The Bachelor Trap (27 page)

As he followed Manley out of the hall, she had the oddest feeling that, in spite of his words, he was quietly pleased.

The roundhouse was the only lockup in Longbury, and was reached through a cobbled courtyard just off the High Street. Hardened criminals were sent to Brighton, where there was a proper jail to house them and guards to subdue them if necessary. The roundhouse inmates rarely spent more than a night behind bars. Their offences were minor, and the men who guarded them little more than watchmen.

All the same, a night behind bars was not an experience anyone would want to repeat, as Brand could well remember.

Jennings, the watchman who greeted Brand, was well known to him. He was well on in years now, with a bald pate, but he still possessed the physique of a wrestler, an endowment that had deterred many a fractious inmate from putting him to the test.

Jennings said, “Well, Mr. Hamilton, sir, changed days, ain't it, with you here to bail out the duke and not the other way round?”

Brand didn't waste time on reminiscences. “True, Jennings. Where is Lady Emily?”

“Oh, not in the cells, sir, not a nice lady like that. She's with my missus in our quarters. I couldn't let her go, don't you see, because she resisted arrest, and Constable Hinchley wants me to teach her a lesson. No charges, sir, but she ought to know better than to interfere with a policeman who was only doing his duty.”

Good God! This was worse than he thought. “Tell me what happened.”

“A curricle race was what started the trouble,” said Jennings, “right there in the middle of the High Street.” He gestured vaguely. “Can you believe it? Decent folks was afraid for their lives. They got Constable Hinchley to go after the young bucks who had caused the trouble. He caught up to them outside the Rose and Crown, your Andrew and Sir Giles Malvern's boy and a crowd of their cronies. What started out as a celebration ended up as a brawl. Your Andrew beat the snuff out of the Malvern boy, and when Constable Hinchley tried to arrest him, Lady Emily got between them.”

“Is she free to go?”

Jennings looked taken aback. “Course she is, a nice lady like that! My missus is very taken with her. But she had to be taught a lesson, don't you see?”

Brand did see, and he expressed his gratitude to Jennings in more eloquent words than he was in the habit of using. It always paid to stay on the right side of the law, or at least give the appearance of doing so. This was one of the cardinal rules he'd learned as a newspaperman.

“Now, tell me about Andrew,” he said.

Jennings scratched his chin. “His case is different,” he said. “I've got Sir Giles and young Malvern in the office, and Sir Giles is pressing charges. He's waiting to see you.”

“How badly hurt is the boy?”

“He's caterwauling like a cat in water, but I can't see no injuries. I think he's trying to make things look bad for young Andrew.”

Brand thought for a moment. “Have you sent for a doctor?”

“No. His father said he'll take care of that when he gets the boy home.”

“If he is pressing charges, I'll want my own doctor to have a look at the boy.” Brand flashed his shark's smile. “Send for Dr. Hardcastle. And give him my name. That should bring him out.”

“There's a doctor here on the High Street, just a few doors down.”

“Hardcastle,” said Brand. “If I'm paying the shot, I want my own doctor present. Oh, and be sure you let Sir Giles know.”

Jennings nodded. “And Lady Emily?”

“Manley will take her home. Our carriage is outside. Do you think you could whisk her out of here with no one the wiser?”

“Leave it to me.”

“Good man. Now I'll see Andrew.”

 

The servants were extinguishing all the candles in the Great Hall when Marion climbed the stairs to her bed. Her mind was buzzing with speculation, but she was not unduly alarmed. The footman who had given her the candle to light her way whispered that Andrew's lark was nothing more serious than a curricle race and that Lady Emily was in good company with Ginny Matthews and other of her friends. The constable might put a fright in them, but no more than that.

Before going to her own room, she slipped into Flora's chamber to check on the girls. It was in darkness, so she held her candle high as she approached the big tester bed. Her sister's hair was done in papers to give it some curl, something new she had started this last week in an effort to copy Flora's copious curls. Flora, on the other hand, envied Phoebe her freckle-free skin and had taken to dabbing lemon juice on her complexion every night in an effort to fade the horrid spots. Marion could smell the lemon juice.

All this Marion had heard from the little maid who had become the girls' confidante and coconspirator. Mattie put the papers in Phoebe's hair every night and found the lemon juice for Flora's complexion.

Marion sighed, wondering, not for the first time, how the girls would manage when it came time for them to part. This method of rearing Flora, sharing her between two aunts during the year, was, in her opinion, cruel and selfish. It didn't give Flora the stability she needed. Theodora left her ward's care to servants and strangers. The child deserved better than that.

She knew she ought to pity Theodora as a neglected wife, but she had never warmed to the woman. She was cold and proud, and hadn't a motherly bone in her body except when it came to her horses. As for Lord Robert, he was distant, but not cold. Wearied, defeated—what was it that gave her an odd sense of unease? There were currents here that she did not understand.

