Suzanne Robinson (22 page)

With renewed determination, Mattie put the motorcar in gear and drove to the station, where she collected Narcissa and her luggage. In the motorcar it took only a quarter of an hour to reach the Cheremere lands. Climbing a tree-covered hill, Mattie slowed to a halt and pulled the brake to give Narcissa the same view she’d had upon first seeing the castle.

“Oh, Mattie,” Narcissa breathed.

Before them lay an emerald valley sprayed with golden gorse and dark green woods. The mist lay over everything in silver clouds that were fast burning away in the sunlight. The shimmering veil was thickest on the lake where it kissed the ramparts of Cheremere, whose revetment walls rose sheer and white out of the water. The castle had been built on two flat islands connected by stone bridge corridors. The massive arches of the bridges thrust from the water to support turrets that were repeated throughout the outer walls.

A fortified barbican guarded the bridge to the gatehouse and had once protected Cheremere from
invaders, but now it nestled among aged trees. Giant oaks shaded the buildings inside the bailey, while a green expanse of lawn held back the mighty drum towers of the revetment wall. The main castle guarded access to the next island, upon which rose the Gloriette, the medieval keep pierced by loopholes and leaded glass windows that had been added during the Renaissance.

The whole castle was constructed of cream-and-white stone and floated in the blue glass lake like a white rose on a pond. No longer a fortress, it remained an idyllic treasure amid the woods and fields of the valley.

“Yes,” Mattie said with a frown. “When we saw it the first time, I thought I’d never seen anything so pretty in all my born days.”

“One might be tempted to try to attach Mr. Tennant’s interest if Cheremere comes with him.”

“The problem is that he comes with it.”

“I thought he’d rehabilitated himself in your estimation.”

“Oh. Um, yes. He’s all right.”

“Back in London your opinion of him seemed a bit higher than that.”

Mattie’s hands worked on the steering wheel and she managed a pained smile. “Mama sets great store by him.”

“By his lineage, you mean.”

Nodding, Mattie released the brake and drove down the hill toward the barbican.

As they approached the castle Narcissa said, “I
called on the Countess of Ixworth before I left. She’ll be down on the evening train.”

“Hmmm.” Mattie was looking around the grounds, fearing that Cheyne might have gotten up early.

“Don’t you want to know what we talked about?”

Was that him walking around the ruins of the Norman tower next to the barbican? “What? Oh, sure.” No, it was a gardener.

“She said Mr. Tennant bought this place with money he earned himself.”

Mattie snorted. “He might have earned it himself, but who gave him that fancy education and helped him into the cavalry? It’s not like he started with nothing, like Papa did.”

“That’s not his fault, Mattie. I’ve heard that he scandalized Society by supporting the extension of the vote.”

“To women?”

“Well, no.”

“Ha!”

“I don’t know of many men who support votes for women.”

“Afraid they’ll lose their privileges and have to answer for their miserable treatment of us. Lying, uppity skunks.”

“Mattie, what’s got into you?”

Pulling the car up to the entrance to the great hall, Mattie shut off the engine and stepped down from it as a footman opened the door. “Nothing’s got into me. I’m just tired of English Society with its petrified conventions and hypocrisy.”

Narcissa got out and joined her. She swept an arm around, indicating the crenellated rooftops and turrets. “You can’t be tired of this.”

“I don’t have a place like this,” Mattie said as she trudged up the steps and into the great hall. “I have to live in a musty old Jacobean place with smokedarkened paneling and smelly drains because Mama says it’s picturesque. If I owned this place I’d never go to London, except maybe to see plays and such.”

“And never go to balls? How dreadfully boring.”

“I’ve had enough balls to last seven lifetimes,” Mattie grumbled.

“If you’re going to snipe the whole time we’re here, I’m leaving.”

