Barbara Metzger (21 page)

That night there was a bouquet of violets, wild ones, from the woods.
She’s not my mistress
appeared again. In fact, Daphne had to admit, he’d done his best to keep out of the widow’s company.

Gray left the house before Seline was down in the morning, and at lunch he spoke to his father about handling his accounts while the earl was in Scotland. Then he rode out again with the boys, this time looking over properties for Mr. Foggarty to purchase, so the lease for Howell Hall could be terminated early. After tea he disappeared to discuss plans for a drainage problem at the Hall with Woodhill’s bailiff, and later permitted Mr. Foggarty to take Seline into dinner. Afterward, at cards, he made sure to partner his aunt in a game with the vicar and his wife.

So if he wasn’t Lady Seline’s lover—Daphne stayed awake listening for sounds in the corridors; there were none—and wasn’t her beloved either, what was the woman still doing here?

The answer had to be Mr. Foggarty. The poor man.

Then Miles started coming around again in his usual pattern of mealtime visits. Woodhill really had a superior kitchen, and his parents were nagging at him to make a match with Daphne and her dowry. Besides, he could puff off his letter of commendation from Bow Street. That villain they’d unearthed was a known felon on Bow Street’s list of nuisance criminals, if not a hardened murderer. Now Miles had to warn the Woodhill staff to be on the lookout for the man’s youthful accomplices, a tall redhead and a diminutive blond lad.

“And make sure you keep an eye on the dog. That’s what clinched the identification,” he told Daphne proudly as she walked with him into the parlor where the rest of the company was already at tea. “That animal is…a Diamond of the first water.”

“That scruffy mongrel?” No, Miles had caught his first glimpse of the Moon Goddess, in gossamer silver tonight, with sequined stars sewn to her skirts. Miles stared, struck speechless.

“Gets ’em all that way, the first time,” Cousin Harriet snickered. “The blood all rushes from the brains to between their legs. Can’t talk, can’t think, can’t see the hoity-toity miss gives off as much warmth as the moon she poses as.”

Daphne made the introductions, and Miles made a cake over himself, to the point of ignoring the tea cakes. Daphne turned away in disgust, to see Graydon’s gloating smile. “She’s not my mistress,” he silently mouthed in her direction.

And she’d never leave now, not with another handsome man to beguile. Of course, Pomeroy was no match for Mr. Foggarty for wealth, but he was younger, better-looking in a virile, rustic way, and came from decent family. She could polish him up nicely before parading him around London to prove her respectability at last. Only the highest sticklers would refuse her entry then. Now the lower sticklers were beginning to look askance on her affairs, her gaming, and her unpaid bills.

On the other hand, Foggarty could leave her a wealthier widow, sooner. And who was to say he couldn’t use some of that fortune to buy himself a title for paying off Prinny’s debts? Then she could have it all, her place in Society and the wherewithal to enjoy it. But squires needed wives, while rich old men mostly wanted bed-warmers. And Pomeroy was Miss Whilton’s beau, which made him even more attractive. No, Seline wasn’t budging.

And the wedding was getting closer. With the arrival of more guests, the earl’s kinfolk, Mama’s old schoolmates, Graydon’s godparents, Lady Seline was not so conspicuous. Oh, she would always stick out as the brightest star in the night sky, but not so obviously as Graydon’s mistress. He treated her with the same respect he gave his ancient relatives, and Seline flirted with him, Daphne noted, only when there were no other men around for her to practice her wiles upon. Or when Daphne was watching, the cat. If she hoped to make Miss Whilton jealous, she was meowing up the wrong tree.

Daphne was beginning to believe Gray’s protestations of innocence. Not because flowers kept appearing in her bedroom, and not even because he seemed so indifferent to the widow and to her attentions to other men. No, what convinced Daphne that he might truly have ended the affair and its complications was how assiduously Lady Bowles was working at attaching another gentleman. If Seline had the least chance with Gray, with his looks, title, wealth, and charm, she’d never glance at Miles or Mr. Foggarty. No woman in her right mind would.