The breeze from the open window riffled some papers on a small table and scattered them on the floor. Marion went to retrieve them. When she saw the box on the table, she guessed that these must be the girls' treasures. Odd treasures, she thought as she turned the papers over in her hand. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw that some of the papers were letters to Hannah, and that they were signed by Lord Robert. A more careful perusal had her puzzled. There was nothing loverlike here. A bill of sale, a thank-you note, a recipe for doctoring a colicky horse, and harmless notes to various other people written in an offhand tone.

Marion now turned her attention to the box. It was typical of handcrafted boxes that were to be found in every household, inlaid woodwork and a snug-fitting lid. In her parlor at the cottage, she had a similar box in which she kept her needles and thread.

The light was not good, but she had no trouble making out the initials engraved on the lid.
H. G.
It seemed more than likely that it was Hannah's box. Some of the notes were addressed to Hannah, though not all of them. She opened the lid and went through the contents. The only thing of interest was a handkerchief with Lord Robert's initials.

She began to speculate, but no one theory that came to mind satisfied her. What she wanted were love letters, something that would show that Hannah was planning to elope with the great love of her life. Had someone removed other, warmer letters?

She glanced at the bed. Phoebe and Flora had much to explain, but not now. In the morning, she would demand to know how they had come by this box, and what was in it when they found it.

Clutching the box under one arm, she tiptoed to the door and quit the room. There would be great consternation in the morning when they found their box of treasures gone. Good. Those girls were becoming too independent for her comfort. A little discipline wouldn't come amiss.

She put the box on top of her dresser, then got herself ready for bed. Not that she had any intention of going to bed until she'd spoken to Brand and, hopefully, Emily as well. Trying to contain her impatience until they returned, she sat down with the box of treasures, but this time, she looked for a hidden compartment. Much to her disappointment, there wasn't one.

Restless now, she returned the box to her dresser and began to pace. When she heard wheels on the drive outside, she opened her door a crack and waited. It was Emily who eventually appeared in the corridor, entered her own room, and shut the door.

Marion took the candle from the mantelpiece and went after her.

Emily turned at her entrance and gave her a huge smile. “I thought you would be asleep,” she said, “and I didn't want to waken you. Put your candle down and I'll tell you all about it.”

This happy, confident girl was not what Marion expected, and she did not know whether she was relieved or vexed. It seemed that Flora and Phoebe were not the only two who needed a little discipline.

She put her candle down and sat beside Emily on the bed. “Well?” she prompted.

“Tonight,” declared Emily as though she were playing a part on stage, “Andrew acquitted himself like the gentleman he is. He's a hero, Marion, oh, not in the Greek style, but one that we English can admire, you know, humble, honorable, and a man of action when the occasion demands. If he were a few years older,” she went on gaily, “I might be tempted to set my cap at him.”

Marion's growing alarm abated a little. “You're not in love with him?”

Emily scowled. “Don't be daft. He's only a boy. I'm a full-grown woman.”

Marion prudently refrained from mentioning her conversation with Miss Cutter. “Emily,” she said patiently, “don't keep me in suspense. Tell me what happened tonight.”

“You can blame that insufferable Victor Malvern,” Emily began hotly, then smiled. “Though, all things considered, maybe we should thank him. He came off the worst.”

“Emily!” cried Marion impatiently.

Emily nodded. “There was a curricle race,” she began.

When Brand entered Andrew's cell, the boy hauled himself up from his prison cot and gazed at Brand with eyes that were half wary, half rebellious.

“What have they done with Emily?” he demanded.

Brand was pleased to see that he had his priorities right. “Jennings's wife has been looking after her, and Manley is taking her home in the coach. There are no charges pending, so she was free to go.”

Relief flared in Andrew's eyes then quickly faded.

When Brand lowered himself carefully to sit on the cot, Andrew moved over to give him room. They were shoulder to shoulder.

Andrew said moodily, “Is this where you lecture me on the sins of my father?”

“
Our
father,” Brand corrected. “Were you drunk?”

Andrew straightened his spine. “I had one mouthful of beer before the fight started!”

In the same mild tone, Brand went on, “Were you trifling with innocent young girls?”

Andrew glared. “That's despicable!”

“Did you lose a fortune at the gaming tables?”

“I don't have a fortune to lose!”

“That never stopped our father. Not that I think you should get off scot-free. I want to hear what happened before I make up my mind about that. My point is, I know you are nothing like our father.”

Andrew said, “You should have told me he was a drunkard before I heard it from boys at school.”

Brand nodded. “I see that now. Frankly, I was hoping you would never find out. People have long memories.”

Andrew's shoulders slumped. “I'm sorry I let you down.”

This observation startled Brand. “Have you let me down?”

“I'm here, aren't I?”

Brand lapsed into a reflective silence for a moment or two then suddenly got up. “Come here, Andrew,” he said, “and tell me what you see.”

He walked to the back of the cell where the light from the wall sconces barely penetrated. Andrew dutifully peered at the brick wall. “There are letters here,” he said, “carved into the brick.”

“What do you see?”

“
H,
and I think it's a
C
.”

“Ah, yes, that's Harry Cornell, a regular tearaway. He's in the navy now, and doing very well for himself. Try higher up.”

Puzzled, Andrew did as he was bid. He muttered a few letters to himself then stopped. I see a
B,
an
F,
and an
H
.”