The Riddle of the Deplorable Dandy (11 page)

“But any further explanations will only confuse the lady,” interrupted Valerian, “besides which, Aunt, you are looking very tired and should be resting in preparation for the voyage. We sail with the tide.”

“Nonsense!” snapped Mrs. Newell, a note of steel coming into her husky voice. “Miss Clayton must have a chaperon, I insist upon it!”

“
You
will be her chaperon, ma'am,” said Valerian, his own voice stern. “Who ever heard of a nurse having a—”

Mrs. Newell shook her head. “I know how hard you have worked to arrange this, dear lad. But I will not have a young lady of Quality ruined only for my sake!”

Valerian flushed and his eyes seemed to Elspeth to dart sparks. She interposed hurriedly, “I think perhaps you forget, ma'am, that this ‘venture,' as you call it, is as much a rescue for my brother. He is very dear to me, and his life is at dreadful risk. Besides—” She broke off as the door opened and Freda Beck ran in unceremoniously, closely followed by the Reverend Mr. Boudreaux.

The abigail darted a glance from Valerian to Mrs. Newell, then rushed to seize Elspeth's arm, crying frantically, “You cannot do it, miss! This parson gentleman tried to pull the wool over my eyes, saying you was sailing along of a old friend, but I weren't born yesterday! If you ever met this lady, I never heard aught of it. I suspicion the true facts is that you never was meeting your friends here for no wedding, but you meant to give Abraham and me the slip all along!”

“If ever I heard such impertinence,” exploded Valerian wrathfully. “How dare you come bursting in here with all this nonsense! Take your babblement off at once, my good girl! Your mistress is under my protection and—”

“And there is a poor choice of words, sir,” exclaimed Elspeth, eyeing him with indignation.

“Well, I don't believe him, miss, begging his pardon, I'm sure,” swept on Freda, fired with crusading zeal. “Mr. Valerian might be a top o' the trees around London Town, but I know you never liked him above half, and wouldn't run off with him so as to help a stranger, however good and kind your heart is! It's Mr. Vance is in another of his bumble-broths, I'll be bound! It's him as you're going to find, and well I knows it! But you're not setting foot on no packet and sailing off to mingle with them naughty Frenchies without me by your side! Whatever your dear mama would have to say to me I dare not think! No, miss! I knows me duty and I won't leave you!” Turning with her back to Elspeth and both arms flung out as though to shield her from the other occupants of the room, she fixed Valerian with an impassioned glare and said shrilly, “Not though they cut me into gobbets and feed me to them nasty frogs what they eats!”

“Oh, my saints, listen to it,” moaned Valerian, running an exasperated hand through his hair. “The silly creature takes us for white slavers!”

Touched by her maid's devotion, Elspeth stepped aside and said, “How can you expect her to understand what is going on? Mrs. Newell, I do apologize, but Beck has been my abigail for years and is—”

“Is loyal and devoted, that is plain to see,” put in Mrs. Newell, watching her nephew's stormy countenance. “The woman has every right to fear for her mistress, Gervaise. Besides, this is as well. Beck can serve as the chaperon Miss Clayton should have by her. And do not protest again that I can be her chaperon, for anyone can see I am in no case to chaperon anyone.”

Valerian groaned again. “So we are to add another to our desperate sortie! If this keeps up we shall need the hire of an entire packet to transport us! One can but trust that the martyred Mistress Beck will survive the vagaries of the English Channel!”

Freda paled and muttered uneasily, “What's vague-rees. Miss Elspeth?”

“You will find out all too soon,” jeered Valerian. “From the look of the sky, we're unlikely to enjoy a smooth crossing.”

“Then how fortunate we are to have the escort of an experienced sailor, such as yourself, sir, who is well able to take care of us,” said Elspeth coldly.

A twinkle brightened Mrs. Newell's tired eyes.

Valerian's chin lifted. “Exactly so,” he said.

With a twinge of apprehension, Elspeth saw that the Reverend Mr. Boudreaux was grinning broadly.

