The Notorious Lord (8 page)

Bradshaw nodded. He did not look as though he would find this particular task too onerous. ‘I can try, my lord.’

‘Splendid!’ Cory gestured towards the finds basket. ‘You could start by taking these over to Lady Odell for sorting. And whilst you are there, pray remind her ladyship that luncheon was ready an hour ago. Miss Odell will not forgive me if her parents fail to eat.’

He watched Bradshaw scramble over the trenches until he reached Lavinia Odell and the maid at her side and saw Kitty’s face tilt up towards Bradshaw with a luscious smile. Cory sighed and turned away, his gaze searching out Rachel’s figure on the footpath that skirted the site. She had passed by without a word and now she had reached the stile that led on to the drive. He saw her hesitate before taking the longer route round through the wicket gate. Cory smiled to himself. Of course. Climbing over a stile was not very ladylike and not even the neat Miss Odell could scale it with decorum. No doubt she thought it far better to preserve her dignity by walking round.

His smile became a frown as he realised that Rachel had passed him by without a backward glance. Not long ago she would have made a point of stopping at the dig and speaking to him, even detesting excavation work as she did. This new distance in her behaviour was puzzling and uncomfortable. He had felt it when they had greeted each other earlier that morning. There had been a prickle of tension between them that previously had not existed. And now Rachel had deliberately passed him by. Perhaps she had been more embarrassed by their encounter by the river than he had imagined. Whatever the reason, it seemed that she intended to keep her distance. He did not like the thought.

It was late that same evening, and the heat of the day had faded from the air, when Rachel came looking for Cory down on the excavation. It was not difficult to find him, for a small campfire burned in the southern corner of the field, sheltered by the stone wall that separated the burial site from the meadow beyond. The evening was still light, for it was almost midsummer, but the sun was down and the sky paling. Against its washed blue light the warmth of the fire looked bright and welcoming.

Cory was sitting on the edge of a trench, his long legs dangling over into the ditch beneath. Beside him, away from the fire, a cloth was spread out, and on it were the parts of a dismantled rifle set out ready for cleaning. As Rachel approached, Cory looked up from the piece that he was polishing and gave her his slow, heart-shaking smile.

‘Good evening, Rae. What do you have there?’

‘I have brought you something to eat and drink,’ Rachel said. She put a packet of food beside him. ‘It is nothing much, merely some bread and cheese and an apple. Oh, and some of Mrs Goodfellow’s cider. I should warn you that it is strong stuff. I was drinking it this morning when I saw you come out of the river, and I thought I was having delusions.’

Cory flashed her a smile. ‘How flattering that you thought me a figure of fantasy,’ he said gravely.

‘A delusion is generally a sign of madness rather than anything else,’ Rachel pointed out crushingly, ‘so I do not feel you should take it as a compliment.’ She looked around. ‘There is nowhere to sit here. How very uncomfortable!’

Cory sighed, slipped his jacket off and spread it on the ground with exaggerated care. ‘There you are, Rae. I would not do that for everyone.’

‘I imagine most people would not want you to,’ Rachel said. ‘It is scarce cleaner than the earth.’

Nevertheless she sat down on it, curling her legs neatly beneath her skirts, and for a few moments there was a si
lence between them. It felt warm and comfortable and familiar. A sliver of moon was rising in the eastern sky and the air was still faintly warm and scented with summer. The fire hissed and crackled and Rachel watched Cory’s deft fingers as he thrust the bristle brush through the barrel of the gun.

She put a hand out and touched the shining rifle butt.

‘Is this new?’

‘Yes,’ Cory said. ‘A Baker rifle with a short barrel so that it can be fired whilst you are lying down. It is a new design—’ He stopped and looked at her. ‘You are not really interested, are you?’

‘Not really,’ Rachel said. ‘I was only being polite. But it does look very clean.’ She pulled a face. ‘I hope that there will be no call to use it around here.’

Cory sighed. ‘And I hope that your father still has his blunderbuss, Rae,’ he said, by way of reply. ‘At the very least, we know that there are smugglers operating in the area. There is digging around one of the tombs that suggests that they have been using it to store their booty, but I think the ground became too unstable for them.’

Rachel craned her neck and stared across the excavation. Away from the circle of firelight the fields looked dark, with the burial mounds standing like shadowy hillocks, black against the deeper darkness.

