“And of course you believed her.”
The clergyman eyed him speculatively. “Have you some reason to suspect her of more than curiosity? My own boys were tempted to sneak over and have a look-in at Brightwell Court tonight. All the fine carriages and horses, footmen and musicians, and I know not what. I had to send Zeke to bed without his supper and forbid Tom to leave his window open in hopes of hearing the music. Everyone in the village knew of the party. Why, I imagine Miss Ludlow mentioned it to her. The young lady was to come to the vicarage tonight and sleep in our guest room.”
“Was she indeed?”
“I wondered what became of her and dropped by Miss Ludlow’s just now to see if she had changed her plans. I imagine she took a brief detour to see the goings-on at the manor and that is all. Pray do not besmirch her reputation by calling her a criminal until she recovers and you learn her true intentions.”
“Regardless of her intentions, she has likely—” Edward broke off, glancing at Sutton, and waited while the doctor climbed onto the bench of his cart.
“Likely what?” Tugwell urged.
Edward lowered his voice. “I cannot say. But it is imperative that I learn who she is, and whether she plans to use whatever she may have overheard for mercenary ends.”
“Good heavens, Edward. What is it?”
“Forgive me, Charles. I am not at liberty to say.”
His friend’s eyebrows rose. “Even to me?”
Edward grimaced. “Even to you.”
Chapter 5
People leave their native country, and go abroad
for one of these general causes—
Infirmity of body, Imbecility of the mind, or Inevitable necessity.
—STEARNE, A SENTIMENTALJOURNEY THROUGH FRANCE AND ITALY
It was nearly midnight when Edward faced his prim housekeeper. Fortunately she was still dressed, the party having only recently broken up. He held the young woman in his arms, still limp from laudanum. He found it ironic that a figure so light could weigh so heavily on his mind. His future.
“This girl was injured in the village,” he began. “Attacked by a suspected poacher.”
“In the village?” Mrs. Hinkley repeated, wide-eyed.
He hesitated, remembering Tugwell’s request, and did not mention the arrest.
“Yes. I don’t know all the details, because her injury—there you see her bruised throat?—seems to have rendered her unable to speak.”
“Merciful heavens.” She opened the door to her small parlor and gestured for him to lay the girl upon the settee.
“Her attacker is in the lockup, Mrs. Hinkley. There is no call for alarm.”
“Shall I send Ross for Dr. Sutton?”
“Sutton has already seen her. In the Swan. In fact, we bore her here in his cart.”
He could see her brain working, trying to add up his disjointed sentences and make them equal a reasonable explanation for bringing the young woman to Brightwell Court.
“And you thought I . . . could . . . ?”
“I want to see her recover. I feel some responsibility, as she was injured in our village. Being the new magistrate and all.”
Again he could see the wheels of her mind turning. Could guess her thoughts. Would not the vicarage be better suited? Or Dr. Sutton’s offices. Or even the almshouse? But the woman had not risen to her position by questioning her masters.
“Shall I see to her here in my parlor, my lord? The nurserymaid recovered here after she wricked her ankle.”
“Excellent. Dr. Sutton will call tomorrow, but he does not believe her injury severe. In the meantime, I would rather not inform Lord or Lady Brightwell. I do not wish anything to spoil their departure in the morning.”
“I see, my lord. As you wish.”
After a fitful sleep, Edward bid a stilted farewell to his father, and warmly embraced his mother as they prepared to depart. Once the coach disappeared up the lane, Edward went directly to the housekeeper’s parlor. He was determined to discover how much the girl had heard and if she had understood its import. He’d had insufficient time to grasp the potential consequences himself. He had barely slept for thinking of what might happen were she to sell such news to the highest bidder, or even to let it slip in company, where it would spread like barley fire through the county, through the London ballrooms and clubs, to the Harringtons, and the Bradley relatives. He would lose all—his reputation, inheritance, title, his very home.
Could one slip of a girl ruin his life as he knew it?
