Now, though he didn’t seem the sort of man who would toy with a woman, it did just occur to Amelia that he might be trying to teach her a lesson. Obviously he believed she’d let other men kiss her, and this might be his way of showing her the impropriety (nay, even the danger) of acting so incautiously. Certainly that was his intent on the balcony that night. Was he merely prolonging the lesson?
How she wished he’d said something more when Peter had mentioned her. It was comforting, of course, that he had adamantly disavowed any interest in Veronique Chartier, but he hadn’t responded to Peter’s assurance that he didn’t expect Verwood to court his sister. Amelia rather hoped that was what he was doing, and would have felt certain of it (from his actions), if he hadn’t seemed always to be poking fun at the suggestion. It couldn’t, after all, be any more proper for him to behave as he was, than it was for her. Or not much. But he had such a strange concept of a gentleman’s proper behavior, that it might merely be something he didn’t understand.
These thoughts chased one another around her head for altogether too long. She could find no solution, and eventually determined she would be more circumspect in the future. Let Verwood give some indication of his intentions before he took her in his arms again.
She
certainly wasn’t going to make a fool of herself...
When she arrived in the breakfast room the next morning he was already there, along with Mlle. Chartier and Peter. The men rose as she entered and she waved them back to their seats, noting the cane beside Verwood’s chair. Amelia spoke to the Frenchwoman and to her brother, then turned to inquire of Verwood’s knee.
“It’s better this morning, but I’ll need to exercise it. I thought you might let me accompany you on a walk to the Carsons’.”
She felt herself stiffen slightly. “Oh, I think that would be a bit too far for you, my lord. It’s a good mile by the road, and you wouldn’t want to walk across the fields. They’re too uneven.”
“A mile sounds just right. You won’t mind resting with me now and again, I trust.” His black brows rose quizzingly.
“Until your knee is healed, a shorter walk might be more desirable. We might walk to the church in the village, for instance.”
“No,” he said pleasantly, “I’d prefer to see the Carsons. You haven’t forgotten that I’ve met your protégé, have you?”
Amelia couldn’t understand his insistence on going there, any more than he seemed capable of grasping the fact that she didn’t want him to go with her. “Very well,” she said grudgingly. “This afternoon, perhaps.” Something was bound to come up before then to distract him.
“Oh, I need the walk this morning. So my leg won’t stiffen too much, you understand.”
Peter had been watching the two of them with mild curiosity, and now interjected his suggestion. “You’d best go this morning, Amelia. We’re planning an expedition to Winchelsea this afternoon.”
Defeated, Amelia agreed rather curtly, concentrating on her breakfast to end the discussion. Verwood shortly excused himself, saying he would wait for her in the Summer Parlor. She would have liked to remain over her meal for a lengthy period, but once Peter and Veronique had excused themselves, she feared M. Chartier would descend on her, which was probably the worse of the two fates planned for her. Not that being with Verwood was such a bad fate, if it only hadn’t involved walking to the Carsons’.
Sunlight filled the glassed-in Summer Parlor, sparkling off the green walls and the Delftware vase on the gate-leg table. Verwood was seated in a spoonback chair with his legs stretched out in front of him, the cane resting against one knee. His gaze was abstracted and thoughtful. He didn’t hear Amelia enter the room through the open door.
“Really, I can’t believe you’re up to such a long hike,” she began, nervously fingering the light shawl she’d thrown over her shoulders. “The church is Norman and rather interesting.”
“I’ll be fine,” he assured her, rising slowly and taking a firm grip on the cane. “We’re in no rush, I presume. We can walk slowly.”
When they had started down the path that led to the road, she spoke again. “Have you given any thought to what might be done about M. Chartier? With your bad knee, you really aren’t in a position to do much, are you?”
“I doubt if it will be necessary for me to run about, my dear,” he said, sounding amused. “Let’s look at the situation in the clear light of day. The conversation you overheard between the two men could have two possible connotations. One is that Chartier was bargaining for smuggled goods from Upham, the other that he was arranging for transportation to France. There may even be other possibilities, but we’ll discard them for now. Say Chartier wants to get to France and Upham will provide the boat. In that case it sounds like they’d leave him and pick him up a few days later, right?”
