The Notorious Bridegroom (3 page)

Outside the door, she could hear the murmur of voices, which halted at her knock. Her heart beat a little faster as she balanced the tray and waited.

At the word “Enter,” Patience took a deep breath and wet her dry lips before opening the door. She had to blink several times to adjust to the dimly lit room and to locate the occupants. Silence reigned briefly when she entered the room, but the men soon took up where they had left off. Lord Londringham reclined in his chair behind his massive desk and gestured to a table in front of his companion, who sat comfortably in a wing chair nearby.

She set the tray on the table and began to pour the tea, her spectacles and mobcap firmly in place.

The earl’s friend told him, “I would like to accompany you to Carstairs’s estate tomorrow morning. There must be some piece of evidence we might uncover which will lead us to his murderer.”

Murderer?
Patience could barely breathe. The cup in her hand shook. Was her cousin, dead? The man’s next words confirmed her fears.

“With any luck. You know, I believe his murder was not totally unexpected. What do you think of this young Mandeley having murdered him?”

Her eyes widened in alarm, her breath held in desperate suspense.
They suspected Rupert of Lord Carstairs’s murder?
In infinite horror, she gulped and dropped the china sugar pot onto the table with a crash. The noise immediately awakened her stupor.

Startled, both men looked her way, then resumed talking. Patience quickly cleaned up the mess, reminding herself that she must go on, no matter the worry that threatened to paralyze her thoughts.

A few harried minutes later, Lord Londringham told her, “No sugar or milk for me.”

Cup and saucer in hand, she warily approached his desk and placed his tea in front of him, half-expecting him to jump from his chair when he recognized her as the woman from the fair. But although she stared as long as she dared at his granite-carved face, he merely glanced impersonally at her before returning his attention to the papers before him.

His friend continued, “Damn difficult to know. It certainly does not do the chap well that he fled with the skirts of dawn. But what possible motive could his cousin have? I checked with a solicitor in the village who states that a distant relative of Carstairs on his mother’s side will inherit.” He leaned back in his chair after instructing Patience that he required sugar.

Londringham sipped his tea before replying, “Indeed. What motive? It is a piece of unfortunate business, especially when I nearly had Carstairs in my sights.” He looked over at Patience, who stood near the tea table, and dismissed her.

A brief curtsy and she reluctantly left the room, disappointed she would not hear more. She had to learn what he knew. Perhaps the earl, himself, had killed Carstairs and tried to misdirect his friend to her brother. On an impulse, she cracked the door, hoping to hear a gem of information. Surely, here in the shadows, no one could find her.

The earl’s friend began, “Yes, Carstairs was…”

Just then she heard steps and a woman’s voice above her on the staircase. She rushed across the hall into what she hoped was an empty parlor. Heart pounding, she swiped her sweaty palms on her apron, her hands clasped the cool doorknob.

Inside the quiet parlor, she listened at the door and heard more voices and footsteps. Precious minutes ticked by until suddenly everything resumed its normal tomblike silence.

Cautiously, she peeled open the door and peeked up and down the hall. No one. She scurried back across the hall to the study door, still slightly ajar. Leaning her ear close to the opening, Patience heard the earl’s voice.

“Meet me in my rooms tonight. I should be back after eleven.”

She did not hear the reply because the young footboy, Lem, beckoned her from the vestibule. “Miss,” he called insistently.

Patience hurried down the hall to meet the little boy. “What is it?” she asked him.

He pointed toward the kitchen. “It’s Mr. Gibbs. ’e’s been looking for you. ’e ’as more work for you.”

The minute he relayed his message, the lad shot out of the house like a cannon, probably in an effort to avoid work or the butler. She glanced once more at the study doors, sighed, and headed toward the kitchen. Already she was busy planning how to be in the earl’s bedchamber when he met with his friend tonight.

The sun’s dying scarlet rays washed across the sky after Patience’s second day as Paddock Green’s newest still-room maid. She stretched her weary arms above her head, stiff from polishing the last looking glass with wine spirits, then added whiting for a final shine.