Mrs. Hinkley met him at the door with a curt nod and let him in, closing the door discreetly behind him. The young woman half reclined on the settee, some foul-smelling poultice wrapped around her neck. Whether the work of Dr. Sutton or Mrs. Hinkley he did not know or care. She wore the same light blue gown, neither that of a hussy nor a lady. A scratch marred one cheek. Her complexion was still pale, but not ashen as it had been the previous night. Her dark hair was neatly coiled at the back of her head. Her intense blue eyes regarded him levelly from between black lashes. She clasped and unclasped her hands, then stretched one out, indicating he should sit as though receiving guests in her very own drawing room.
He remained standing. “If you will excuse us, Mrs. Hinkley?”
The matronly housekeeper hesitated, pressing her thin lips into a disapproving line, but let herself from the room.
When she had gone, he said briskly, “Now that you are somewhat recovered, I must put several questions to you.”
She hesitated slightly, then nodded her acquiescence.
“Have you regained the power of speech?”
Again she hesitated, then parted her small lips. A broken rasp came from her throat, and her eyes immediately filled with tears. She gingerly touched her wrapped neck and shook her head, her expression apologetic.
How convenient, he thought, far less than charitably. “Very well, then I shall pose questions and you will nod or shake your head as appropriate.”
She nodded.
He took a deep breath. “Was it your intention to spy on us last night?”
She shook her head no.
Well, what would she say? “You overheard my father and I speaking to one another on the veranda?”
Shame flushed her pale cheeks, and she looked down at her clasped hands before nodding.
His heart hammered. “You heard . . . everything?”
Not meeting his eyes, she nodded once more.
Dread twisted his stomach. Burn it, I am ruined. “Were you here on anyone’s behest?” He began pacing before her. “Did someone send you?”
The girl shook her head.
“Sebastian’s solicitor? Admiral Harrington?” He leaned near and stared into her eyes, daring her to lie. Seeing her shrink from him, he pulled back quickly, trying to rein in his emotions. Never before had he dealt so harshly with anyone.
“Where do you . . . ? That is, do you live nearby or . . . ?” He ran agitated fingers through his hair. “Dash it, this is maddening.”
She imitated the act of scribbling.
“You can write?”
She nodded and had the cheek to roll her eyes at his skepticism.
He helped himself to the small desk in the housekeeper’s parlor and produced a piece of paper, quill, and pot of ink. He placed them on the low table before the settee and waited while she opened the ink and took up the quill. She looked up at him, expectant as a schoolgirl awaiting her tutor’s instructions.
He asked, “What is your name?”
She dipped the quill but hesitated. She bit her lip, then wrote, Miss Olivia Keene.
Suspicion filled him. “Is that your real name?”
Avoiding his eyes, she merely nodded.
“And where do you come from, Miss Olivia Keene?”
Again, that slight hesitation. Near Cheltenham.
She was being purposely vague. But why? He was familiar with Cheltenham; a school chum had recently relocated to the area, but he had no enemies there. Did it signify?
“How old are you?” he asked.
She wrote, 24.
His age. That surprised him. She looked younger.
“What brought you to our borough?”
I came seeking a post.
“So our good vicar said. Godly man. Always believes the best in people. Sometimes to his cost. Why did you come to Brightwell Court?”
Again that maddening hesitation as she apparently calculated her answer to best effect. She wrote, Miss Ludlow mentioned the party. I only meant to glimpse the place.
“And to eavesdrop?”
She shook her head. That was a mistake. I regret it.
“As well you might,” he muttered. “Did you know of Brightwell before the helpful Miss Ludlow mentioned it?”
She nodded—sheepishly, he thought.
“Where had you heard of it?”
She reached for a folded handkerchief on the settee beside her and, from it, withdrew a yellowed newspaper clipping. She handed it to him.
Skeptically, he read the old type, taking several seconds to recognize the announcement for what it was. What the devil? “Where did you get this?”
She wrote, I found it in Mamma’s purse.
“Did you indeed? How extraordinary. And why would Mamma have this in her purse?”
I don’t know.
“Do not lie to me.”
She shook her head, shrugged once more.
“And you wish me to believe you came here with no other motives? When you had the names Brightwell and Bradley in your possession?”
No other motives, my lord.
It was his turn to hesitate. He was surprised she addressed him thus. He was also surprised she wrote with such a fine hand, but of course did not verbalize the compliment.