Elizabeth Kidd (24 page)

“He found out they were doing it only for the money and had no interest in returning the marbles to Greece. After that, he pretended to go along, but he suspected Melville and was watching him to see if he might give himself away somehow. He was becoming frustrated about his inability to do anything and because everyone—including you, my love—seemed to be following his every movement. I was not a moment too soon in reaching him, and he fell in with my suggestion that he assist us because he was at a dead end himself.”

He put his cup down and looked at her. “Now it is time for you to tell a story, my love. How did you find out that Arthur Melville was involved? I had just learned it from Dimitri that same day.”

“How did
he
know?”

“He overheard a conversation between Melville and one of the thugs one day when he had come into the house secretly to see his sister. He was unsure of the meaning of what he heard at first, since he had never actually met the man who organized the thefts, but when he found himself being followed, he suspected Melville and so began making his own inquiries.”

Antonia wrapped her arms around her knees and put her chin on them for a moment as she considered all this.

“Now your story,” Kedrington said.

Antonia smiled. “Actually, I have two stories to tell you, but as to Arthur Melville—well, you know I never trusted him.”

“You gave no indication of it.”

“Well, I hope I am civil to everyone unless they prove themselves unworthy of civility.”

“But he had not, until last night.”

“Please do not cavil, Duncan. You are distracting me from my story.”

“I beg your pardon. Do go on.”

“Well, I got to thinking about that house on Cork Street, where the stolen marbles were taken. I had noticed it particularly when I was following Dimitri and Carey from Grillon’s….”

“Kindly do not remind me of that folly.”

“But it is part of the story!”

“Very well, go on.”

“The house was unoccupied, which did not seem peculiar at the time, since I was looking for Carey—who tells me he simply walked through the yard to the mews and then to Bond Street and never noticed the door I went into.”

“He was not looking for secret passages.”

“Do not make excuses for him, Duncan. Anyway, that house did not have a number, so I made a note of the numbers on either side of it and later sent Milford to the property office to enquire about their owners.”

“Milford! You purloined my valet to run your errands?”

“Well, you reminded me just recently that he had been in Spain with you. I thought that some of your expertise in these matters might have rubbed off. Besides, he can speak and act like a gentleman, so I knew he would not be turned away, even if he did not mention your name.”

“I must have a chat with Milford about his extracurricular activities. If he doesn’t have enough work here to keep him occupied, perhaps I should find some.”

“Don’t be absurd. You know you want him at your beck and call, even when you don’t need him. Besides, you had not been home all day, had you?”

“Never mind that. So you found out that Melville owned one of those houses?”

“Yes, and then I remembered his mentioning, that first day when we met him at Burlington House, that he had property in the neighborhood, so I put two and two together.”

“And came up with three.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we still do not know who financed the plot, and if we do not discover the answer soon, he may slip out of our reach.”

“Have you no suspicion?”

“Suspicion, yes. But one needs proof.”

She sat up, saying eagerly, “Who do you suspect?”

Before he could answer, however, there was a rap on the door. Kedrington got out of bed, opened the door a crack, and turned back with a letter in his hand.

“It’s from Carey,” he said. “He is in Lewes and says he believes he knows where Elena is and is going to rescue her. Curse it—we should have sent someone to stop him when we learned that Elena is safe.”

“We can still send Dimitri.”

“Yes, I shall do so at once.” But he continued reading the letter, then exclaimed, “Oh, my God.”

“What?” Alarmed, Antonia jumped out of bed and snatched the letter from her husband’s fingers. It had been posted from the White Heart in Lewes the night before. She scanned it, saw nothing alarming, and said, “What is the matter, Duncan?”

But he had already pulled the bell to summon Milford and was preparing to dress for the day.

“My love, call someone to wake Dimitri, quickly. He must come with me.”

“But where to?”

“Sussex. I believe I do know who is behind the plot—and Elena may be in danger after all.”

Chapter 22

Carey Fairfax woke to the thunder of battering rams at his gates. He sat up, groaned, and looked around him. Oh, yes, he remembered now. He was in Sussex, some inn or other, and he had come to rescue Elena from her imprisonment in…where was it again?