‘It would make a splendid hiding place,’ she said. ‘Most people wouldn’t dare set foot here with all those legends of treasure guarded by a curse.’

‘Exactly,’ Cory said. ‘And whilst I am here I intend to make sure that the smugglers do not return and ruin all our work by digging out the trenches.’

He picked up a wad of cloth and started to polish the rifle hammer.

‘What have you been doing this afternoon?’ he asked. ‘Your mother mentioned something about you tidying the books that used to belong to Jeffrey Maskelyne.’

Rachel nodded. The Maskelynes were the true owners of Midwinter Royal House and it was they who had let it to the Odells for the summer in order to conduct the excavation. Events that had fallen out so happily for Sir Arthur and Lady Odell had come about as a result of the Maskelynes’ misfortune—their eldest son, Jeffrey, who had been in residence at Midwinter until some three months previously, had drowned in the Winter Race back in March.

‘I am trying to solve the mystery of the Midwinter Treasure using books and maps instead of excavation work,’ Rachel said.

She saw Cory smile. ‘You want to beat us to the treasure?’

‘Exactly,’ Rachel said.

Cory laughed. ‘I had no notion that you were moved by so competitive a spirit, Rae. How far have you got?’

‘Not very far, I am afraid,’ Rachel said. ‘All the books and maps and plans seem to contradict each other. However, if I get stuck, Cory, you will be the last person I ask. I could not bear for you to solve the mystery and prove yourself cleverer than me!’

‘You never could accept it,’ Cory said.

‘Just because you have the advantage of six years on me, and were therefore ahead in your lessons. And you went to university whilst I was obliged to study at home, like a girl!’

‘You
are
a girl, Rachel.’ Cory smiled at her in what Rachel considered to be a thoroughly annoying fashion. ‘That is why you are treated as one.’

‘I do not see why girls cannot study at university,’ Rachel grumbled. ‘I should have been happy to do that whilst you and Mama and Papa travelled the world.’

‘I dare say. It is not the done thing, however.’

‘Which does not make it
right.
’ Rachel sighed irritably. She plucked a few blades of grass at random from the edge of the trench and shredded them between her fingers.

‘You are so smug, Cory! You have no notion how for
tunate you are. You can choose whether you study, or travel, or debauch yourself—’

Cory pointed the ramrod at her. ‘Careful, Rae!’

‘Well…’ Rachel subsided, still feeling aggrieved but aware that they sounded like the squabbling youngsters they had once been.

‘You have had the opportunity to travel,’ Cory pointed out.

‘Yes, but I did not choose it. That is the difference. More to the point, I did not want it.’

‘And you are a bluestocking,’ Cory continued. ‘You did not suffer from being educated at home.’

His assumptions irritated Rachel.

‘Thank you,’ she said drily. ‘You have no idea how it warms me to have your admiration.’

Cory grinned. ‘Oh, you have that, Rae. More than you think.’

‘Now you are funning me,’ Rachel said.

‘Not at all. You know I admire your fine mind.’ Cory looked at her appraisingly. ‘And more besides.’

Their eyes met. There was a moment when Rachel thought about taking him up on his comment, but decided it would be safer not to do so. She had no wish to act as a practice target for Cory’s seduction until a more likely candidate came along, as they surely would.

She turned the subject. ‘Speaking of fine minds, did you know Mr Maskelyne, Cory?’

‘I knew him slightly,’ Cory said, buffing the rifle butt until it gleamed in the firelight. ‘What are you afraid of, Rae—that I might steal a march on your puzzle-solving through my superior knowledge?’

‘No,’ Rachel said. ‘I merely wondered what you thought of him. He had a great collection of local maps and histories and yet the rest of his library comprised of false books! What use is that?’

Cory put the rifle down and stared at her. In the firelight his face was shadowed and still. ‘False books?’

‘Yes. Book frontages with blocks of wood behind.’ Rachel looked disgusted. ‘No one could be a true scholar who fills his shelves with wooden blocks. I found them all when I was clearing the library in order to put out Papa’s journal collection.’

‘And where are they now?’ Cory asked.

‘The journals?’

‘No, Jeffrey Maskelyne’s blocks of wood.’ Cory picked up the rifle again and admired his work in the firelight. ‘What did you do with them?’

Rachel looked at him. ‘That is an odd question, Cory. I stacked them all in boxes and put them in the stables. Why do you ask?’