They bickered like the old friends they were until they reached Narcissa’s bedroom. Mattie left Narcissa there to oversee the unpacking of her trunks and rest after her journey. Having ordered an early breakfast tray in her room to avoid seeing Cheyne, she had no need to join the rest of the party at the morning meal. Soon the men would go out shooting, but until then she needed a place to hide. One of the drum towers would do.

Mattie crossed the bailey, shoved open a door leading to the western towers and mounted the stone stairs. Placing her hand on one wall, she climbed the dark staircase as it wound its way to the roof. Once on top, she hoisted herself onto the ledge between two stone crenellations and gazed out at the lake. Beyond the water lay a wood from which emerged a herd of deer. Black swans floated below her, joined
by ringed teal and shelducks. In a field in the distance cattle grazed, and through it ran a meandering stream bordered by willows and birch. Mattie breathed in the scents from the garden that lay just beyond the barbican. Hydrangea, rhododendron, and azaleas bloomed there.

The peace of Cheremere soothed the ache in her heart. The brilliant colors of the garden lifted her spirits a bit. But nothing could assuage her frustration. Cheyne and Balfour had been unable to make anything of the blackmailer’s note. The paper could be purchased all over London, and the ink was common as well. None of the suspects could be eliminated by tracing their movements at Spencer House the night the letters were stolen. Everyone had some time for which they couldn’t account. No one seemed especially in need of money. Of course, a successful blackmailer wouldn’t need money.

She’d tried to sound out the Stellafords, about whom she knew the least. Sir William was from an old county family. He and his wife Julia had five children—three sons and two daughters. All of them were still in the schoolroom, but the Stellafords delighted in travel and managed to go on several trips a year to places like Australia and Egypt. Sir William seemed to have no trouble affording a large family, five carriages, two country estates and a London town house as well as his adventures. Everyone liked him, and Julia had more women friends than any other lady in Society. The great hostesses of Society
fought for Sir William’s presence at their dinners, especially when the Prince of Wales was coming, for His Royal Highness was known to delight in Stellaford’s humor. With Sir William present they could be assured that the prince wouldn’t grow bored, and boring the Prince of Wales was social death.

Mattie sighed and jumped down from her perch. Her investigations so far had been unfruitful. In his high-handed manner, Cheyne had ordered her not to try questioning people herself, but she was desperate to end the search for the blackmailer and get away from him. Defying his orders and making him furious was simply an additional pleasure.

She felt her way back down the dark stairs and came out of the tower into brilliant sunlight, blinking at the sudden change, and stumbled into someone.

“Mattie,” Cheyne said. “I’ve been looking for you. Where have you been? Oh, never mind. I want to talk to you.”

Still blinking, Mattie backed up and forced herself to look at him. He was standing with his arms folded, an irritated expression marring those perfect features. He looked like a medieval lord about to chide some neglectful varlet. Mattie’s chin came up, and she opened her mouth to spit a defiant reply at him, but he turned, offering his arm.

“You’re supposed to be my guest. We’ll pretend I’m showing you the garden.”

“Why aren’t you off shooting?”

“I don’t like slaughtering hoards of birds in order
to amuse idle amateurs. I sent the men off with my gamekeeper, and he’ll limit the ammunition so that the flocks aren’t decimated.”

“We don’t need to talk.”

Uttering an exasperated sound, Cheyne grabbed her hand and placed it on his arm. “Someone could be watching us from the windows.”

Mattie glanced at the tall rectangles set in stone across the front of the hall. Each glittered with diamond-shaped panes. Mattie pressed her lips together and began to walk. She said nothing as they went through the gatehouse, across the bridge, and out through the barbican. The castle drive bordered a smaller lake on the left, and to the right lay the garden surrounded by a stone wall. Cheyne opened an iron gate for her, and she stepped inside. Not waiting for him, she marched down one of the neat gravel paths that meandered through a riot of flowers and bushes.

Cheyne caught up, pulled her around to face him and said, “You’ve been interfering again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve been prying, asking the Stellafords and Lance all sorts of questions. If the blackmailer hears of your little endeavors, he’ll suspect something. You’re going to ruin everything.”

