The young man blushed furiously, then turned pale. His mouth opened and closed several times before he murmured almost inaudibly, “My lord . . . honored, I’m sure.”
“John and I have been working on a translation of a certain diary.” He glanced significantly at John before continuing. “I mention no names, of course, but”—he transferred his gaze sharply to Cord—”it is the one of which I spoke some days ago.”
He put a finger aside his nose and nodded portentously. He continued, “Enough said about that.” He turned again to Mr. Smith. “Have you made any progress since our last meeting?”
“N-no,” replied the young man, his awed gaze still on the earl. “I have found Lord Grenville’s guide to be completely unhelpful, and—”
“I’m sure Lord Cordray has no interest in your work with John, Uncle.” Gillian’s tone was so sharp that Cord swung to her in surprise. Lord, she was strung like a fiddle! What was going on here? What was this innocuous-looking young fellow to her that she could behave in manner he would have sworn was quite foreign to her.
Sir Henry, too, displayed astonishment at Gillian’s demeanor. At that moment, Mrs. Ferris entered the room, and by the time greetings had flown about the room once more. Miss Tate had regained her composure—at least to some extent. Her distress was still evident in the rigidity of her posture as she returned to perch on the edge of the cherry-striped wing chair. Absently, she plucked at the fringe of her shawl.
Much as Cord would have liked to assuage his curiosity, he could not help but be struck by Gillian’s obvious distress. Since he was also sure that his presence in the house was the prime cause of her unease, he did not take a seat. Bowing to both Miss Tate and her aunt, he shook hands with Sir Henry and John Smith and declared his intention to depart.
“No, thank you, dear lady,” he replied in response to Mrs. Ferris’s inevitable invitation to stay for dinner. “I can see Sir Henry is champing at the bit to confer with Mr. Smith on his pet project. Another day, perhaps.”
Gillian, a trace of color at last returning to her cheeks, rose again to see Cord from the house.
“He seems very young,” he commented idly as they left the room. “Mr. Smith, that is. What does he bring to the study of Mr. Pepys’s diary?”
“Oh!” Miss Tate started visibly. “Yes, well he is the son of an old friend of Uncle Henry’s. He took John under his wing when the boy came to Cambridge with his wife and son.”
“Wife and son?” Cord’s brows lifted. “Good Lord, he scarcely seems old enough to—”
“Um,” continued Miss Tate hurriedly. “He is barely nineteen. We heard there were compelling reasons . . . In any event, it was at Uncle Henry’s instigation that Mr. Neville, the college master, who is a mere four-and-twenty himself, asked John to take over the translation of the diary,”
“But, I thought Sir Henry—”
“Yes, he, too, is working on a translation, of course. I think if it were anyone else, Uncle Henry would not be so generous with his assistance, but he is very fond of the boy.”
By this time, they had reached the front hall, and, accepting his hat and gloves from Widdings, Cord bowed a graceful farewell.
Having arrived at an informal footing with the household, he declined to wait for a groom to bring Zeus around from the stable. He proceeded to the back of the house. On passing the kitchen garden, he observed several chickens meandering among the newly seeded plot, selecting from the buffet with gustatory and wholly unauthorized enthusiasm. Cord glanced about uncertainly. Apparently no one had noticed the chickens’ escape. If left undetained, they would no doubt consume the season’s entire vegetable supply. Shrugging, Cord turned toward the kitchen entrance to the house. As he approached the door, he was halted by the sound of feminine voices drifting from an open window. Edging close, he positioned himself nearby.
“... I don’t believe he’s told John.” The voice belonged to Mrs. Ferris. “But, that’s not to say—”
“We can only hope,” interrupted Miss Tate. “Do you know, he’s picked out two volumes this time.”
Mrs. Ferris groaned. “Two!”
There was a moment of silence before Miss Tate continued. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
Mrs. Ferris sighed deeply. “Oh, my. Must you, my dear?”
“You know I must. I feel I have an obligation to Uncle Henry, after all. And wouldn’t you know?” she continued despairingly. “The moon is dark tonight. I’ll have to bring the large lantern—with a reflector—and even then it will take me forever to make the trip.”
Mrs. Ferris sighed again. “Very well. I’ll make sure we can find . . .”
