Treasure of the Celtic Triangle (15 page)

Keeping his name out of it, under Murray’s supervision an engineering firm from Shrewsbury was hired. It was far enough away, both he and Katherine thought, to keep local speculation from being able to dig too deeply into the matter. When the surveyors arrived on the scene, not only would they have no idea who had hired them, in all likelihood they would never have heard of Westbrooke Manor or the Viscount Lord Snowdon or his widow.

Courtenay, meanwhile, had replied to Lord Litchfield, agreeing to the terms he had outlined for sale of one thousand acres of land on the eastern boundary on the northern quadrant of the Westbrooke estate. Now all he had to do was wait.

Thus, both mother and son kept busy on their private schemes aimed to circumvent the difficulties posed to each by the other. Neither knew what the other was up to. But both saw an expression in the other’s eyes that spoke of secrets. Courtenay had instructed the postman in Llanfryniog to keep mail addressed to him separate from what came to the manor and to hold it for him until he called for it personally. Katherine thus remained unaware of the correspondence between her son and London.

The two met but infrequently. Courtenay did not take his meals with his mother or sister. He regarded his present straitened circumstances as little more than house arrest in enemy-occupied territory. But he bore it with stoicism, knowing that his ship was on the horizon and was coming closer every day.

How Courtenay occupied his time was a mystery. He rode as much as the weather would permit. Though he looked down on the villagers and miners and farmers, he was frequently seen in Mistress Chattan’s pub. In view of his future position among them, the men were deferential and friendly. The pleasure Courtenay took in hearing himself addressed as “my lord” no doubt contributed its share to his increasingly regular visits to the place. When he felt his meager supply of funds could afford it, he stood everyone a round of Mistress Chattan’s best ale. He thus gradually gained the approbation of men who had been accustomed for years to regard him as a spoiled wastrel. All the while they remained unaware that one of his first planned ordinances as viscount would be to double most of their rents.

The friend of Courtenay’s youth, Colville Burrenchobay, eldest son of parliamentarian Armand Burrenchobay, himself a wastrel of yet greater reputation than Courtenay, had recently returned to the family seat of Burrenchobay Hall. His return was not due to financial considerations—his father kept him well supplied with funds—but simply from the boredom of travel. He had sown his wild oats in their season, but now, as he reached his middle twenties, he had begun to think of his future. How great were his political aspirations, even he could not have said. If he had thoughts of following his father’s footsteps to Westminster, however, the settled life of a gentleman would provide a more suitable basis from which to do so.

When Courtenay and Colville were together now, therefore, they were no longer two rowdy youths but the eldest scions of two of North Wales’ oldest families. They drank expensive brandy and went shooting for pheasants and roe, not rabbits.

Riding back from Llanfryniog to the manor one day in late February, a strange sight met Courtenay’s eyes. Five or six men with surveying equipment were spread out between the main road and the promontory. His first reaction was bewilderment, his second anger. He dug his heels into the sides of his mount and galloped off the road and over the wide plateau toward the scene.

“What is the meaning of this?” he said in a demanding tone. “Who are you people? Who’s in charge here?”

The man closest to him, who did not take kindly to his tone, nodded toward a group of men across the grass.

Courtenay kicked at his horse’s flanks and galloped toward them. “Which one of you is in charge here?” Courtenay asked as he rode up.

“I am,” one of the men replied, turning toward him.

“What’s going on here? What are you doing?”

“I would think it is obvious,” said the man. “We are surveying the site.”

“What for?”

“I really could not say. I am a surveyor not a planner.”

“Who hired you?”

“The job came through a solicitor in Shrewsbury.”

“Shrewsbury!” exclaimed Courtenay. “That’s impossible. There has obviously been some mistake. So I am ordering you and your men off this land.”

“And who are you to be giving such an order?”

“I own this land, you fool. I am the future viscount, Lord Snowdon.”

“Ah yes, we were specifically told about you, that you might be troublesome.”

“What were you told?”