*   *   *

There was nothing really remarkable about this individual, thought Joel Skye. The Army Major seated at the table before him was sturdy rather than athletic, his features were good but not striking; the hair, now powdered, showed no sign of thinning despite the fact that he looked to be on the far side of forty, but, to judge from the heavy brows, it was an undistinguished brown. Ordinary, if not nondescript, was how one might have described him. Yet rumours were whispered about Joshua Swift; rumours of extraordinary successes in the field of Military Intelligence; of outstanding achievements in apprehending spies and enemies of the Crown; of a relentless persistence that, once engaged, never gave up, much to the grief of those he pursued. An awesome record that had made him a power to be reckoned with at Bow Street or in Whitehall. What the Intelligence officer was about in this unpretentious inn outside the quiet village of Little Hampton, and why he himself had been sent down here at such breakneck speed, was a puzzle.

Swift looked up from the papers he was reading and scanned the younger man thoughtfully. First impressions had not inspired much confidence. That Lieutenant Joel Skye was intelligent was unquestionable; on the other hand, most of his commendations had come while he served as aide to Lord Hayes of the East India Company, who also chanced to be his uncle. Family prejudice there, to some extent, no doubt. A good-looking young fellow, the intense kind, and those brilliant dark eyes certainly spoke of energy. But there was nervousness too, as betrayed by the slim, restless hands. All in all, the lad was too thin—too finely drawn. For himself, he preferred the strong and steady type; the plodders who succeeded through dogged determination rather than flashes of inspiration or an application of that too often flawed science: logic. Why in the world Skye had been tossed into his dish was baffling. Someone must think highly of him. Unless it was a case of testing the fellow's mettle now that he was no longer protected by his once prestigious uncle. ‘Blast!' thought Swift, and threw the papers onto the table between them.

“How much of it d'you know?” he asked shortly.

Responding instinctively to the note of command, Joel sat straighter in his chair. “I know you've been on the trail of a socially prominent gentleman for several years, sir, and that I'm to be attached to you on temporary duty—‘on loan' from the Navy, as it were—to render whatever assistance I may.”

“Correct. Do you know who I'm after? And why?”

“No, sir. Only that you believe him to be a traitor.”

“I damned well
know
him to be a traitor, but after three years I haven't one blasted grain of proof! You have doubtless heard that I loathe and abominate the breed, above all others. I do!” Swift picked up the papers again and held them out. “It's all here. Run your eyes over these.”

Skye leant forward and took the papers. He glanced at the first page briefly and exclaimed, “Jupiter!”

“Know him, do you?” said Swift dryly. “Thought you might. How well?”

“Not well. Enough to be astonished. Are you sure, sir? I'd never have thought—”

“That's why you were sent down to assist me, instead of vice versa. One of the first things we learn in Intelligence, Skye, is never to judge by appearances. That fine gentleman is sufficiently slippery to have eluded me these three years. It galls me to count the number of times I've almost had him! Now he's on the move, and you're going after him. Take those pages with you and commit as much as you can to memory, then burn 'em. I have other copies.”

Skye blinked. “Tonight, sir? But it's—”

“I am able to tell the time, Lieutenant. Are you?”

“Your pardon, sir?”

“Your parent is a bosom-bow of my superior. I am advised that Colonel Skye is displeased with your career choices. You'd be a bigger fool than I take you for were you to doubt that your past successes have put some noses out of joint at the Admiralty and in Whitehall.” A gleam of humour came into the Intelligence officer's eyes. “You follow me, Skye?”

Joel grinned and said wryly, “A last chance to avoid sinking into obscurity on some sea-going barge, sir?”

“Exactly so. You leave at once. If you ride hard you can reach the inn with time to spare before they sail. I say ‘they' because our quarry will doubtless be surrounded by loyal idiots willing to risk their own silly heads in the name of friendship or love, or whatever! I'd give my ears to make the arrest myself, but I'm known to 'em. Oh, I know they're not strangers to you either, but I doubt they'll suspect you're presently assigned to the case, whereas one glimpse of me and they'd scatter like rabbits and we'd lose them again.”

“Am I to apprehend them at the inn, sir?”

“Lord—no! Not until they're aboard. I want the whole parcel of the traitorous swine. The fact they're sneaking out of England is proof of their treachery.”

“I'll take how many men with me?”

