Somewhat Scandalous (Brambridge Novel 1) (24 page)

Agatha did not move far from the wet hedge she had dragged herself to. Although the grass had been dry where she had been lying, it seemed that some of the sheaves hadn’t dried in the previous day’s sun. Her low-profile scramble through the field had left her wet through. She shivered as another droplet of water dripped down her spine.

Despite ignoring Henry at lunch, she had watched his every powerful move in the reflection of the large soup tureen in front of her, unable to shake the thumping of her heart at his dangerous proximity. She had jumped as his elbow had nudged her slightly as he had turned to take something from the footman. Watching his shiny form, she had not failed to notice how his hands tensed as he had pushed it into his pocket, and his formidable brow had furrowed deeply.

Reaching behind her head, Agatha scraped at the drop of water on her neck with a finger and gasped, dropping to her knees. A boat had pulled up on the deserted beach; she could see the tall form of Henry moving forward to meet it. Raising herself to her haunches, she peered through the wet grass. A man jumped out from the surf and helped Henry drag the boat up the beach. Bloody hell, there was
another
passenger in the boat.

Agatha swore as her hair dropped across her face, pushing it off with a swipe of her hand. She had missed something about the passenger who was now making their way up the beach whilst the others put the boat in the water. Agatha stared at the figure as it walked towards her. Good grief, a woman! Suddenly the moonlight caught her full in the face. A beautiful woman. Agatha’s stomach clenched. She had followed him for this, thought to comfort him for this?

Perhaps this was the real reason why Henry hadn’t wanted her on the beach—because he was bringing in his French mistress. Agatha pressed a flat hand at her thighs where Henry’s touch had seared an imprint on her body.
The bastard
. 

She had stayed quietly on in the drawing room with her thoughts long after Henry had disappeared in his study and the other guests had gone to bed. But her thoughts had not calmed her. Drawn by an invisible chain, she had knocked on the study door, wanting to confront him, but there was no answer. Without thinking, she had entered; the immediate smell of books, and Henry, comforting smoke and spice had washed over her, surrounding her, and yet he hadn’t been there. The door from the study to the garden stood slightly ajar, a small breeze ruffling the pages of the books on the desk.

On the beach, Henry hauled the woman to her feet, seemingly holding her hand more than was appropriate.
What was she doing now
? Agatha gasped. The woman had deftly unpinned her great cloak all the way to her waist as Henry turned away.

Agatha wrapped her arms around her body. They would pass right by her in the hedge if she did not move. She took one last look at the woman. Her profile cast a shadow in the moonlight and there was definitely something familiar about the nose. Taking a deep breath, Agatha reached out and, grasping some loose roots with her hands, pulled herself onto the road and staggered as far as she could before falling into a fast walk.

She’d only been in Henry’s study for a short time, but it had been enough to see the two books on the desk. A book of Greek verse and the scuffed and scarred remains of
Conversations on Science
that Agatha had last seen in Henry’s study in London.

Reaching the edge of the Anglethorpe Estate, Agatha rocked as she tripped over a large root with her boot. She smiled grimly. Jaquard would have that out in an instant if he knew about it. She stopped, her hands outstretched for balance, soil cascading down the root onto her boots as if released from a dam. Breathing heavily, she clutched at the upended root, as if it could tether her to the ground, to the carefully constructed shell she had veneered for herself.
He’d brought his mistress to Brambridge.
And yet he couldn’t tell her what he wanted with her. Couldn’t tell her because he didn’t want her, perhaps. Even his last words to her were not to wreck the hydrangeas because of Jaquard. Agatha shook her head. But still he’d caressed her in the field as if she were a part of him, causing her senses to burst as explosively as gunpowder. She gasped as the memories rolled over her.
Five parts nitre and one part sulphur
. Jaquard and his tree trunk in Mount Street.
Someone wants to kill you.
Jaquard and his hydrangeas at Berale House.
Despite giving up, science scandal still follows me.

She rubbed her hands together. Why had she ever bothered?

Agatha’s journey back to Berale House passed uneventfully. After a small detour through the grounds, she made her way straight to the kitchen door. As lightly as was possible in her boots, Agatha mounted the steps and pushed at the door. She sighed with relief as it swung inwards silently. Stepping over the threshold, she turned to push the door closed behind her.