“That you might try to throw your weight around, but that you had no legal standing in the matter. We were told to ignore whatever you might say.”

In a white fury, Courtenay stared back at the plainspoken man a moment, then wheeled his mount around and made for home. He burst in upon his mother, making no attempt to hide his anger. “Mother, what is going on down at the promontory? There are surveyors everywhere. Are you behind it?”

“I am.”

“I demand to know what it is all about.”

“Just a little project of mine.”

“What kind of project?”

“Nothing you need worry about. I am having some of the estate boundary lines looked into.”

“There are no boundaries down there. Our land extends for miles along the coast and inland to the north-south road. I demand to know what’s going on.”

“That tone will get nowhere with me, Courtenay.”

“Do you refuse to tell me what it is about?”

“I have told you, I am having some boundary lines looked into. That is all I intend to divulge about it.”

Far from satisfied, Courtenay left the room more determined than ever to accelerate his own plans. He did not like this new tone of determination he had noticed in his mother of late. She was becoming too independent for her own good.

T
WENTY
-F
OUR

Visitor from England

L
ord Coleraine Litchfield stepped gingerly from the tipsy dinghy that had brought him from the anchored yacht out in the bay and onto the concrete pier. He glanced up the street and at the poor-looking stone buildings comprising the Welsh village of Llanfryniog. He did his best not to grimace at the thought of where he would be forced to spend the next several days. Only one thing could bring him this far away from civilization. That was the thought of making money. For that he would endure it with as much good humor as was possible under the circumstances.

Several more communications had gone back and forth between Westbrooke Manor and London, leading eventually to an invitation to the north. Commitments in London and the horrible winter’s weather had delayed his meeting with the young scion of the Westbrooke estate until early March. But he was in Wales at last.

Before the Englishman could speculate further on the locale or his own personal fortunes, a lanky and well-dressed, though obviously rustic man approached. “Lord Litchfield,” he said with an accent so unintelligibly thick the Englishman scarcely recognized his own name, “I am Deakin Trenchard, former footman at Westbrooke Manor. I am retired now and living in the village, but Mr. Courtenay asked me to meet you and take you to the manor, where he is awaiting you.”

“Ah, yes … uh, Trenchard. Lead on, then,” replied Litchfield.

The man turned, and the newcomer followed him from the pier to a waiting carriage. Fifteen minutes later they were winding their way up the tree-lined drive where Lord Litchfield beheld his first sight of the estate known as Westbrooke Manor.

A tolerable looking sort of place
, he thought to himself—interesting mixture of brick and stone, although it was a bit severe to his taste.
It will no doubt be a dreary time of it, but—

Further reflections were cut short. As the carriage slowed to a crunching stop on the gravel drive, his host came from the wide front doors and bounded ebulliently toward his guest.

“Lord Litchfield,” he said, “I am Courtenay Westbrooke. I am happy you have been able to come.”

“I am pleased to meet you at last, young Westbrooke,” rejoined Litchfield, shaking the other’s hand as he stepped down.

“Come in. We shall have tea,” said Courtenay. “You have had a pleasant voyage I trust?”

“I am not altogether a man of the sea,” replied Litchfield. “But we enjoyed calm seas and clear skies. Actually,” he added, “I prefer the train, but a passing fancy of nostalgia turned my thoughts to the ancient mode of transport. It was not so bad as I expected. I may buy the yacht when I return to Bristol.”

As they entered the house, Litchfield was still speaking. “Tell me,” he was saying, “is the property—”

A quick glance from his host, accompanied by an imperceptible movement of finger to lips, communicated its message well enough. He fell silent as a stately lady who appeared about fifty approached.

Courtenay presented his mother. Lord Litchfield greeted Katherine with a smile and extended his hand. She returned the greeting with a hint of question in her eyes. Katherine was certain this visit was more than a mere social call. But she had not been able to discover what her son was up to.

Litchfield detected caution in the touch of her palm as she allowed him to shake it.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Snowdon,” he said. “And my belated condolences at the loss of your husband.”

“Thank you. You knew my husband then?”