*

Cousin Harriet’s gown needed last-minute alterations, Dart broke out in a rash from the starched collar on his new shirt. Torry skinned his knee, and the lobsters arrived lethargic. One of the guests’ maids was thought to be increasing, the gardener cut off the tip of his finger instead of a bloom, and that dog swiped a whole haunch of venison to share with the stable hands. Two carriages collided on the way to the village, the vicar was developing a sore throat, and there were clouds. Lord Hollister had too much to drink the night before and couldn’t remember where he’d put the wedding ring for safe-keeping, and Mama was having spasms that Uncle Albert would arrive to ruin everything. Daphne had a headache. Ohlman had another glass of sherry.

It was a lovely wedding.

The village church was filled, every seat taken with family and guests, with servants and local people standing in the back and outside waving branches of orange blossoms. There were flowers everywhere, inside and out, woven into garlands up the aisle, draped over the doorways, in massed arrangements of red, white, and pink roses.

The earl and his son stood by the vicar, next to the intricately wrought new altar cloth, waiting for the rest of the bridal party. Lord Hollister was elegant in black swallowtails and white satin breeches, with a red rose in his lapel. Graydon was the proud picture of British manhood in his scarlet regimentals, for the last time, he insisted. His papers would be processed by the end of the month. Torry escorted Cousin Harriet to her front-row seat at one side of the aisle; Dart walked with the earl’s sister to the other side. The boys hated their white velvet coats and short pants, but wore them with resignation, Daphne having threatened them with a quick return to school if they protested once more.

Then Daphne walked down the aisle by herself, as maid of honor. She was radiant in soft pink, with a circlet of roses in her hair and ribbons trailing down her back. More than one of the congregants was heard to whisper that Miss Whilton looked like a bride herself, beautiful and beaming on everyone she passed. Daphne was so delighted this day was finally coming to pass, she could have cried.

Ohlman the butler
was
crying as he led Lady Whilton down the aisle. He’d argued against such a heresy, but Lady Whilton would not hear of his protests.

“Perhaps it wouldn’t do in London where they are all such snobs, but here in Hampshire where we know everyone? There is no one else I would rather have, no one else who has looked after me so long or so loyally. I cannot very well ask my brother-in-law, can I?”

She certainly couldn’t, so Ohlman accepted the honor, and wept with pride as he handed his mistress into the keeping of her new husband. Lady Whilton went gracefully, elegant in her rose-colored satin with the double-heart brooch pinned at the center of the neckline. Luckily they were rubies and matched her color scheme, all selected not to clash with Graydon’s regimental jacket.

The vicar cleared his sore, scratchy throat. “Dearly beloved,” he began.

Daphne let go a deep sigh. The roses had bloomed on time, the organist hadn’t missed a note, the vicar’s voice would last through the service if he cut the sermon short. The church smelled of flowers, and the boys had no mice, frogs, or snakes in their pockets.

It was such a lovely wedding that Ohlman wept throughout the entire ceremony. Cousin Harriet had to hand him her handkerchief.

*

All of the servants wanted to watch their mistress get married and their own Ohlman take his part in the ceremony. The kitchen staff had to stay behind, with the wedding breakfast to be held immediately after the service, but most of the other indoor servants were being permitted to attend. Not the newly hired, temporary staff, of course, for what did they care anyway? And someone had to stay behind.

In the stables, every driver and groom had been assigned to getting the company sorted into and out of their carriages to and from the church, holding horses during the ceremony, bearing the servants off in wagons, carting the massive floral tributes around. Again, only the newest hand was left behind to mind the remaining riding horses.

Opportunity was knocking, if not on the front door where one footman was left on duty, then on the rear parlor window, which Handy had open in a flash. Sailor was waiting on the other side with the wheelbarrow he used to cart the manure. Jake’s gang was going to Heaven in a handcart, with Lady Whilton’s wedding presents.

Handy had all of his possessions and two pillow slips hidden under his skirts. He hadn’t dared approach the guest bedrooms above where jewel boxes waited on every vanity and bureau; too many of the visiting valets and maids were also waiting there to refurbish their employees between the service and the reception. The dining room with all its silverware was too near the kitchens, and the hired musicians were tuning up in the grand parlor.

The smaller room was empty of everything except a king’s ransom in gifts, just as Handy’s roommates had described it. The circumstances couldn’t have been better if Jake had planned it. The only problem for Handy was deciding what to take.