“Yes,
that’s what I thought.”
He smiled down at her, touching a finger briefly to a curl that rested on her shoulder. “Now, if you were a French spy, and you’d picked up information you wanted to have conveyed to Napoleon, doubtless you’d have a routine for conveying it.”
“Yes, but his contact may have been unavailable,” she protested. “Or having the revenue officer on the lookout in Bournemouth may have made it difficult for him to use his ordinary routine.”
“True. One would think there would be some sort of backup, but let’s not quibble on that point. He has decided to take the information to France himself, and he can see Upham will do anything for the right price.” They had come out on the road, which was narrow and dusty. Verwood stopped a moment and leaned more heavily on his cane. “Chartier could even have spun him some tale of smuggling of his own. Surely he wouldn’t have trusted a stranger with the information that he’s a spy.”
Amelia glared at him. “You’re mocking me, Verwood. He wouldn’t have told him either thing. He’d have made up some story of a sick relative there, or something of that sort.”
“You called me Alexander last night.”
Her hands fluttered but she said nothing as they walked on.
“Very well,” he went on smoothly. “He has told some story about needing to get there, in any case. The problem is that he seems to want to stay there for a few days. That’s what I don’t understand. If he were a spy, he’d have someone to hand his message on to within the hour, one would think. Why does he want to stay there so long?”
Amelia shrugged. “Perhaps he just likes the feel of French soil under his feet.”
“A sentimental spy?” Verwood grinned at her. “Come, now, we’ll have to think of something better than that. Does he want to take the message to Napoleon himself? Could it possibly be that important? I doubt it. And Napoleon isn’t in France just now, in any case. He’s getting ready for a renewed battle with Russia. It seems unlikely Chartier would have any information that would help him there.”
They were walking slowly, but still the first of the cottages was in sight. The Carsons lived at the very far end of the village, a much farther walk. Amelia was still determined to terminate their excursion at the church, which was already in sight. “Well, what do you suggest?” she asked brightly, putting on her best such-an-intelligent-man-will-have-the-answer smile.
Verwood gave a doleful shake of his head. “None of that, Amelia. You may have noticed that Chartier never mentions where his home was in France before he immigrated to England. Fortunately, his sister is not so tight-lipped, though apparently she was brought here very young. Their family home was near Cherbourg, which you may realize is directly across the Channel from Bournemouth. But Upham isn’t likely to be willing to make so long a crossing. His usual route is probably Rye to Boulogne-sur-Mer or Outreau. If Chartier wanted to get to Cherbourg and back, he would need time.”
Amelia tried to look admiring. “Did you find out about Cherbourg from Mlle. Chartier yesterday when you were out riding?”
“I did.”
They had come opposite the church and Amelia stopped. “Shall we have a look inside? It’s still a distance to the Carsons’, and I can see your leg is troubling you. There isn’t really any need for me to see them today.”
There was a puzzled tilt to his black brows, but he shook his head. “No, I’d rather continue.”
“It will just make the walk back longer,” she said desperately.
“I’m sure you won’t mind stopping with me now and again.”
Amelia sighed and walked on. “So you think it more likely he wishes to get to his old home. Why?”
“Because the timing is right. It’s still possible he’s a spy, but I’m beginning to think it’s more likely he has business at his old home. Didn’t you tell me he gave you the impression he can get at his financial assets anytime he pleases?”
“Yes.” She frowned down at her dusty half-boots. “But if his money is there, why wouldn’t he have taken it out long ago? Surely it would be safer in England.”
“It probably isn’t money. French banknotes wouldn’t be of any use to him. Much more likely to be goods he can sell in England for a handsome sum. He couldn’t manage to get much out at any given time without arousing too much suspicion.”
Amelia stared up at him. “So you don’t think he’s a spy at all?” she asked, incredulous.
“I really don’t know. He could be doing both things.”
The Carsons’ cottage was directly in front of them now, a neat whitewashed building with several windows open to the mild May morning. There was a bench alongside the green door. “Why don’t you sit out there in the sun and rest your leg, Lord Verwood?” she suggested. “I’ll be but a moment.”
“And miss this opportunity to see how your pickpocket is getting along?” he asked. “Never.”