“We were acquaintances in the House of Lords.”

Katherine nodded. “And now you have business with my son?”

“As he will be filling your husband’s seat himself in a matter of months, I wanted to take the opportunity of seeing how I might be able to be of service to him.”

“I see. Well, if there is anything you need during your stay, do not hesitate to make it known.”

“Thank you, Lady Snowdon. You are most kind.”

Courtenay led his guest upstairs to his room. He left him to refresh himself, adding that he would join him downstairs in the drawing room for tea at his convenience.

Descending the stairway a few minutes later, Litchfield saw an attractive girl whom he judged in her early twenties watching him from the end of the corridor. He nodded, but neither spoke. She, too, like the woman he had just met, appeared on her guard. He wondered what kind of place he had stepped into.

After stiff conversation with son and mother at tea, during which the purpose of his visit did not arise, Courtenay invited his guest for a stroll about the grounds. Alone they would be able more freely to discuss the matter that had brought the Englishman here.

“To answer the question you began to pose earlier,” said Courtenay after they had left the house behind them, “yes, we shall have the opportunity to view the property. I beg your patience, however. Let us wait a day or two. Then we shall have a ride into the hills. We must be prudent and not discuss the matter around my mother or sister.”

“Your sister?”

“She is younger than myself by two years. She would be no more favorably inclined toward my plans than my mother.”

“I believe I saw her in the corridor a short time ago. She looked as if she were eyeing me cautiously.”

“That’s her.”

“Your mother does not favor the sale?” said Litchfield.

“That is precisely the case. Of course, she knows nothing about it, which is why we have to be prudent in what we say.”

“Why does it matter? We cannot finalize the transaction until you become viscount anyway.”

“Technically, I don’t suppose it does matter. And it certainly won’t after I come of age. But I would rather not upset her unnecessarily. Unfortunately until that time she still controls the estate’s finances, and thus my own. I have the feeling that she may be attempting to sell off a portion of estate lands behind my back. Whatever she is up to, I do not want her meddling in our agreement. There would be no telling what trouble she might cause us.”

“I was led to understand—”

“I assure you,” interrupted Courtenay, “there will be no problem. I simply want us to keep my mother out of it. She has strange notions about money. Her brother is a priest, you see, and the family, though wealthy, has passed down to its present scions—my mother and uncle—an inordinate fear of what they call mammon.”

Two days passed. Lord Litchfield had done his best, without success, to amuse himself with cards, boring walks, even more boring conversation, and two or three visits to the village, ostensibly to see to the yacht that had brought him here but in reality merely for something to do.

On the third day, Courtenay suggested a ride. He gave orders for Radnor to saddle his two favorite mounts now that the stallion Demon was gone, a four-year-old gelding of extremely dark gray, though not dapple, with patches of pure black, and a rich chestnut stallion with white mane and tail. They were known as Night Fire and Cymru Gold.

The two men set out for the hills northeast of the estate within the hour. From the window of the second-floor library, Katherine watched them go. Their gay mood when they returned four hours later confirmed what she had been thinking since the day of Litchfield’s arrival—Courtenay was definitely up to something.

T
WENTY
-F
IVE

High Words

C
ourtenay Westbrooke left Llanfryniog, riding north to meet the main road on his way to Porthmadog. He was in jubilant spirits. In the pocket of his coat was a check, signed by Lord Coleraine Litchfield, for the unbelievable sum of £4,400. It had come in this morning’s post. Litchfield had not
quite
delivered it into his hands during his visit of a month earlier as promised. But that hardly mattered now! Courtenay intended to waste no time depositing it into his account. His money problems were over at last!

He could take
ten
trips to the continent between today and his twenty-fifth birthday and hardly make a dent in his suddenly acquired fortune. And double this would be waiting for him when the transaction was consummated eleven months from now. His ordeal under his mother’s thumb was over! He would buy the most expensive bottle of brandy Porthmadog had to offer then stop by Burrenchobay Hall on his return and allow his friend to share in his good fortune.