Finished earlier than expected, Patience had helped rub and sift sugar for cake, although the cook complained that Patience’s cake dough could be used as cannon fodder to shoot at the unsuspecting French enemy. Perhaps next time she could remember to add the yeast, the cook hinted scornfully.

But Patience’s mind was not on baking a better cake. Like Pandora with the key to her box, she wanted to unearth the earl’s secrets in his locked study; it had been secured, no doubt, to keep out prying still-room maids.

After she helped Lem cut the cotton tops off the candles and change the lamp oil, Mrs. Knockersmith sent her to bed with a warning to be up earlier than the sun. Patience wearily climbed the stairs, scratching her head through her large mobcap.

Lord Londringham,
a subject never very far from her mind. What kind of a man was he? He was certainly guilty of espionage, but murder? She shivered as if ghostly hands had reached out to her from the grave. Biting her lip, she realized resignedly that she would have to get much closer to the earl if she wanted to discover the answers she sought.

Although the hour grew late, Patience decided to take a quick nap before attempting her first foray into spying. She had thought about it all afternoon and planned to eavesdrop on the earl and the captain when they met tonight in the earl’s rooms. With any luck, she could secure evidence to be used against the earl.

Once safely inside her maid’s room in the attic, Patience threw off her mobcap and spectacles, and in relief, unbuttoned the maid’s uniform before pulling on her thin blue lawn nightdress. She unpinned her hair, then combed the thick strands through her fingers, as she massaged away the slight pain from the cap and pins. She promptly curled into a ball and closed her eyes.
Just for a few minutes,
she promised herself.

An hour later Patience awakened, slowly, then jolted into a sitting position. It all came winging back to her on a cry.

Tonight. The earl’s room.

A glance at the clock showed almost half-past eleven. She grabbed a pale blue wrap and slipped quietly out the door, not giving herself pause for failure, and winked three times for luck before hastening toward the stairs.

Patience thought her frantic breathing would awaken the dead. Lips dry and hands trembling, her bare feet whispered across the moonbeam-lit wooden floor as she ran down the hallway. She prayed the shadows would hide her as she hugged the cool walls on her descent to the second floor, forcing her cowardly feet forward step-by-step.

When the longcase clock in the Grand Hall began to chime, she stopped to take quick, shallow breaths, keenly listening for any sleepless companions in the night.

What if she was too late? What if the earl had not returned yet? Too late for a change of heart. A spur of righteousness lit her heels and with frantic archangels beating in her heart, Patience began her secret advance toward the enemy. As she crept down the long corridor in the west wing, she noted the ornate pillars standing sentinel outside every other door down the hallway, which would provide a perfect refuge if needed.

Luckily, nothing disturbed the night. Wax candles nestled in their wall sconces flickered from the slight breeze through the open window at the end of the hallway. The dim light slightly illuminated the path to the earl’s door.

Stealthily she continued on, her palms dampened, as she moved closer, four doors, then three doors away. Not far from his suite of rooms, she could see a light under his door. Was success near at hand or was disappointment about to send her scurrying back to bed? On tiptoe, she crossed the hallway to his door to listen.

All quiet. At the point of deciding whether to wish for better luck tomorrow, someone made the choice for her. Heavy footsteps thudded on the stairs heading her way. The only escape available was a nearby door. She fervently hoped she had done something good lately to warrant an unoccupied room and a place to hide.

Patience sprang for the door, jerked it open, and then almost slammed it shut, her nightdress and robe flying about her ankles. She pressed her back to the door, holding her mouth with one hand to muffle her breathing. Thankfully, no indignant person leapt from the large tester bed. She leaned against the door and listened as the footsteps continued past her door and the earl’s rooms. Who could that have been? If it was the captain, why had he not stopped?