“Welcome back, Agatha.”

She screamed, clapping her hands over her mouth. A match illuminated the darkness, the light growing as a taper was lit, giving a low, yellow light to the kitchen. Freddie and Harriet sat at the kitchen table. Agatha drooped in relief.

“What are you doing here alone together?” The best form of defense was attack but then, as she thought about it, it really
was
quite concerning they were in the dark alone.

“Don’t change the subject, Miss Beauregard.” Freddie bit into a piece of burnt toast and waved a finger.

Agatha smoothed her wet skirts, hoping the bulky outline of the package beneath them wasn’t visible. “I wasn’t changing the subject, there wasn’t even a subject to change.”

“Where have you been?” Harriet frowned at her. “I saw you leave two hours ago and I’ve been waiting for you to come back ever since.”

“I errr, that is, I went for a walk and to look at the stars at the beach.”

“Oh.” Harriet sat back and nodded.

“What do you mean, ‘Oh,’ Harriet? She’s bloody well been gone for two hours!” Freddie took the toast out of his mouth and examined its black underside. Shaking it futilely at the floor, he resumed crunching on its crusty exterior.

Harriet tapped her fingers on the table. “We used to go and look at the stars together. Down at the beach in the soft grass where you could hear the sea lapping and the full sky—”

Mouth full, Freddie’s incredulity was still obvious. “Two hours of bloody stargazing!”

“I wish you would stop saying bloody, Lord Lassiter!” Harriet looked down her nose at him. “That is for Macbeth and Shakespeare, not for tired lords.”

Agatha bit down on her tongue and edged to the door. Harriet’s description of stargazing had been rather too evocative for something which she and Agatha had
never
done together. “Ahem, I had better go to bed, then.”

“Is this a midnight party?” Anthony appeared at the top of the stairs to the kitchen clad in a thick, dressing gown that was spread thinly across his lean frame. Smiling her most natural smile, Agatha edged back towards the banked fire. Water still fell from her clothes to the floor and she shivered as steam began to rise from her skirts. Standing there was not a good idea after her detour through Berale House grounds. She moved away from the fire again.

“Lovall, you bacon brain, you need a bigger dressing gown!” Freddie genteelly covered his eyes and gazed determinedly at the wall.

“Oh. Sorry.”

Agatha almost felt sorry for Anthony, but not quite. After all, he was part of Henry’s cronies that had accused her of being a notorious French spy.

Freddie peered through two of the fingers covering his eyes. “Agatha’s been out stargazing.”

“Really?” The disbelief in Anthony’s voice was apparent.

“Really.” Agatha decided she had had enough of the verbal sparring. “It has been a long day and I’m going to bed.” Picking up her still damp skirts, she brushed past Anthony and made her way into the hall.

Slumping against the wall, she pulled out the damp packet from her skirts. Thank god it was a little wet. Standing so close to the fire would have been dangerous. Especially as it smelt very strongly of horse manure. Jaquard was obviously a fan of homemade gunpowder. At least she
hoped
it was only horse manure.

And she really shouldn’t have left her niece alone with those men, even if she did seem to have the upper hand. She stepped into the shadows, holding the bag lightly with one hand. The sounds carried from the kitchen rather audibly.

“Do you really think she was stargazing?” Freddie, it seemed, could not let the subject drop.

“Why would you think she was doing anything else?” Harriet demanded. Agatha cheered her niece silently.

“Well… um. It has been suggested that Miss Beauregard might be a spy.”

“Aunt Agatha a spy? When would she have had time to do that outside of looking after me, living in the sticks and trying to make a small living for us? The worst Aunt Aggie could do would be to bore you to death with the results of one her experiments she used to do.”

Agatha stared at the innocuous packet in her hand and humphed.

“I thought it was a joke when Freddie mentioned it.” The sound of Anthony’s footsteps grew nearer to where Agatha stood in the hall.

Harriet’s words stopped Agatha leaving. “Lord Lassiter, is this true? You cannot believe such a thing of her!”

“The coincidences are too great, Harriet.” Hmm. Freddie was not convinced then.