Cord strained to hear the rest, but apparently Gillian and her aunt had left the room. After a moment’s startled thought, he turned and hurried toward the stable, the feathered marauders forgotten.
* * * *
Inside the house, Gillian continued her conversation with her aunt as they moved into the kitchen.
“Honestly, Aunt, the situation is becoming completely untenable.”
“I know, dearest. I feel so bad that—after all you’ve done for us—why, you’re giving up the best years of your life caring for a couple of doddering old people. And now Henry is putting you in an impossible position. I’ve never known him to so unfeeling in his demands.”
“Or so criminal, I’ll warrant,” Gillian said tartly. “Well, there’s no help for it, I suppose. However—and I know I’ve said this before, but this time I mean it— this is the last time. I care nothing about ‘the best years of my life,’ but I draw the line at going to prison. The next time he speaks of taking any part of the diary from the college, I’ll . . . I’ll bind and gag him.”
“And I’ll help you,” averred her aunt stoutly.
* * * *
Thus it was that as the clock in the front hall of Rose Cottage struck midnight, a slender figure clad in dark breeches and a bulky coat crept down the stairs. Gillian, making sure she was unobserved, turned toward the back of the house and thence to the stables. Lighting a lantern from the candle she carried, she silently saddled Falstaff. A few moments later, she walked the gelding slowly from the yard. The journey to Magdalene, accomplished in utter darkness, took over two hours, but at last she drew Falstaff to a halt outside the college wall, where it sloped down to the bank of the Cam.
Scaling the low wall was the work of a moment, even with the encumbrance of the satchel she carried inside her coat. Once having gained the precincts of the college, she blended with the shadowed landscape as she made her way to the rear of the New Building. Here, without a sound, she raised the window whose lock she knew to be broken. Inside, she hurried to accomplish her mission, and fifteen minutes later she was up and over the wall again, smoothly and noiselessly.
Her feet had no sooner touched the ground when an arm snaked around her waist and a voice whispered in her ear, “A bit late for swanning about the countryside, doncher think?”
Chapter Seven
Gillian’s terrified squeal was silenced by the strong, warm hand clamped over her mouth. Her heart seemed to leap into her brain, where it banged crazily as though seeking escape. Her knees gave way beneath her, but she struggled against the figure whose arms pinioned her to his breast.
“It’s all right. Miss Tate,” the man said. “It is only I, Cord.”
Well, of course it is, you idiot, thought Gillian wildly. She’d known who it was the moment he’d caught her swinging down from the wall. Only Cord.
Only
Cord? The man who had the power to bring her and Uncle Henry to ruin. The man who could turn Uncle Henry and Aunt Louisa out of their home. Dear God, every disaster she had imagined on these interminable midnight jaunts was now taking place.
She stopped struggling. She took several long, deep breaths until her heart had returned to its normal location and rate—more or less.
“Good evening, my lord,” she said, managing to speak the words with remarkable calm. “I suppose you’re wondering what I am doing here at this time of night.”
Good Lord, what a stupid thing to say! The thin smile revealed in the narrow ray of light from the lantern he carried gave evidence of the earl’s agreement with this assessment.
“On the contrary. Miss Tate, I have a very good idea why you’re here, but I suggest we postpone our discussion until we are away from the town.”
Gillian would rather have ridden into the jaws of hell than accompany Lord Cordray anywhere at this moment, but she knew the futility of argument. She followed as he led her to where Falstaff was tethered and remained silent as he assisted her into the saddle. He said nothing further as they walked the horses through the silent streets of Cambridge, and it was not until they were well on their way along the Shelford Road that he drew up into a little spinney beside the thoroughfare. A few paces more brought them to a small clearing, where the earl dismounted.
He put up his arms to assist Gillian, and after a moment’s hesitation, she allowed him to lower her to the ground. Leading her to a conveniently placed fallen log, he settled himself and patted the space next to him.
“I prefer to stand, my lord,” she said stiffly.
“As you will,” he replied agreeably. “Miss Tate, I should very much like to hear the explanation you have no doubt concocted by now.”