“You'll take yourself. The sudden arrival of a military patrol would give the game away. You can commandeer aid in the King's name if you find yourself at stand. But going in—no uniforms, Lieutenant. This has become a matter of diplomacy. We can nab them in France if need be, but you'll be up against some very dangerous opponents on both sides of the Channel. Guard yourself. I fancy you know enough of this type of work to be aware that if you find it necessary to violate any French laws or citizens and are rumbled, you'll be thrown to the wolves and we'll deny all knowledge of you?”

Joel sighed. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Good luck,” said Joshua Swift, standing for the handshake. “My reputation rides on your shoulders.” And as the door closed behind the young naval officer, he muttered in a disgruntled tone, “And they're not very broad, dammitall!”

6

“Ow!” Freda Beck recoiled, and staring at the slender young lady reflected in the cheval-glass wailed, “Miss! You don't never mean to put
that
ugly thing on your sweet person?”

Elspeth surveyed herself and adjusted the neckline of the woollen grey round gown. “It could be worse,” she murmured critically. “It is at least very clean and nicely pressed.”

“But—but it's two sizes too big,” moaned Freda, tugging and pulling. “And only look at the pretty dress you've took off! I can see why he wants you to use another name, so as to shield your reputation. But why on earth would Mr. Valerian want you to wear that ugly dress?”

“He feels, and rightly so, that were I to wear my own gowns the authorities would guess I am not a nurse.”

“What authorities?” grumbled Freda, tightening the sash around the grey gown. “I didn't see no Navy officers nor no Bow Street Runners watching of the guests what stay in this here inn. Nor there isn't no law as says a respectable English lady can't travel to France—if she's so addle-witted as to want to go there!”

“I told you,” said Elspeth with a trace of impatience. “Mrs. Newell's family is opposed to this journey and would prevent her did they know of it. It all has to do with her inheritance, and she is obliged to travel in haste despite her indifferent health. Also, Freda, do try to remember you are not to fuss over me when we go to the ship. I am Mrs. Newell's nurse and you are
her
abigail—not mine. Nurses, I fancy, do not as a general rule have personal maids to take care of them.”

Freda mumbled something under her breath having to do with “humble ordinary folk” but, seeing her mistress's frown, added hurriedly that she only hoped the old lady was a good sailor. “For she looks fairly foundered before we even step onto the boat, Miss Elspeth, and if she should be took sick I wouldn't know what to do, no more would you.”

A knock sounded at the door, and Beck ran to admit the Reverend Mr. Boudreaux. He said diffidently that if the ladies were ready, the coach was waiting, and then jumped back as if fearing to receive a blow.

Elspeth's heart began to bounce about at quite a rate. Freda had already packed the gowns that would hopefully be utilized for the return voyage and she gathered the belongings Elspeth would need while assuming her new identity. Shy Herbert Turner came to blushfully take the valises and they followed him downstairs.

Valerian, beside his aunt's Bath chair, awaited them at the front door. He was bending over to stroke the small black cat on the lady's lap, and as he straightened, Elspeth had a momentary impression that he looked tired. It was not, she thought, to be wondered at. From what he'd said, Mrs. Newell's relations would be enraged to learn of this venture, and it now appeared that he himself was part of that very same family. Even if he were truly estranged from his father, Sir Simon Valerian must wield considerable power as head of the family, and by aiding his aunt, Valerian was almost certainly risking his sire's wrath.

He glanced up and saw her and at once his dark brows lowered into a scowl. Stepping back, he gestured to her to guide the chair and said irritably, “Past time you put in an appearance! Make haste do—Cotton! Your mistress is anxious to board the packet and get settled in.”

The pause had been very brief, but Elspeth thought an indignant ‘Cotton?' Gripping the back of the chair, she was preparing to protest this alias when she saw a tall man watching them from the side hall that led to the dining room. He had a dark, stern face, a black tricorne was pulled low over a pair of narrow dark eyes and the long black cloak he wore seemed to emphasize his decidedly sinister aspect. Her protest was forgotten and her heart skipped a beat as he came towards them.

Valerian gave no sign of having noticed his approach, but he gave a quick and concealed warning tug at Elspeth's skirts. “What the deuce is all this?” he demanded, glowering at the two valises Herbert carried. “We do but convey Mrs. Newell to a physician. She is not like to remain in France for more than two days!”