Putting a hand to her heart to calm herself, Patience peered into the room, her eyes adjusting to the moonlight laced faintly through the window. She slowly and cautiously circled a long chaise longue in the darkened room while holding out her left hand to guide herself to the wall, which she thought must adjoin the earl’s room.

She leaned an ear to the silk damask wall and with her senses tuned for sound, she strained to hear. A moment passed and then another. She held her breath and waited. Nothing. Were the walls too thick for the convenience of eavesdroppers or would-be spies?

If only she had not fallen asleep. She shook her head and sighed, regret as unfamiliar to her as poverty to a king.

Patience straightened up with an idea. Perhaps the captain had not yet arrived for their rendezvous?

A puff of wind just then wafted a ribbon of white curtains into the room. The upper housemaid must have forgotten to close the window.

The window. Might she be able to hear something if the earl’s windows remained open? Not willing to give up yet, she hurried across the room. In her haste, she stubbed her toe on a small chest at the end of the bed. A knuckle in her mouth helped to stifle a moan as she rubbed her sore toe while hopping on one foot.
Clumsy must be my middle name.

Had anyone heard the noise? After a few uneasy minutes and no one barged into the room, she sat on the chest in relief, her toe still throbbing.

All remained quiet, though she did not want to examine exactly how long her luck or the silence would last. Her heart might give out before then. At last, when she felt she could move safely, she limped to the window and drew aside the white curtains. Clouds paraded past the moon, dulling its white light. The night offered damp possibilities as Patience contemplated her next move.

When she stuck her head out the window, she discovered the earl’s windows were still open. Her moment of glee was cut short quicker than wind to a flame upon realizing the distance seemed too great to scale.

She perched on the windowsill, her nightdress and wrap smoothed underneath her, her toes curling against the cold stone, her chin resting on her hand.

Disappointing. It was times like these that Patience Leti-tia Mandeley had no idea what she was doing. She was not normally the adventurous type, but she had to do something to help Rupert.

Patience gazed across the sprawling lawn and neatly trimmed gardens of the estate and contemplated her situation. Perhaps the distance to the earl’s window was not as far as it seemed. She looked below and spied a stone balustrade running the entire length of the house. The balustrade appeared to be about two feet in width.
Strong enough to stand on?
There was only one way to find out.

She grasped her nightdress and wrap closer to her body, and with a deep breath she precariously crawled out the window onto the ledge a few feet beneath her. For a fearful minute, her feet dangled in the air as her toes sought purchase on the narrow shelf. Her luck held as her feet touched the hard, cold surface.

She held the window ledge in a firm grasp and tested the balustrade. It appeared to hold, even though it was designed more for an ornamental purpose than a functional one.

Her cheeks felt warm from her exertions as she tried to still her shaking hands. Reluctantly, she released her slippery grasp from the windowsill and slid her hands down the rough stone wall. Between both windows there was nothing to hold on to but the uneven surface of rough stone. Eyes closed, she carefully maneuvered her body around so that her back fit snugly against the stone wall.

She stopped to reward her efforts and regain her fortitude, if not her courage. The ground appeared exceedingly far away, and it would take only one slip—

She made up her mind to concentrate on the ledge and not look beyond it. Grasping the raspy edges of the stones blindly with touch as her only guide, Patience started to walk sideways along the side of the house. The distance was farther than she had initially determined, but by a tentative step-and-slide crawl she felt her way over to the earl’s windows.

A chair scraping the floor stopped her progress.
What was happening? Was there anyone with the earl?
Her heart pounded in her ears, and she suddenly felt quite ill.

This is too dangerous. I shall never make a spy.
Torn between retreat and advance, Patience abruptly had a more pressing concern and realized this is where luck deserted her to the elements. While she had been concentrating on her progress, the moon’s light had diminished and the breeze had picked up.

Was that a wet drop on my nose? Please let it not be rain.
Three plops landed on top of her head, convincing her this prayer would go unanswered. A gentle hushing heralded the drizzle.
Perhaps it will only last a few minutes.
At about the time she was soaked to the skin, Patience had decided that whatever the earl had to discuss with his friend could wait to be discovered another day.

