Amanda Scott (28 page)

“True,” he said. “I make you my compliments, my love. But there is still the wager, you know, and our reprobate Nigel.”

“One wonders,” she snapped, “why you have not mentioned the fact that no one in London or Paris or even right here in Bath seems to know it was he who killed that man, Bygrave, or the fact that no charge has been laid against him anywhere at all!”

Her words brought an arrested look to his eyes. “And one wonders,” he said gently, “how you know these things. But lest you think it might be good to send for Nigel, my dear—even supposing you know how to reach him—let me warn you to do no such thing. If no one has spoken against him, ’tis only because I persuaded those who know to hold their tongues. Should he become a nuisance to me, I have only to persuade them to speak. Their words will hang him, Nell.”

It had been on the tip of her tongue to tell him Nigel was in Bath, but now she pressed her lips firmly together.

Jarvis went on smoothly, “As to the wager, to prove its existence and have title to Highgate transferred to me, I need only produce the betting book in court. ’Tis irregular, perhaps, but without Nigel here to dispute the claim, the court will have no other choice.”

“The Regent once signed that book, Jarvis, and may, now he is in town, be asked to do so again. Surely, the club will not let anyone remove so famous an object from its premises. ’Twould be to jeopardize its integrity, would it not?

“There is no time for Prinny to sign it again; he leaves tomorrow,” Jarvis said, but she knew from his expression that she had hit a nerve. He went on, “And if the court requires to see the book, the club will have no choice. Indeed, I mean to collect it at once. You do not like my plan, Nell—I see that—but since you have been so cruel as to spurn my offer of marriage, you cannot expect me to continue to protect Highgate for your brother’s sake. And if you are honest, you must admit that the estate will be safer in my hands than in his.”

Nell did not waste words telling him she would admit no such thing, for her thoughts were racing. She knew the others would agree that the betting book ought not to find itself in Jarvis’s possession, and she could not doubt that by her reference to the Regent and the book’s integrity in much the same breath, she had spurred his decision to obtain it. Even worse was that if he went to collect the book before she could warn them of his arrival in Bath, he might well meet them all, including Nigel, when he did. With this fear in mind, she smiled ruefully and said, “Perhaps I simply do not understand all you are trying to tell me, Jarvis. Won’t you stay to dine with Aunt Flavia and me, and perhaps accompany us to the theater afterward? If we send Amos out at once, I daresay he can procure a ticket for you.”

He gazed back at her searchingly, but when she maintained an innocent expression, he relaxed and said, “I am not properly attired for the theater.”

“Nonsense,” she said, turning away at once to pull the bell. “You are precise to a pin, cousin, as always.” When Sudbury entered, she requested that he set another cover for dinner and send Amos at once to the Theatre Royal to see if one more ticket for the evening’s performance might be obtained for Mr. Bradbourne. “Tell him to order a box, if necessary,” she added.

“Yes, Miss Nell.” Sudbury bowed and left the room.

“Well, well, well.”

She whirled sharply at hearing the softly-spoken words to find that Jarvis had got up from his chair and moved to the desk, where he stood holding pages of the manuscript in his hands.

Looking up with a gleam of triumph in his eyes, he said, “So you are turned authoress, my dear! I wondered how you thought you would go on if ever I tightened the purse strings. But I see by this letter and title page that you have represented yourself to the publisher as the author of
Cymbeline Sheridan
. That, one feels, was a mistake, for how amazed he must be to learn your true age, particularly since he seems to have persuaded his royal highness to permit you to dedicate this work to him!”

“Put that down, Jarvis. It is none of your affair.”

“Ah, but I think I can now persuade you to do as I wish, my dear Nell. You did not choose to believe I would betray Lady Flavia, and I doubt you believe I’d allow any Bradbourne to be hanged, but you must know I should have no qualm whatever against informing John Murray that his supposed Clarissa Harlowe—what a romantic pen name, my love—is but one-and-twenty years of age.”

She could think of nothing to say that would not reveal more than she dared let him know, but she could not chance his writing to Mr. Murray, lest Sir Mortimer’s secret be revealed. At last, she bit her lower lip, sighed deeply, and said, “You have learned my secret, sir, but I beg you will do nothing horrid until I have explained it all to you. Now I must change my gown for dinner, but let us attempt to have a pleasant evening, to discover if we can manage even to be friendly toward one another, and tomorrow, when we have both had time to think, we can discuss the whole matter calmly and with reason.” She held out her hand.