A wholly irrational urge to strike Lord Cordray across his bland smile swept over Gillian. How dare he! He had jauntered up to her in the middle of the night, making mice feet of her plans to save her uncle from ruination. He had forced her to accompany him away from the college, and now, here he was demanding explanations! She knew her fury stemmed from fear and the knowledge that she had brought her troubles upon herself, but she let the fire of her wrath spread its tendrils of warmth and a fine, if completely unwarranted, moral outrage.
“I owe you no explanation for my behavior, my lord.” She fairly spat the words.
“Perhaps not, but I think you are going to give me one. One hates to mention this. Miss Tate, but you are rather in my power at the moment. There is no question, I think you will agree, that I could make life extremely unpleasant for you. I have no intention of doing so at this point, but . . . well, you have been caught red-handed, stealing from Magdalene College.”
“Stealing!” Gillian’s jaw dropped in shock.
“Stealing!
I was doing nothing of the kind! How could you even think such a thing? I have never—”
“Please, Miss Tate.” Cordray glanced at the satchel protruding from beneath her coat “How could I come to any other conclusion? I saw you creeping in and out of the college in the dead of night. You’re carrying a bulging satchel that is ... or, well, no it’s not bulging,” he admitted as Gillian jerked the satchel from its hiding place and thrust it at him.
“I have never stolen anything in my life,” Gillian gasped, pushing the case at him until he nearly fell off the log. “Please—do examine it, my lord, you will find it empty.”
Cord did so, after which he looked up in puzzlement. “Are you concealing the volumes someplace else? I don’t understand . . .” He gazed at her wrathful countenance for a long moment.
“Please do sit down. Miss Tate. And forgive me if I have offended you. Perhaps I have jumped to an unwarranted conclusion, but—”
Gillian plumped down beside him, expelling a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of her feet. “But,” she finished, “what else could you think? Did you realize it was I whom you saw the night you arrived at Wildehaven?”
Cord chuckled. “Not right away, but the list of neighborhood suspects was woefully short. And then I found your comb.” He turned to face her. Taking her hand, he spoke softly. “I know I have no claim to your confidence, but would you please tell me what is going on?”
Gillian returned his gaze. Even in the dim lantern light, his green eyes had taken on a fire of their own, and she felt her pulse quicken.
“You are right, of course,” she said as prosaically as she could manage. “My trek to the college tonight did involve the Pepys Diary. But I did not come to steal it— I came to replace it.”
“Replace it!” Cord’s amazed stare was slowly replaced by one of dawning comprehension. “Are you telling me Sir Henry has been—”
“Yes,” said Gillian miserably. “Oh, Cord, he is such a good man, but he seems to have become utterly unhinged over the diary. He has always relished a challenge—the opportunity to demonstrate his skill and ingenuity. Sometimes, I think that’s the whole point of this absurd start. For the past year or so he has thrown himself completely into its translation, and when the volumes were denied him, he believed the only way open to him was to take them from the library. To ... to steal them, as it were.”
“And you have been returning them,” Cord murmured in fascination. “Good God, Gillian, do you realize the risk you have been taking?”
“Yes, of course, I do, but what was my alternative? If the thefts had been discovered, Uncle Henry would have been the prime suspect—and if anyone were to ask him if he was the culprit, such was his outrage that he would have owned to it immediately—and castigated the college authorities for forcing him into thievery.”
“Yes, but—Lord, Gillian, how many of these little excursions have you made?”
Gillian noted the use of her first name, but could not bring herself to remonstrate. For one thing, she was in no position to preach propriety at the moment, and for another, the sound of her name on his lips was somehow comforting, as though he thought of himself as her friend. Was it possible Lord Cordray did not mean to turn her over to the constable, or to evict her and her little family from the cottage? She turned her thoughts from these roseate concepts.
“How many times? Oh, six or seven, I suppose. Apparently, Uncle Henry had no difficulty in purloining the volumes. The manner of their keeping is quite lax. He would wait until the staff had left the building in the afternoon. Then he would simply bundle them up with the rest of the books he had been using and walk out with them. At first, he would leave them openly on his desk, but when I began returning them, he took to locking them away. Fortunately, there is no place in the house with which Aunt Louisa is unfamiliar. She was able to rescue them from under his mattress and behind cupboards and from various cabinets. She has keys to everything, of course.”