“He’s likely at the village school right now. Only his mother and the younger children will be here.” She waited for him to seat himself, but he remained standing, raising his cane to tap authoritatively on the door.
There were muffled sounds from within. Eventually a voice was heard to grumble, “I’m coming, I’m coming. Can’t a body have any peace?”
Amelia refused to meet Verwood’s startled eyes.
The green door was opened to them by a woman of less than thirty, with suspiciously red hair. She wore a starched white cap and an old-fashioned dress that was far more elegant than most cottagers wore. It didn’t look at all the sort of outfit which would be practical for milking cows. Amelia fixed a civil smile on her lips.
“Ah, it’s you, is it, Lady Amelia,” the woman barked. “Just the one I needed to see.”
“This is Lord Verwood,” Amelia said, trying to convey, by the narrowing of her eyes, that Mrs. Carson should show a little deference to his lordship.
“Mmm.” The woman’s sharp eyes took in Verwood’s lanky height, his wild black hair and eyes, and his cane. Amelia fully expected her to utter something outrageous, like, “What a sorry specimen,” but Tommy’s mother merely shrugged and said, “He can come in.”
Verwood said, “Thank you,” in a tone Amelia couldn’t quite identify. She refused to look at him as they were hustled into the spacious room that served as living and eating area for the cottage. There were two bedrooms on the same floor and another above in the gabled roof. Two children played on the plank floor, rolling a ball back and forth, while the youngest slept in a carved oak cradle that made Verwood raise his brows.
Mrs. Carson waved Amelia to one of the two chairs and seated herself in the other before Verwood could insist that she do so. He stood, leaning on his cane, behind Amelia’s chair, towering over her. Amelia cleared her throat and said, “I trust you’re well settled in now, ma’am.”
“Not much to settle in to, is there?” the older woman grumbled. “I thought the kitchen would be better provided. And the coat of green paint they’ve put on the door already needs touching up. That’s the problem with these country folk. They don’t look ahead. If they’d given it a second coat of paint, the job would have lasted for years.”
“I’m sure they did an adequate job,” Amelia replied firmly. “I’ve spoken with the earl’s estate manager and he feels there are several occupations you could set your hand to about the estate. You would report to Mrs. Lawson; she’s our housekeeper and directs all the domestic chores. You’ve taken in laundry in the past, and she’d be willing to have you do it for her.”
“Laundry?” Mrs. Carson was astonished. “Have you any idea how exhausting doing laundry is, lifting all those buckets of water, carrying about soaking clothes and linens? Why, I’ve just been at death’s door! My constitution could never stand for it.”
Amelia kept a firm rein on her temper. “Well, if laundry is too much for you, I’m sure one of the other suggestions would serve better. You can keep geese and a few pigs, and help with the brewing.”
“Pigs? What do I know of pigs? It was pork that nearly caused my death, Lady Amelia. I couldn’t possibly bring myself to learn about caring for
pigs.”
She said the word with utter contempt, one hand coming up to adjust her unnatural red hair in a gesture of such vanity that Amelia felt like grinding her teeth.
“The brewing, then, and helping out in the dairy,” Amelia insisted.
“I don’t hold with fermented beverages of any sort,” Mrs. Carson informed her self-righteously. “The Reverend Symons always spoke against drink, and I won’t be helping the devil in his work. Now, the dairy... I suppose there might be some task there which wouldn’t overtax my strength. Not milking the cows. I wouldn’t be milking cows, would I?”
“I have no idea,” Amelia muttered. “Whatever needs to be done, I’m sure you could learn.”
Mrs. Carson sighed heavily. “There are the children, of course. I can’t very well leave the little ones here alone when I go to the dairy. With Tommy in school most of the day there’s no one to mind them, you see. It’s difficult for a woman in my place.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is,” Amelia said as she rose, “but I think something can be worked out. Mrs. Lawson could have the laundry brought here for you to iron…”
“Oh, dear me, no,” Mrs. Carson protested. “Them irons are heavy and the little ones might burn theirselves. I couldn’t think of ironing.”
Amelia’s eyes flashed. “Do think of it, Mrs. Carson. I believe it’s the best solution.”