“I will not. I’ve been subtle.”

“You haven’t been subtle, you’ve been as obvious as a puppy sniffing after a fresh cut of beef. From now on you’ll play the part of the distraught young lady. Whatever happened to the swooning and tears?
You were supposed to faint and generally waste away from worry.”

Mattie rolled her eyes. “I decided that was stupid. Anyone who knows me knows I don’t swoon and blubber.”

“No, you shout and berate.” Cheyne shook his head, walked down the path and returned. “You’re going to have to cooperate, Miss Bright. This may be our only chance to trap the criminal. Do you want someone else to die?”

“I am cooperating, dang it. I’m not the one who changes his tune at the blink of an eye.”

Cheyne frowned. “What do you mean?”

Her mouth was dry and her nerves stripped. Damn her loose tongue. She hadn’t meant to make such a revealing remark.

“Oh, nothing.”

He was eyeing her now and seemed to notice her rigid stance for the first time. Despite her efforts to remain calm, Mattie reddened under his stare. He looked away.

“Ah, yes.” He walked over to a bed of blue hydrangeas and contemplated them. “Forgive me, Miss Bright. My conduct at our last meeting was ungentlemamanly. It won’t happen again. However, I suggest that you refrain from wearing trousers in the future. It’s most unladylike, and it—”

“Land sakes!” Mattie exclaimed.

He stared at her. “Now what’s wrong?”

“Do you always blame women for the way you act?” It was her turn to fold her arms and glare.

“You’re the one who dressed like a man,” Cheyne snapped.

“I don’t care.” Mattie marched up to him and planted a finger on his chest. “No matter what anybody says, Mr. Cheyne Tennant, you and every other man in this world are responsible for your emotions and your behavior. No one else is to blame if you can’t learn what any three-year-old learns—that you just don’t act on every feeling you get.” She stood on tiptoe so she could meet his gaze on an equal level. “I am not responsible for what you feel and how you act. You feelings are your own danged responsibility.”

Mattie swept around him and strode over to a small glade. She stopped by a swing that had been strung from the largest tree and gave the wooden seat a violent push. She was still fuming when Cheyne joined her, caught the swing and brought it to a standstill between them.

Watching her, he began to speak quietly. “You’re right.”

“What did you say?”

“I said you’re right, Mattie.”

She hadn’t expected him to agree with her, so she said nothing and continued to gawk at him.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Bright.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I must admit the truth when it’s placed before me in so eloquent a manner.” He stopped and ran a hand through hair the color of ripe wheat.

“I’ve never been unable—that is, I’m not accustomed
to being … Oh, hell. I shall do my best not to forget myself again.”

“Seems to me all you have to do is remember I’m an ignorant colonial.”

There was a long silence.

“I’ve been a bloody bastard.”

“I’m not arguing with you,” Mattie said coldly. She didn’t trust him; wouldn’t. No matter how many lovely apologies floated from those talented lips.

“Aren’t you going to curse at me and call me a—what was the term?—a skunk?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Never you mind why not. From now on you keep your personal comments to yourself. I’m here to help Superintendent Balfour catch this blackmailer, and the sooner we do that, the sooner I can get out of here and go home.”

“You’re going back to New York?”

“Yup.”

“What?”

“Yes, Mr. Tennant. I’m going back to New York. I got things to do, and I’ve gone sour on the idea of catching a titled husband. It seems to me I don’t need any husband at all. So I’ll thank you to hurry up and catch this varmint who’s causing all the trouble and do it quick.”

Cheyne was still looking at her as if she’d sprouted horns and a tail.

“What about your promise to your father?”

“Papa will understand. It’s Mama who won’t, but
I’ll handle Mama. All I ask is that you and I behave with civility to each other until this is over.”

“I think I can promise you that, Miss Bright.”

“Good.”

“As long as you promise not to wear trousers again.”

 
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