Anthony’s steps sounded again. “Strong enough for Harding to tell Miss Beauregard’s best friend.”

A chair crashed to the ground. “Lady Colchester knows?”

“We thought she should know, as her brother Anglethorpe was making a cake of himself over Agatha and everyone could see it. If she turns out to be
Monsieur Herr,
then the best spymaster that Britain has ever known will find himself in Newgate before long.”

“Lord Anglethorpe is pursuing Aunt Agatha? That is good news!”

“No it’s not!” Freddie’s normally jovial voice dropped low and hard. “This is not a comedy.
Monsieur Herr
is a real menace and must be eliminated as soon as possible.”

CHAPTER 30

Berale House loomed dark as Henry let himself back into his study. The fire in the grate had died to a smoldering mound of white ash. Shivering, he prodded the meagre coal lumps with a poker, persuading them into a limp flame.

Putting a weary hand to his head, he pulled off his dark hat and knelt by the fire. His sodden trousers clung to his legs as he pushed them down from his waist.

“I see that you’ve had an interesting evening.”

Henry cursed as he fell on his bare legs in shock. He didn’t know whether or not to continue taking off his trousers or pull them back up.

“I would take them off. After all, I am your sister and I’ve seen it all before.” Victoria sat forward from her seat in Henry’s desk chair. He’d been so intent on getting warm, he’d missed her still form. That and his head was muddled by Agatha.

“Victoria? Bloody hell, what are you doing in my study?”

“I may still be your little sister, Henry dear, but I am no longer a young girl. What are you intentions towards Agatha?”

He couldn’t have this conversation with no breeches on. A small cupboard stood next to the fire. Out of it he pulled a pair of loose pair of fishermen trousers and a thick jersey. “If you don’t mind?”

Victoria turned her head discreetly away. Cursing as he fumbled with the ties at his waist, he adjusted the trousers and pulled the jersey over his head. The soft dry material gave instant warmth.

The smell of smoke filled the air; an orange dot of light glowed by his desk. “Cigar, Henry?”

Unbelievable. She’d found
his
secret box of cheroots.

Victoria laughed softly. “I am your sister, dear. The apple doesn’t always fall far from the tree, despite our different lives.”

Henry gripped at the soft material of the jersey, the knife thrust of her words palpable. All of the worrying he’d done over Victoria after his parents had died, all of the need to avoid rumor and scandal had collapsed when Agatha had left him, them. Drawing the jersey to his waist, he smoothed it down over his trousers. He’d taken no notice when Victoria had spent days in her room. She had ever been thus. Instead he’d sent for the best doctors that money could buy. That normally drew her out. Thoughts of Agatha had filled his head like a tidal wave; there wasn’t room for other worries.

But then Victoria had emerged after the tenth quack had been sent packing and announced that she’d accepted Lord Colchester’s offer of marriage. Old Lord Colchester who Agatha and Victoria had laughed about. Nothing he could do could persuade her otherwise.

In the time that he’d wanted to be married she had been married and widowed, and left a wealth ten times his own.

“I know that Papa was a spy too, Henry. Do you think that I didn’t inherit some of his characteristics as well?”

“I didn’t think.”
      “No. Most men don’t. Did you deal with him?”

“Who?”

“Whoever killed Papa?”

“You weren’t meant to know that he was murdered.”

The orange tip of the cheroot glowed brighter and then vanished. It appeared again, the same dull orange as before.

“I’ve always known.”

“Yes, I got him.”

He could hear Victoria as she inhaled a deep breath. “Good.”

The clock above the fire place chimed twice.

“And do you have a plan to find
Monsieur Herr
?”

Good grief. He watched as the whites of Victoria’s teeth shone in the firelight. “I have something in hand.”

“It had better be good, Henry dear.” Victoria stood, holding the cheroot in her hand. She took a last puff and then ground the cigar against the polished wood of his desk.

“That’s my desk!”

“It was also Papa’s desk. That’s a reminder, Henry. Agatha is my friend. It has not been easy for her. And most of the problems have been caused by you and your pig headedness. If you don’t come up with a plan to sort out this mess, I will. Whatever your intentions.”