A Difficult Disguise (15 page)

The notion that her wonderful nephew could be penny-pinched brought a frown to Mrs. Belleville’s round face. If economies must be employed, her days at Lakeview were numbered, for surely the first thing to go would be a useless female relative.

Aunt Belleville took her bottom lip between her teeth, pondering the distasteful thought of being once more set out upon the road, searching for some infirm relative to nurse in order to keep a roof over her own head.

She sighed, not for the first time repenting her decision to naysay Richard Casterbridge’s proposal some forty years earlier. True, he had been a widower with six truly terrible children, a drafty old pile of a house somewhere near Newcastle, terrible teeth and worse breath, but he had offered her his hand in marriage, which was more than she could say about any other man she’d ever met. Besides, by now Richard’s children would have been raised and, with any luck, Richard himself safely underground, and a drafty old pile of a house could be very comforting if it were her drafty old pile.

Aunt Belleville sat up very straight, resolving to spend no more precious time regretting past mistakes, and determined to think her way past her current problem. Clearly Lethbridge, who could not seem to take a hint even if it were dressed up in ribbons and placed in his porridge, was not about to rescue her through marriage—not that marriage to a butler was exactly what she had dreamed of when she turned down Richard. But Lethbridge was a lovely man and she silently acknowledged that she had grown a little long in the tooth to be picky.

No, she would have to discover some other way, some wondrously foolproof plan, to make herself indispensable to her nephew once more, and she had better locate it quickly, before the cook took to serving day-old bread or else she was apt to be the next “economy” at Lakeview.

Lethbridge had told her earlier that Fletcher had returned from his juvenile adventure of riding up and down the hills of the district, and none the happier than when he had gone, dragging that poor, hapless groom behind him, and was even now closeted upstairs with Beck, most probably going over the household accounts or some other troubling matter.

Had the beef been somewhat stringy at last night’s supper, or was she worrying overmuch? Stringy beef, deep frowns over the purchase of a few small tables and some paint for the yellow saloon—was it that far a leap to seeing herself packing her bags so that there would be one less mouth to feed at Lakeview?

“Dear Aunt, I have run you to ground at last. I searched high and low for you in the yellow saloon and in the morning room, but it had not occurred to me that you might be hiding out in here. Have you by chance taken up the harp? What, ho! Can that be a frown I see on your sweet face? Don’t tell me no one is dying, leaving you with nothing to do. How terribly inconsiderate. Should I summon up a cough, do you think, just to brighten your day?”

Aunt Belleville, startled, looked up to see her nephew standing in the doorway, looking so disgustedly healthy—not to mention handsome—that she found herself uncharacteristically longing to smack him in the face. If he loved her, had a smidgen of affection for her, he could at least be limping.

Fletcher abandoned his pose at the doorway to saunter into the room, gingerly seating himself in his late father’s Sheraton wing chair, which had always been his favorite seat in the otherwise uncomfortably furnished room. His mother had been of the firm opinion that comfortable chairs in a music room were nothing more than an open invitation to impolite audiences to doze off during amateur performances. The Sheraton wing chair was her one concession to comfort, for it was either that, she knew, or evermore forgo her husband’s presence in the room.

“Aunt Belleville,” Fletcher began, wondering why he bothered to ask, but knowing he was a desperate man, “were there perhaps any communications delivered to Lakeview in my absence? Any, um, personal communications?”

His aunt seemed at a loss to understand him, which was clearly evident by her quizzical look. “I should think Beck to be in charge of your communications, Fletcher. Besides, you were only gone from Lakeview for a few days. Were you expecting an important letter? Perhaps good news of a fortunate investment in the Exchange? Is a celebration in order? I could have the cook prepare a special dinner, which would be so much better than the stringy beef you missed at last night’s meal.”