The pounding on his door continued, and Carey realized belatedly that it was only a knock, probably the waiter with his breakfast. What time was it? He stumbled to his feet, pushed the window curtain aside, and blinked at the daylight that shone in his eyes. Then—with some effort, for he felt oddly weak—he pulled the door open.

“What time is it?” he demanded of the startled waiter. “What’s the name of this town?”

“Lewes, sir, and it’s goin’ on eleven, sir. We couldn’t wake you earlier. You all right, sir?”

Carey groaned and held his head between his hands. He could not possibly have imbibed all that much wine last night. No—he remembered now—he had drunk only two tankards of ale. Why did his head ache so?

He waved feebly toward the single table in the room. “Put it down there.”

The waiter did so, and backed off, eyeing Carey suspiciously. “Tankard of ale, sir? Hair of the dog, mayhap?”

Carey fumbled in his pocket for a coin.

“No, thanks. I’ll be all right in a thrice.”

“Very well, sir,” said the waiter, accepting the coin and bowing himself out.

Carey sat down with a thud and closed his eyes. That made his head ache even more. He opened them and poured himself some coffee, then dug into the eggs and bacon the waiter had brought, scarcely tasting them.

After he had eaten, however, he began to feel better. At least his head was no longer pounding.

What in heaven’s name had he drunk last night?

As his head began to clear, the events of the previous night came into sharper focus. He had vaguely remembered Elena saying something about a cousin living in Sussex, so for lack of any other plan, he had taken the road south from London. Thorough questioning of the ostlers at every stage stop along the way had yielded results at Croydon. Fortunately, Elena was easily distinguishable from most young English ladies by her coloring, and once he had found out what sort of conveyance she was traveling in, the task was easier. She was being driven by a servant and accompanied by a maid, and the party seemed to be in no hurry to reach their destination.

This last struck Carey as decidedly peculiar, but he did not allow himself to relax his own pace because of it. He failed to find anyone remembering Elena after Cuckfield, however, and was delayed for hours, inquiring at every hostelry near the inn where they had left the carriage and horses to—and that was another very odd thing—wander about the town like any set of gawking sightseers! What was there to be seen in Cuckfield anyway? They had even stopped for dinner, taken at leisure in a well-known hotel, before setting off again—as he at last discovered—in the direction of Lewes.

By the time Carey arrived at Lewes, however, it was dark, and while he contemplated this as a factor in his favor, it took him additional hours to identify the house where he thought Elena must be held, by which time he was exhausted.

Since the house was some distance outside the town, and since Elena did not appear to be in any immediate danger, he elected to spend the night at the White Hart. In the morning, he would simply approach the house on some pretext, ascertain how closely Elena might be guarded, and take her away by either stealth or force of arms. He would have preferred the latter, being eager to prove his valor to his lady love, but even Carey recognized that such a course might end in disaster. He would take the night to think about it.

After obtaining a room, he had entered the taproom of the inn for a nightcap. Sitting alone with his ale, he had glanced around the room, hoping for company. He was not a solitary drinker, and a little conversation to take him mind off his worry over Elena would be welcome.

He spotted a vaguely familiar face at a corner table and approached it.

“It’s Fenton, isn’t it?”

Lord Fenton looked up from his sack and regarded Carey with a scowl.

“Do I know you?”

“Carey Fairfax.” He held out his hand. “Seen you at White’s, if I’m not mistaken. I think you must know Kedrington—my brother-in-law.”

The name had a magic effect, as Carey had often noted, ruefully, that it did. He did not hesitate to employ it to open doors, however, and this time it worked again.

“Of course, of course!” Fenton exclaimed affably. “Have a seat, Fairford.”

“Fairfax, sir.”

“Beg your pardon, I’m sure. What are you drinking? Kedrington here with you?”

“No, I’m alone. Just came to—er, visit an old army friend. Short trip and back to town in the morning.”

