A Heart in Jeopardy (10 page)

"Not to my memory," Maria affirmed grimly.

"Please, do not make much of it, I beg of you," Leona said. "I just do not want to talk about it at present."

The dowager countess's lips compressed into a firm line, then she nodded abruptly. "All right. We shall not plague you now. But this cannot last. If you would like to talk..."

"Yes, I know, and I appreciate your concern." Leona gulped down the rest of her coffee, anxious to be out of the room.

Lady Nevin walked slowly back to her seat. Before she sat down she turned again to Leona. "If you do not feel the thing, do not let my daughter and granddaughter plague you. Stay here and rest."

"They don't plague me. I enjoy them too much," she assured her as she rose to leave, anxious to get away from kind, all-seeing eyes.

"Well, Maria, what do you think? Could those tears be for that scapegrace son of mine? I own I would be happy if they were."

Maria Sprockett shook her head. "I don't know. This is not like Leona."

The countess smiled. "Ah—but to a woman in love, anything is possible."

"Still..." Maria left her thought unfinished, a worried expression clouding her pale blue eyes.

Leona encountered Lucy as she descended the stairs. A slight pout pulled at the corners of Lucy's lips.

"You would not countenance it, Leona. When I told Miss Benedict what we intended to do this morning, she insisted she be allowed to join us. Said she didn't trust Chrissy out of her sight, even with me!"

Leona sighed. What Miss Benedict didn't trust was allowing Chrissy to be with Leona Leonard. That meant the stories were already circulating out of the realm of the lower servants.

"Listen, Lucy, maybe it would be best if only Miss Benedict go with the two of you. I am feeling a bit fagged. I trust I am not coming down with anything. Perhaps it would be better if I just stayed in today and coddled my health."

"But I was so looking forward to showing you around the village. We haven't had a chance to go there yet."

"I-I know, but really, perhaps it's for the best"

"Well, all right but only because I do not want you to be sick for my ball!"

Leona smiled. "I promise, I won't be."

Leona saw the shopping party off, then retreated to. the library for some quiet reading. Unfortunately, it became more a useless exercise in imagining the high flights of fancy that now had her as villainess. What the time did achieve, however, was a quieting of her nerves. She had not realized how edgy the situation with the servants had made her. Maria was right She was definitely not acting herself. Disgusted with herself, she returned the book of Latin she'd been trying to read and instead drew out a slim volume of poetry. She sat down on the sofa, her legs curled up under her as she sought to lose herself in the poem.

"Dev, rather than taking the horses to the village to be shod, why don't you have a blacksmith at Castle Marin? With all your horses and the estate's needs, surely you'd have enough work to keep one well occupied," David Fitzhugh said that morning as he and Deveraux rode ahead of the groom leading three mares to the village smithy.

"True enough." Deveraux shifted in his saddle, the leather creaking. "But what would the fellow do when Nevin returns and I take my horses elsewhere? I'd be burdening the estate with the cost of another wage, for you know Nevin's too kind-hearted to lay the chap off." Fitzhugh was silent his lips compressed into a frown. He doubted any of them would ever see Brandon again, but Deveraux wouldn't—couldn't—accept that, not that he blamed him. If it was his brother who was ill with consumption, most likely he'd feel the same. Still, Dev's refusal to make any decision that might have permanent ramifications went against the trust his brother placed in him. Not that he saw it that way, of course. Damn pity. He was wracking himself in a manner that would torment his brother if he but knew.

"I don't think Nevin would wish you to leave," he said slowly. "Leastwise, not in the near term."

Deveraux glared at him. "Damn it David. Don't talk like that He will be back!" Then suddenly, as if he could read Fitzhugh's mind, see all the doubts there: "He must!" He did not want to be Earl. Not at the expense of his brother. He glanced at Fitzhugh, but the man glumly shook his head.

"No!" Deveraux ground out through clenched teeth. He kicked his horse into a gallop, passing the groom and Fitzhugh, leaving them to make their way on to the village as best they may, anger and a terrible nibbling fear driving him on.