Small and valuable, Jake always told them. Easy to hide and easy to sell. Gold letter openers, gold picture frames, gold candlesticks went into the first sack. Silver platters, silver bowls, silver candlesticks followed. Lots of silver candlesticks. Pearl-handled knives, gem-inlaid candy dishes, ivory inkstands, all got packed and handed out the window to Sailor, along with two dishes of sweetmeats left on tables nearby for when the company returned, and three cut-glass decanters from the mantel.

The last items were so Sailor and Handy could have a celebration of their own, since they’d be missing the servants’ party later that night. Sailor had wanted to stay for the food and drink and a chance to dance with those little maids Handy kept crowing about, but they didn’t dare make the heist, hide the plunder, and come back. The last time they buried something, Sal dug him up.

Sailor started on one of the decanters while Handy went back with the other pillowcase. There were the statues and vases: jade, porcelain, and crystal, all worth small fortunes to a boy raised in London streets. All went into the bag. A music box, a globe, three paperweights, and a marvelous egg that opened up to reveal a tiny bride and groom. Sailor wrapped that up special in his nightshirt, the same flannel nightshirt that had been the baron’s, then Jake’s. He stuffed in some more silver candlesticks, then spread the gifts remaining on the table around better, filling in empty spots, so no one would notice the theft too soon. It fair broke Handy’s heart to leave so much, but they just couldn’t carry those huge centerpieces or the tea services or the sets of rare books.

Jewelry sure would have been nice, Handy thought, a watch or a necklace or a gent’s stickpin he could pop into his pocket, but these swells didn’t give good stuff like that as wedding presents, it seemed. A bunch of the nipcheese ones just wrote letters, it looked like, for there was a pile of rolled-up parchments in an enameled bowl. Handy dumped the papers out and packed the bowl. Stock certificates, consols, acres in Jamaica, and a bill of sale for a thoroughbred mare rolled off the table. “Cheapskates,” Handy muttered as he gathered them up again onto the table so the room still looked neat.

Church bells started to ring. Handy quickly handed the second bag of booty out to his brother, who tossed it onto the wheelbarrow. So much for the porcelain and the crystal. And now they had to leave in a hurry in case someone heard the sound of shattering giftware.

Handy gave one more look, and grabbed up the alabaster urn that was smack in the middle of the table. The maids said it was something special, with everyone guessing what was inside. God knew it was heavy enough to hold a pirate’s horde. The nobs’d be sure to notice it was gone, though, so Handy snatched a vase of flowers that was about the same size off the mantel and put that in the urn’s place. It didn’t look right, so he took the flowers out. And took them along with the urn when he jumped out of the window. They’d look nice on Jake’s new grave.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Wheelbarrows don’t work so well in the woods. And maybe Jake would have figured a better plan for the getaway, rather than going back to that old fallen-in cottage. But they couldn’t go trundling down the highway in broad daylight, and the loot had to be reapportioned before the broken crystal cut through the muslin pillowcase, and they had to do something about changing their disguises. And Handy demanded a bit of celebration, to catch up with his brother.

So they left the barrow at the icehouse and carried the plunder through the stands of oak and evergreen, Sailor complaining the whole way of the weight of that blasted urn Handy was making him carry as gentle as an infant.

“Jake allus said small and light. You have to go an’ prig a bloomin’ marble flowerpot with handles.”

“Well, you went an’ tossed the glass gewgaws. I had to find us
somethin’ else, didn’t I? ’Sides, the maids was all in a swivet over the thing. Must be an antique or somethin’. Shut up and pass the bottle.”

They arrived at their former hideaway thinking it was too bad Jake had been dug up, or they could have put the flowers on his grave right there, so he could join in the party.

Sailor wet his whistle, and then his hair to get rid of the blacking. They used the boot polish this time on Handy’s new coif, once they hacked off his long blond hair. He was back in boy’s clothes, too, with an improbable mustache drawn over his lip in an attempt to add to his manliness.

Sailor was not going to look like anything but a big carrot-topped sprout who kept pulling his cap down over his ears. He smelled so badly of manure, though, they figured no one would get close enough to recognize the footpad of his description.