Fletcher looked at his aunt in bewilderment. He had never known the woman to be interested in financial affairs. “No, no,” he corrected, shaking his head. “I’ve already questioned Beck about the last few days. I am thinking more of the months between Beck’s departure for London and my return to Lakeview. Were there any letters, any communications, any visitors, I should be aware of?”

Aunt Belleville leaned forward anxiously. “Are you in some sort of trouble, Fletcher? You haven’t been gambling, have you? Gambling can be the very devil, you know. That’s how my father lost his fortune, rest his soul, owing all to the cent-percenters in the end. I have a small sum set aside, if you should need it, although, of course, I shouldn’t then be able to set out on my own, should I, and would have to remain here indefinitely.”

Fletcher put a hand to his mouth, considering his aunt’s words. Clearly she was disturbed about something, and just as clearly the two of them were speaking at cross purposes. “Am I in debt, Aunt?” he asked at last. “I hadn’t thought so, but you seem to believe I shall soon have dunners knocking down my door. Please enlighten me.”

“You’re not in debt?”

“On the contrary, Aunt. I am, if my solicitors and bankers are to be believed, quite disgustingly wealthy. Though I do thank you for the offer of a loan.”

The woman’s smile seemed to light up the room, then dimmed just as quickly. “Then you truly don’t like my taste, and dearest Lethbridge was just saying that about the gilt in order not to hurt my feelings. I’m so ashamed.”

“Guilt? Ashamed? What in Hades does guilt have to do with anything?” Fletcher considered this last outburst for a moment, then wisely decided to leave it alone when his aunt didn’t answer, returning to the objective that had sent him searching for the woman in the first place.

“Were there any letters, or visitors, Aunt—any events out of the ordinary, that is—at Lakeview in the past few months?”

Aunt Belleville, brought back to attention by the rather strained tone of her nephew’s question, put aside her own fears to concentrate on the problem at hand. Had there been any visitors, any communications out of the ordinary? She shook her head, dislodging several hairpins, then held up one finger as if that single digit had landed on just the thing.

“There was one very odd letter, as I recall, but it amounted to nothing in the end, because I didn’t have the faintest idea what it meant. I answered it myself, not believing it necessary to bother Beck about it in London.”

Now it was Fletcher’s turn to lean forward in his seat. “Odd, Aunt? In what way?”

Aunt Belleville preened a moment, always happiest when she could be of service. “It was addressed very oddly, for one thing—to the house, rather than to anyone in particular—and the spelling and penmanship were truly atrocious. But I felt terribly sorry for the poor dear, for I am convinced I should certainly have perished in a fit if I should ever be put in her position, and answered her anyway.”

Fletcher felt his head beginning to spin even as a cold dread invaded his stomach. “This letter, Aunt, was it perhaps from someone named Rosalie?”

“Rosalie?” his aunt answered slowly. “No, I can’t say as it was.”

Her nephew sat back dejectedly and his aunt’s heart went out to him. “But it was about her,” she added, hoping to be of some help. “Poor little soul. From what I could gather from the letter, it would seem she’s gone missing.”

“Missing?” Fletcher was on his feet in an instant. “Fetch me the letter immediately,” he commanded rather harshly, unable to continue urging the information out of his aunt’s muddled mind piece by maddening piece.

“If only I can find it!” Aunt Belleville rose, her paisley shawl falling to the floor as she raced from the room, a woman with a mission, to brush past a bewildered Lethbridge. “It is of the gravest import. My nephew must have the thing at once.”

Lethbridge watched as the woman sailed down the hallway before entering the music room to glare at his employer. “If I might brook a suggestion, sir,” the butler said, “I believe the lady to be overly concerned with pleasing you. Perhaps a little restraint in requesting favors from her would be in order, sir.”

“I didn’t ask her to leap from the roof with a rose between her teeth, Lethbridge,” Fletcher responded dryly, taking in his butler’s stern, condemning posture. “But I will in future, on your suggestion, be more prudent in phrasing my requests.”