He drew rein before the blacksmith's and went in to tell the man three of his horses were on the way.

Harold Rawson, the blacksmith, glanced up from the red glowing iron rod he held against the anvil, nodded once, then swung the hammer with a fluid, powerful grace against the metal to pound it into shape. He raised it then brought it forward again, the sound of metal clanging against metal ringing throughout the village. "Ye still got that mustard-haired female up at ta Castle?" he asked, pausing to turn the shoe over.

"Yes. Why?"

Rawson stuck the shoe back in the fire then sniffed, and rubbed the side of his nose with a grimy finger. "There's talk." He pumped the bellows to fan the coals.

Deveraux leaned back against a wooden support post. Rawson was a taciturn man by nature. He seldom commented on what he heard around him and never initiated conversation unless it was about some job he'd been asked to do. For him to comment was cause for attention. "What kind of talk?" he asked carefully, crossing one leg in front of the other and his arms across his chest.

He squinted up at him. "That she ain't no innocent."

"In what way?" Deveraux casually studied the fingernails of his right hand; but his body thrummed with tension.

"Being said she planned t' whole." He removed the shoe from the fire and set it on the anvil again. "Takin' the family fer a pack o' fools." He swung the hammer against the shoe.

"To what purpose?"

Rawson looked up and shrugged, swinging the hammer again. "No one arsked that question. Talk of takin' matters into ther own hands."

"What?!" Deveraux straightened, his feet planted firmly apart, his arms rigid at his sides.

Rawson shrugged once more. "Thought ye should know."

"Damnation!" Deveraux swung around and rammed the post with his fist, scraping and cutting his knuckles. Blood beaded on his skin, but he didn't notice. The pain in his hand warred with the rage in his head. "Who's saying this?"

Rawson poured water over the shoe, steam rising and hissing before him. "Everyone at the tavern," he said, bobbing his head in that direction. "But the idea were put there by a stranger."

"Who?"

The smith shook his head. "Light-haired gent. Dresses like a swell, but gots callouses on his hands. Nasty lookin' cut on his cheek, too."

"I gave instructions that I was to be notified of any strangers in the area!" Deveraux paced the small open space in front of Rawson's work area. "Damn it! Why wasn't I told?!"

"Claims he's a robin redbreast."

Deveraux swung around. A Bow Street Runner? Yes, a runner could convince the people of almost anything. They'd be afraid not to believe. Too, they'd cooperate—maybe beyond the truth—to aid one of those representatives of the law. "Do you believe him, Rawson?" Behind him, he heard Fitzhugh and the groom with the horses to be shod ride up.

Rawson rubbed the side of his nose. "Cain't say as I do or don't. But, ain't got no occurrence book that I's seen. Thought ye ought ta know."

"Thank you. I'll look into it... By the way, don't believe it."

The smith nodded. He rubbed the palms of his hands on the seat of his pants, then went to meet the groom and have him bring one of the horses in.

"What was that all about?" Fitzhugh asked as he dismounted. He saw Deveraux's hand. "What happened?" Deveraux glanced down at his hand and frowned. "Nothing," he said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to bind around the hand.

"That was an awfully bloody nothing," Fitzhugh said caustically.

"I slammed my fist into a post that's all," Deveraux admitted, goaded. "It's nothing. Come on." He strode angrily past Fitzhugh and out of the blacksmith's shop.

"Slammed your hand into a post?! Dev! What's going on? Where are we going?"

"To the tavern, to see if we can find a man who claims to be a Bow Street Runner."

"A Runner!"

"Yes. A man with fair hair and a scar on his cheek who's been busy convincing everyone that Miss Leonard is in league with Chrissy's kidnappers."

"What! Impossible."

"My sentiments exactly," Deveraux said grimly as they strode quickly across the village to the tavern standing at the crossroads.

"Are you saying he's believed?"

"I don't know yet but I'd hazard to guess he is. No word has come to me regarding strangers in the village, and I left strict instructions."