“Pity. Why don’t you stay a day or two, eh? I’d imagine you to be a sporting man, though the hunting’s poor here, you know. Unless you like to fish? Good sport in that.”

“I might be interested,” Carey said.

He made himself more comfortable, thinking that he might as well put in a word for himself, since Fenton had hinted that he might like company in whatever pursuit he came to Sussex for. Fenton was well known as a sporting peer, who did not hesitate to spread his blunt on the gaming tables in town and who appeared at every race meet and fisticuffs bout within a twenty-mile radius of London. His luck was said to be phenomenal, and he could pick a winner eight times out of ten.

Fenton, he learned during the course of the conversation, had newly acquired a rustic retreat in the county—a few acres with a small manor house—from which to organize parties of sea fishermen to go out in his yacht. It occurred to Carey that Lewes was some distance from the coast, but Fenton said his property was considerably nearer, just above Seaford, in fact, where he could keep his yacht.

After half an hour, Carey began to make his excuses, but Fenton ordered another round of ale, insisting that Carey be his guest, and the amiable conversation continued until sleep began to catch up with Carey. He found his head knocking against the table and raised it quickly.

“Beg pardon, Fenton. Long day, you know. Reckon I’d better take myself to bed.”

“Dear boy, of course. Let me assist you upstairs.”

Carey waved him off. “No, no, not to bother. Waiter’ll help me.”

“Get my direction from the landlord in the morning,” Fenton called after him as he weaved unsteadily toward the door. “I’ll be expecting you!”

Staring into the dregs of the coffee pot the following morning, Carey reflected that he should have confided in Fenton about Elena. He could use some help, and no doubt Fenton could supply it. It was too bad he had dropped off like that just when they were—

The last mists suddenly cleared from his head, and the truth darted in. Fenton had doctored his drink! It must have been that. Talking to the earl had just begun to revive him from his fatigue, and it was only after he’d had that second tankard of ale that he had suddenly—much too suddenly, he now realized—fallen asleep.

Damn and blast! He jumped up and hurriedly pulled on his clothes. Ten minutes later he had paid his shot and was riding in the direction the landlord had given him for Lord Fenton’s manor.

He had no idea why Lord Fenton should have slipped a drug, but it had to have something to do with Elena. Or Kedrington. Or both. He wished he’d paid more attention to his brother-in-law’s comments about politics and such; he’d never cared much, because it didn’t concern him directly, but he saw now that he’d mistaken. Any sleeping snake was likely to rise up and sting you. Obviously, Fenton was up to no good, but Carey was feeling his way in the dark of his ignorance about the man.

Ten minutes out of Lewes, he pulled his horse up sharply as an idea occurred to him. If Fenton was up to something shady, he would naturally try to throw Carey off his trail. There was no point in continuing on to Fenton’s place, then. He turned his mount in the direction of the house where his inquiries of the day before had led him to believe Elena was staying.

He reached the place half an hour later. It lay in the opposite direction from Fenton’s manor, so if he had guessed wrong, he’d have lost precious time. He hoped he had not been wrong.

It was a cottage more than a house, with a gate and a low stone wall enclosing a flower garden between the wall on the front door, but its bucolic charm was lost on Carey as he stormed up to the door and knocked on it.

There was no answer, so he pounded harder. Shortly, a young woman carrying a milk bucket came around the side of the house and enquired what he thought he would accomplish making all that noise on a peaceful morning.

She was a pretty lass, with rosy cheeks and black ringlets, but Carey’s former eye for the ladies was clouded today.

“Is Miss Melville in?”

“And who might be asking?”

“I’m her fiancé.”

“Oh, yes? Then she has one more than she deserves, wicked girl. And I suppose you’re some viscount’s brother-in-law as well, are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“The young miss went off with some bloke calling himself her fee-
ahn
-cey not an hour ago. He also said he was this lord’s brother.”

Carey’s irritation warred with his frustration, and he snapped, “I suppose this—this bloke called himself Carey Fairfax too?”

“Aye, that was the name.”

“Was he a well-set-up chap, about forty, with brown hair and a scar above his lip?”