To her relief he set down the papers and grasped it. She had meant only to squeeze his hand in a spurious gesture of friendship, so when he bowed over hers and kissed it, she had all she could do not to jerk it away. When he released her, she turned quickly to gather up the manuscript, and said, “I will tell Sudbury to bring wine for you, sir. It was remiss of me not to have ordered it before.”

Then, whisking herself out the door before he could attempt to delay her, she rushed down the stairs and, to her great relief, found the butler talking to young Amos in the hall.

“Oh, Amos, I am so glad you have not gone yet!”

“I were out, Miss Nell, a-fetching of some haddock from the fishmonger’s for Mrs. Sudbury ter poach fer yer supper, but ’is nibs ’ere were just a-tellin’ me I’m ter fetch a ticket fer ye.”

Sudbury said grimly, “I doubt there are any to be had, Miss Nell, what with his highness attending, and all.”

“Well, Amos must try, that’s all. Perhaps there will still be a box, but Amos, do not go yet. I must write a note for you to take to Mr. Manningford in the Royal Crescent on your way.”

“Miss Nell,” protested the butler, “it is not on the lad’s way at all, but quite another direction altogether.”

“Well, the note is more important than the ticket, Amos, so be sure you deliver it first,” Nell said. Moving toward the little front parlor, where she knew she could find notepaper and a standish, she paused to say over her shoulder, “Oh, and Sudbury, please take up some wine to Mr. Jarvis. I do not want him growing restless.” It took only moments to write her message, and she handed it to Amos with a feeling of relief, confident that Manningford would know exactly what to do.

It was as well for her frame of mind that she did not see him twenty minutes later when the note was delivered to him in the library at Royal Crescent, where he and Nigel had retired to devise a plan for the evening ahead. Since neither was any too sure of what, exactly, he hoped to discover at the club, their discussion had reached an impasse, which they had sought to ease with the help of some of Sir Mortimer’s best Madeira.

Manningford, having possessed himself of the two main facts in Nell’s note—that Jarvis threatened to reveal her association with the manuscript, and that he might try to remove the betting book from the club—sat for some moments in silence, thinking.

Nigel, watching him, said at last, “Not bad news, I trust.”

Manningford blinked, made his decision, and said mildly, “I hope not, but you will have to excuse me for a few moments. I must speak to my father. Help yourself to more wine.”

“Well, I will,” Nigel said, “for I don’t mind telling you it’s a most tolerable vintage, but look here, oughtn’t I to know what’s going forth?”

“You will, I promise you, but my father does not receive visitors, so I must handle this part of it myself. I’ll explain it all as soon as I can.” He got to his feet, shoved Nell’s note into his waistcoat pocket, and went quickly up to Sir Mortimer’s bedchamber, entering without ceremony.

The old man was propped against his pillows, and to his son’s surprise, his expression was welcoming. Manningford nodded to Borland, who sat in his usual place by the window, and pulled up a chair to the bed.

“How are you today, sir? You are looking a trifle better, I believe.”

“I’ll hold. Tell me … Flavia and Prinny?”

Realizing that the old man had been anxiously awaiting news of the imposture, Manningford experienced a rush of remorse. “I apologize, sir,” he said. “I ought to have come up as soon as we returned, but something else has occurred that distracted me. The meeting went off very well, for Lady Flavia was in her element and carried it off with a high hand, but no doubt, Nell—that is, Miss Bradbourne—will want to tell you everything that was said and done. Just now, there is another matter which we must discuss. I need your help.”

“Mine?”

“Yes, sir. The matter is urgent, or I’d not ask you.”

“S’prised you would. Nell, of course.”

“If you mean did she ask me to come to you, she did not. If you mean, does it involve her, it does. Someone has seen the manuscript and threatened to expose her as a false Clarissa Harlowe. She has no thought for what it might mean to her, of course, only that it might lead to your own exposure.”

“Foolish,” Sir Mortimer growled.

“Exactly so. I’m afraid, sir, the time has come for you to reveal yourself to Murray, if to no one else.” He waited tensely for the reaction he both expected and feared.