Bryce stretched out his legs before the fireplace snapping and sputtering to its death. The room had become quite warm, so warm that he had earlier discarded his shirt and wore only breeches. With a half-empty glass in his hand, he leaned more comfortably into his velvet wing chair.

Their trip to Winchelsea had proved unproductive. Normally reliable informants had nothing to report about the French spy’s location or his new meeting place. The only interesting tidbit gleaned was a rumor that the spy might be a woman.
Could it be the same—no, she must still be in France.
He shook his head. Probably the good pint of ale he had paid the man had embellished his story.

Tonight seemed like a fine night to waste at the bottom of a bottle. He did not eagerly anticipate his visitor, due any moment, which contributed to his imbibing. With his right thigh pulsing a dull pain, his mood grew as foul as the weather had become. The wind taunted the last bright sparks as he rubbed his leg. He didn’t want to remember the night of Edward’s murder, and the French bullet torn into his own leg trying to bring his brother’s body home.

The floor-length curtains flag-waved from across the room while the quiet rain lullabied the night’s peaceful stillness. Admiring the fiery contents in his brandy glass, the brilliant color reminded him of a beautiful young woman.

I wonder where she is. Mrs., or, more likely, Miss, Grundy.

She was all goodness. He wanted to wrap himself in her goodness to forget for awhile.
Forget about the woman responsible for his brother’s murder. If only he could return to France.
But Secretary Hobart expected a report soon of the sea fencibles stationed in Kent to protect the shoreline that he had been assigned the task of overseeing. With resignation, he knew he had to finish this mission before beginning his own.

Bryce sighed and flexed his shoulders, then rose to pour himself another drink. Returning to his chair, he moved it farther away from the heat still emanating from the fireplace.

What in blazes?
He noticed something blue blowing across the window opening. Obviously not his curtains, which, upon closer inspection, he realized were deep red.

Intrigued, he cautiously approached the opened window. He rested his left hip on the sill, leaned out, and looked over to his right. What he saw amazed him and immediately removed any lingering effects of the liquor.

A young woman, very wet, with eyes closed, clutched the side of his house. The edges of her nightdress blew teasingly toward him.
Whatever was a young woman doing outside his window? And why did she seem somehow familiar?
Could she be spying on him?

Without hesitation, he leveraged his hip across the ledge and reached out his hand toward her while grasping the side of the window with a firm hand.

Softly he called to her, “Don’t be afraid. Step toward me and grab my hand. I will pull you through the window.”

The woman’s eyes fluttered open in shock. She paused and studied his outstretched hand before lifting one trembling pale hand from its anchor to the house and trustingly placed it into his. Immediately, he tightened his grip around her fragile hand and drew her gently toward him, murmuring soft encouragements.

She managed the last few steps to his window in a wet shuffle until he could grasp her narrow waist. In one smooth movement, he pulled the woman against his chest and carried her through the window onto safer ground.

Or that is what he would have believed. When he felt her cool, wet body against his, rationality escaped him. Before he had time to reflect on the desire hardening his body, the uneven weight of her high in his arms awkwardly knocked them to the ground. She landed on top of him with a
whoosh,
momentarily taking his breath away. Wet strands of sweet-smelling hair slapped his cheek as lovely hazel eyes in an ashen face gazed down at him in terror. She gaped at him as she braced her weight on both sides of his head, while the rest of her body pressed intimately against his.

“You.” The word pushed from his lips in an incredulous whisper. He could not help but stare.

This was her. Mrs. Grundy or Miss Grundy or whoever.
What was she doing here?
Her mouth opened as if to say something, but caught off guard by her familiar countenance and the very right feel of her supple body pressed against his, Bryce responded by raising his hand to her head and bringing her lips gently to meet his, his other hand holding her tightly against him. He would get the answers from her, but first his body willed his mind to forget for a moment. There would be plenty of time.