I didn’t answer him, for I couldn’t think of anything to say. He continued undismayed. “I might as well warn you that I plan to take full advantage of all the beauties of Thornbury, your sweet self included.”

We were at the back door. He opened it in silence. I went to my room to survey the travesty of the careful toilette I had begun the excursion in. I looked quite like a dame who had just run a smock race. And won. There was a bright sparkle in my eyes, and my color was certainly enhanced by the outing. There was also a sly smile lifting my lips. Aiglon had managed to ingratiate himself into my good graces.

Despite his drinking and the duel, despite his gambling and the possible sale of the estate—or perhaps because of them—Aiglon was the most interesting man ever to set foot inside of Thornbury, and I would be a fool not to enjoy his presence to the fullest. I hastily cleaned myself up and ran belowstairs to drink the wine prescribed by my new flirt.

Aiglon hadn’t returned belowstairs by the time I reached the saloon, but Rachel was there. I asked whether she had enjoyed her outing.

“It was completely successful, Constance,” she replied, eyes twinkling. “Two Runners inquired after Aiglon. I thought three might be overdoing it. What do you think?”

“I doubt they’d send more than one.”

“For a
murder!”
she asked, glaring at me in displeasure. “And what did Aiglon do while I was gone?”

“He took me for a ride in his curricle. We ended in a ditch,” I said.

“That sounds exactly like Aiglon. But it
was
wise of you to get him out of the house. He didn’t mention noticing anything amiss in my housekeeping?” she inquired warily.

“Nothing of importance,” I assured her. “Rachel, with careful handling, I think he might be talked out of selling Thornbury.”

“Where do you get that idea?” she asked, keenly interested.

“We were down at the ruined chapel before our drive, and he—”

“What! What the devil were you doing there?” she demanded, her face white with anger or chagrin. I was quite astonished at such a strong reaction.

“Nothing! We were just talking. Why do you look so-so startled?” I asked in confusion.

“That is exactly the isolated sort of place you must keep away from when you’re with him, Constance. I feel responsible for you; you were sent here in my charge. A man of Aiglon’s kidney—”

“No, really he’s not that bad,” I objected.

“You must rely on my judgment in this matter. I have known him longer and more intimately than you, my dear. And what gave you the notion he might be dissuaded from selling Thornbury?”

“He is somewhat interested in its historical associations. He mentioned rebuilding the chapel. And naturally he’s reluctant to sell the place where his family first rose to prominence. With a little judicious handling, I think he could be talked out of selling.” I expected to see joy and to hear congratulations for my news. What I saw was a sharp frown, and what I heard was silence.

At last Rachel spoke. “If he’s so badly dipped that he has to sell something, he can’t be high enough in the stirrups to rebuild that shambles. I wonder what he’s
really
up to.”

“It’s only a temporary shortage of funds. I have the feeling he acted precipitately in going to Roundtree and that he regrets it already. Give him the book you bought in Folkestone, Rachel, and let us see if we can’t kindle his interest in restoring, instead of selling,” I urged.

She gave an annoyed
tsk.
“I told you that book was all damp and spotted. In any case, it says very little about Thornbury.”

“Well, perhaps there is
something
in the library to do the trick,” I offered hopefully. I wondered what was keeping Aiglon so long abovestairs. When Willard shuffled in a little later to speak to Rachel, he told us his lordship had some letters to write.

“He’s probably writing to inquire whether he did actually kill that Kirkwell person he shot in the duel or only maimed him for life,” Rachel commented.

I was coming to resent Rachel’s attitude toward her cousin. It was more likely he was writing to London urging the forwarding of arms for the militia, as he had more or less agreed to do. But that’s the way it was with Rachel. When she took someone in dislike, she saw no good in him.

“If he means to poke and pry through the library tonight, I had best make sure it’s clean,” she said, and went off in that direction, leaving me alone.

It was nearly time for dinner when Aiglon finally came belowstairs and Rachel had returned to the saloon.

“Ah, Aiglon, there you are!” she exclaimed brightly. “Did Constance tell you the dreadful news? I’m afraid you’ve been found out, my lad. The Runners were in Folkestone this afternoon. Naturally I tried to spread the word I hadn’t seen hide or hair of you, but after your visit to Captain Cokewell this morning, it was no use. Rather unwise of you to have sallied forth, was it not?”

Aiglon subjected his cousin to a long, thoughtful gaze that held much derision. “You must be mistaken,” he answered mildly. “I had a note from a friend left at General Delivery in Folkestone this morning informing me that Kirkwell is alive and well. They must be after some other villain. Or villainess,” he added in a meaningful way, still regarding her steadily.

Rachel’s reaction was not at all what I expected. She didn’t bridle up in righteous indignation, or laugh, or do anything but return his steady gaze. Some undercurrent flowed between them, some message relayed by Aiglon and assessed by his cousin. My liveliest conjecture brought forth nothing but the larcenous nature of Rachel’s housekeeping, and I didn’t think this could possibly be a matter for the Bow Street Runners.

“That is good news that you didn’t kill Kirkwell, Aiglon,” I said, very much relieved to hear it.

I heard Willard’s shuffle approaching, heralding the announcement of dinner. Already fumes of poached cod filled the house, killing my appetite. The entire fish, including the head and dress of scales, had been poached and placed on the table. The eye had turned milky and stared at us accusingly as we took our seats.

“Give Lord Aiglon the head,” Rachel said to the footman.

It was done, and accepted without a murmur, though I noticed Aiglon immediately reached for the sauceboat and covered the whole thing in the cream sauce that unfortunately accompanied any fish at Thornbury. He picked reluctantly around its edges, occasionally lifting to his tips a forkful of sauce, eked out with mashed potatoes. The sauce was of a consistency that didn’t object to a fork. About nine-tenths of the fish was soon removed from the table and replaced by mutton, which was slightly more appetizing.

“I expect you’ll be going into town this evening?” Rachel asked Aiglon as we ate.

“No, Constance and I plan to do a little research in the library,” he answered.

“That’s odd. Miss Pethel has never showed the least interest in the library in the five years she’s been here,” Rachel answered, mainly for the purpose of showing him he should be calling me Miss Pethel.

“I hope to diversify her interests in more than one direction. How are the fingers, Connie?” he asked, inventing a completely new name for me. I felt ill at ease, having become a pawn between the feuding cousins.

“Not broken after all,” I assured him, while Rachel lifted her brows and gave me her displeased look.

“I hear you have a book for me, Cousin” was Aiglon’s next line of talk.

“No, no, it’s a musty old thing, and of no particular interest,” Rachel replied.

“Since it pried loose a few shillings from your reticule, I am most curious to see it,” he responded bluntly.

But Rachel turned the conversation to Aiglon’s mother and to other relatives who were known to me only by name. When dessert was served, Rachel accepted a plate of bread pudding, but Aiglon, despite having only nibbled at his dinner, was too full to indulge, and so was I. We ladies soon left him to his port and retired to the saloon.