But Sir Mortimer’s eyes began to twinkle. “Still a step ahead of the devil,” he said. “Murray knows.”

Manningford was astonished. “He knows your identity?”

“Not that.” The old man glanced at Borland. “Tell ’im.”

The manservant smiled and said, “Wrote Mr. Murray a letter, we did, Master Brandon, telling him the novel would be a trifle delayed; and with the master’s permission, I took the liberty of explaining that, being ill and having no plans at present to write more books, the author wished to bring to his notice the fact that in this instance assistance had been rendered by a most promising young writer. Miss Bradbourne was not, I need hardly say, mentioned by name, but what the master is telling you, sir, is that, should the dastardly person threatening her go so far as to inform Mr. Murray that she is involved with the present novel, the information will come as no great surprise to him.”

Manningford smiled at his father. “Promising?”

“Talented,” Sir Mortimer muttered. “No confidence.”

Borland said, “He felt it best, the master did, to say nothing to Miss Bradbourne about the letter, fearing, sir, that such news might make it more difficult for her to finish the present work. If she should next like to write one of her own, however, the letter should serve her very well with Mr. Murray.”

“Never mind that,” Sir Mortimer said tersely. “Who threatened ’er?”

“I’ll tell you all about it,” Manningford said, and proceeded to do so. His father listened carefully, stopping him only when it was not clear to him how it had been possible for the previous Lord Bradbourne to stake land that had been in his family for generations and again when Manningford mentioned Jarvis’s threat to take the matter before a Court of Chancery.

“Nonsense,” the old man said.

“Not nonsense at all, I’m afraid,” Manningford replied. “Even without that damned wager, all he has to do, you know, is allow it to be known that the present Lord Bradbourne committed murder. Hanged or exiled, it won’t matter where Highgate is concerned, for Jarvis stands next to inherit.”

Sir Mortimer shook his head. “Entail gone,” he said. “Jarvis not next of kin.”

“But, certainly he is, so far as the title—” He broke off, realizing what his father was saying. “Good God, sir, no wonder he has pressed Nell to marry him! As things stand now, she, not Jarvis, will inherit Highgate if anything happens to her brother, and Jarvis wants Highgate as much as he wants the title. No wonder he has not yet actually taken the matter before a court!”

Sir Mortimer nodded. “’Nother thing,” he said. “You ought to know …” He paused, tiring but determined. “Reginald Bradbourne an owner … Bees. Didn’t like to tell her. Not the thing. Gentleman don’t own … such places.”

Frowning, Manningford added this interesting piece of information to the rest and thought he began to see a larger portion of the whole. Looking rather grimly at Sir Mortimer, he said, “But you might have told me before now, sir.”

“Might. Didn’t know you. Know now … you like her.”

“I …” But he was not ready to tell Sir Mortimer how he felt about Nell Bradbourne, that he had been fascinated by her from their first meeting, that although he had briefly taken her for precisely the sort of managing woman he liked least, he had quickly come to realize that she was a deeply caring one instead. And that now, certain she cared for him, he wanted nothing more than to solve her problems for her and keep her safe forever.

“Ought to marry her.”

He had not realized that his father had been watching him so closely, but he looked up at these words and felt warmth rush to his face. Instead of obeying a familiar impulse to deny his wish to marry anyone, he said frankly, “Well, I will if she’ll have me, but then you’ll look no account, sir, for if you think you can continue to hide in this room with Nell and, no doubt, at times, even Lady Flavia in the house, you’d better think again.”

To his astonishment, Sir Mortimer gave his crooked smile and said, “Full o’ spunk, Flavia. Like to see her again.”

Grinning back at him, Manningford took his leave and went back downstairs to tell Nigel all he had discovered, and discuss how they might go about removing the betting book from the club to study at their leisure before Jarvis got his hands on it.

“But why,” Nigel demanded, “would he even want the thing? That book was useful to him only so long as everyone believed it was treated as sacredly as the book at White’s or any other reputable club. Once it’s known that they’ve played tricks with it, no court will support a single wager it contains.”

“He cannot be certain we’ve discovered that,” Manningford pointed out, “but he does know his only hope of getting Highgate now is that wager, so whatever qualms he had about producing the book before must now be put aside, and quickly.”