Cory shrugged. ‘No reason.’

‘Hmm. You do not generally ask pointless questions.’

‘Humour me,’ Cory said.

Rachel shrugged in her turn. ‘Your behaviour is of the most suspicious,’ she said. ‘And you have not answered my question, if it comes to that. What manner of man was Jeffrey Maskelyne?’

Cory put his head on one side. ‘Maskelyne was the sort of man that you would do well to avoid, Rae. He was a professional lover.’

Rachel gave a little crow of laughter. ‘What a splendid description! You mean that he was a rake?’

‘Of the worst kind. I believe that many cuckolded husbands and anxious fathers breathed a sigh of relief when he was drowned in the river.’

Rachel arched her brows. ‘A rake of the worst kind? Is there any other sort?’

Cory gave her a wry glance. ‘I suppose not. But Maskelyne was the worst of all for he had no scruples. And, no—he was not a scholar.’

‘It makes one wonder why he went to the trouble of col
lecting all those maps and making notes on them,’ Rachel said thoughtfully. ‘I am surprised that he did not find it too taxing.’

‘Oh, Jeffrey was not stupid,’ Cory said. ‘He merely chose to exercise his talents in other directions. All the same, Rae, I should be careful of deciphering Jeffrey’s notes. Knowing his interests, I fear that you might find it far too shocking.’

Rachel laughed. ‘Perhaps I should ask you to solve it after all. In all of our acquaintance I have yet to see you shocked.’ She pushed the packet of food towards him. ‘Are you not going to eat? Mrs Goodfellow prepared it especially for you, having heard how much you enjoyed my breakfast this morning!’

‘I hope that you did not tell her the full tale of how we met,’ Cory said feelingly.

‘Of course not,’ Rachel said. ‘I would not do that to you, Cory. At present Mrs Goodfellow labours under the misapprehension that you are charming. If she heard of your penchant for strolling naked through the undergrowth, she would very likely attack you with her rolling pin and denounce you as a pernicious influence of the sort we do not want in Suffolk. She already believes that London folk are a byword for depravity!’

There was quiet whilst Cory ate some of the bread and cheese. A curlew called down on the mudflat and was answered by the breathy hoot of an owl.

‘This is just like old times, is it not?’ Cory said. ‘Orkney, Egypt, Malta…A camp fire and a tent and the open skies…’

‘You make it sound idyllic,’ Rachel said. Her memories of the same events were far from rosy—cold, wet, dusty and dirty beyond toleration. She never wanted to see another tent as long as she lived.

‘It was idyllic for me.’ Cory looked up and gave her a faint smile. ‘Why do you think I am out here now instead of enjoying the comforts of Kestrel Court?’

‘I did wonder,’ Rachel said, unpacking some more of the
food and helping herself to a piece of cheese. ‘It is beyond my comprehension that someone who has the hospitality of the Duke of Kestrel at his disposal should choose to be out here cleaning his own rifle by a camp fire under the stars.’

‘A good rifleman should always clean his own gun,’ Cory said. ‘Besides, I have volunteer drill tomorrow morning in Woodbridge and do not wish to disgrace myself.’

‘And you had an invitation to a card party at the Langs’ this evening,’ Rachel said. ‘Miss Lang told me herself when I saw her at the reading group today. She was looking forward to meeting you very much.’

Cory’s lips twitched. ‘I am desolated to disappoint her.’

‘No, you are not!’ Rachel looked accusing. ‘You always do exactly as you please, Cory Newlyn. It is the greatest mystery to me why the ladies fawn on you so much when you treat them with such indifference.’

‘There you have your answer,’ Cory said, with a shrug of his shoulders.

Rachel looked at him, the indignation swelling within her. The firelight was sliding in slabs of orange and gold across him as he worked, flame and shade, darkness and light. His lean face was shadowed, the expression in his eyes one of concentration as he put the barrel of the gun aside and reached for the pot of oil to grease the mechanism. The tawny hair fell across his brow and tangled in the nape of his neck. Looking at him, Rachel felt a strange rush of pleasure that she could sit here talking to him like this when he would not tolerate other company. Then she felt annoyed at his arrogance.

‘Your hair is too long,’ she said abruptly.

‘Thank you for that,’ Cory said, without looking up. ‘I shall not allow you to cut it for me. The last time you tried I ended with a fringe that would have graced a lady’s shawl.’