"Egad! And a scar on his cheek? You think where Miss Leonard said she drew blood?"

"Yes." He pushed open the door to the tavern, and they went inside. The interior was dark, especially after coming in out of the brilliant sunlight. They stood still for a moment to allow their eyes to adjust then walked in and sat at a round table near the health. A pretty barmaid patted her red hair into place and bit her lips to redden them before coming over to serve them.

"Good day, Mr. Deveraux. It's been a while. And what can ol' Madge git ye today?"

"Porter for both of us and a moment of your time, for me."

Her eyes widened. "Coo ... I should be that delighted," she said, scurrying off to fetch two tankards.

"Dev! What are you about, man? I suppose she's comely enough, but in your own neighborhood? Not wise, ol' boy."

Deveraux scowled. "I'm not interested in bedding the wench—"

Fitzhugh gave a shout of laughter. "That's not what she thinks!"

"Blast it, you're right My mind's not thinking clearly. This has affected me more than I'd realized.... Ah, thank you, ah—Madge, is it?" He took a long draw on his drink. He drew a gold coin out of his pocket and laid it casually on the table. "I understand there's been a gentleman here of late who claims to be a Bow Street Runner."

Madge's eyes riveted on the gold coin. She drew up a chair next to Deveraux's and sat down, her eyes never leaving the gleaming money. "Yes, sar."

"Does he have a name?"

"Not that I be knowin'," she confessed, a twinge of fear in her eyes that her answer would see the gold coin disappear. "Though I didst hear someone call him 'Arry. . . . Gerby, I think called 'im that. You know, the groom from your castle."

"My brother's castle," he corrected automatically.

She shrugged, then she smiled and boldly walked the fingers of one hand up his arm.

He grabbed her hand and put it back down on the table, over the gold coin, holding it there. "What was this Harry saying?"

She shrugged again and pouted a little. Fitzhugh caught Deveraux's eye and winked. He drew a gold coin from his pocket holding it up between two fingers. It caught what dim light streamed in a grimy, soot-streaked window and glistened. Madge licked her lips. "Well, it does seem to me that he were sayin' as 'ow that woman at the castle were involved with kidnappin' the earl's daughter. Got right lively 'ere t' other night when folks from the castle were 'ere. Lots a yellin' and swearing. Did a good night's business, we did."

"What was all the yelling and swearing about?" Deveraux asked softly. Fitzhugh laid the coin an inch away from the woman's fingers.

"Said they was gonna take care of 'er and see no 'arm come to the family. Let 'er know right enough they knowed what she's about. Make 'er life 'ell so she'd think twice about doin' anythin'.'' She wriggled her fingers underneath his hand, trying to inch forward.

"Where is this ah—Bow Street Runner?"

She shrugged. "Lit out last night sometime during the night, he did. Left money on the pillow real gentlemanly like."

Deveraux lifted his hand from hers, and like a striking snake her hand shot forward to capture the second gold coin. She tucked them both in her bodice.

"You've been very helpful," Deveraux said, chucking her under the chin. He lifted his tankard to drain it.

"Come back again, and I be pleased to show you 'ow right helpful I can be," she drawled, thrusting her chest forward to brush against his arm as he rose to leave.

Outside, the men made their way back through the village toward the blacksmith's. They were halfway there when one of the Nevin carriages bowled down the lane. Seeing Nigel and Fitzhugh, Lady Lucille pulled up.

"What's the matter? You look like the very devil, Nigel," Lucy teased.

"Isn't Miss Leonard with you?" he asked, trying to identify the other woman sitting beyond his sister.

"No. She was to come, but Miss Benedict got it into her head that if we were going to buy ribbons for Chrissy's dress, then she must come, too. She insists she's protecting Chrissy, as if anything could happen now that the whole district is on alert!"

"Is that so, Miss Benedict?" Deveraux inquired with chilling politeness.

"Nigel, what is—"

He waved his sister to silence, his attention centered on the governess sitting primly next to Chrissy. "And from what—or should I say, from whom—are you protecting Chrissy?"