Lethbridge bowed from the waist, his bones creaking audibly with the effort, and withdrew, leaving Fletcher once more to ponder the advisability of gifting his aunt with a dowry, holding a gun to his butler’s head until a marriage ceremony could be performed, and then personally sending them both to China for a prolonged wedding trip.

A few moments later his aunt returned, breathing heavily from her exertion on his behalf and waving a piece of paper in front of her like a fan. “I’ve found it, Fletcher. It wasn’t with my knitting, which is odd, for I usually keep important papers with my knitting, but it was in my desk drawer, of all places, right next to my watercolor of that lovely abbey I visited so many years ago.”

She continued to fan herself with the letter as Fletcher made two fruitless grabs for it, continuing, “I don’t remember the exact name of the abbey. Of course, it is no more than ruins and not a real abbey at all anymore. It was named after some popish saint, I believe. Fletcher, is there a Saint Walter? No, that couldn’t be it.”

“Aunt, if you please?” His teeth clenched, Fletcher made one last, desperate grab for the letter. The next thing he knew, he held the bottom half of the letter, with the remainder of the thing still firmly clutched in his aunt’s trembling paw. “Oh, good grief!”

Aunt Belleville looked at the scrap of paper in her hand, then at Fletcher. “Do you feel all right, my dear?” she asked, unable to fathom his urgency over a communication that, besides being worthless, was more than six weeks old. “Perhaps you could do with a dose of that lovely medicine I picked up from the village herbalist last week. Mrs. Eton swears by it, although she does use it for her monthly miseries, but I’m sure it has other uses.”

Fletcher had gone beyond seeing the humor in the situation. He had failed William Darley, failed his friend, who had saved his life. How could he not have seen the letter in his campaign bag? How could he have stayed in London, trailing from party to party, and sent those same bags to Lakeview without looking in them? How could he live another moment without knowing what this mysterious communication would tell him about William Darley’s orphaned sister?

He snatched the remainder of the letter from his aunt’s hand and went over to the pianoforte to piece the two ragged halves together. His shoulders slumped visibly as he read, his worst fears confirmed the moment he saw the signature of Mrs. Beale, the woman William had mentioned as being a totally unsuitable guardian for young Rosalie.

Reading the letter proved worse than hearing that it existed, for Mrs. Beale had written to tell him that Rosalie, “bringing shame and mortification upon us all,” had run away from home.

“A rather overvolatile child,” Rosalie had refused to behave as she ought, wearing black and working a remembrance sampler in her brother’s honor—and had chosen instead to weave fanciful lies about one Fletcher Belden, who, like some knight on a white stallion, would be coming to rescue her from her aunt. “As if dearest William would have entrusted his sister to anyone save her adoring aunt.”

The letter concluded with the fervent wish that Rosalie, “overwrought and prone to fanciful exaggeration of mind,” had indeed bolted for Lakeview and would now, upon receipt of this missive, be returned posthaste to the bosom of her family.

“And she mentions something about offering a reward, just to make it worth my while,” Fletcher said aloud, pushing the pieces of paper into his breast pocket in disgust.

“Yes,” Aunt Belleville said from behind him, “I too thought that last bit distasteful, although I do feel for the woman. After all, the child has run away. There is no end to the trouble a young female could tumble into alone on the road. I wrote back, of course, telling Mrs. Beale that I could not help her as no Rosalie had ever appeared at Lakeview, and that constituted the end of it. Tell me, Fletcher, how did you come to hear about this Rosalie person?”

But Fletcher wasn’t listening. He was already halfway to the door, bellowing for Beck at the top of his lungs and leaving his aunt curiously comforted. Clearly she was to remain at Lakeview, if only to lend comfort to her poor, brain-addled nephew.

It was a few minutes past midnight, and Billy had been abed in the last stall on the left since ten, having packed her meager belongings shortly after dinner in preparation of her planned departure from Lakeview before dawn the next morning.