Lady Caraway's Cloak, page 17
“Can’t you reclaim whatever you need to by land? You can cut through my fields.”
“Thanks, but the matter is not so straightforward. Theft would be riskier, for the schooner belongs to the Prince Valmont. Yes, I see that that name rings a bell with you. He is supposedly in England to take the waters, but he has been sighted nowhere near Bath, and rather too close to ... ah, I see you understand! I shall say no more. Naturally, he is officially under the protection of the Regent himself. A burglary, under the circumstances, would be both suspicious and embarrassing.”
His lordship looked speculative. “If I do it, can you track down some information for me? Speedily? I urgently need to find out about a person I suspect does not exist at all.”
“Intriguing, but not entirely beyond our scope! Give us details and I will see what can be arranged.”
So James—Major James Rittledon, formerly of the Fifth Hussars—was duly invited inside. There he was greeted by all of Captain McNichols’s sisters and pressed to stay for tea that he definitely did not want, but he could not possibly bear to hurt dear Mrs. McNichols, who had helped him out of many a scrape when he was a boy. Finally he was given a chance to have a private exchange with the earl, in which certain papers were transferred, certain key aspects discussed, and the problem of Addington dismissed, for the present, from the earl’s mind.
It was not that he had given up on his mission, but merely that he had delegated it with extraordinary panache. For now, he was certain, the combined strengths of Whitehall and Bow Street were working on his task. Gabriel Addington, if he existed at all, would be discovered within the day.
Captain McNichols cursed when he realized he had missed out on all the fun. Yes, he complained, he had missed all Robin’s careful preparations, his purchase of gunpowder, his directives to chandlers—for what use was a pitch black night without the use of lanterns and the finest wax tapers? The moon was against them, on the wane, and the tides, at this time of the year, were more unpredictable than most. Reed matting was ordered for the decks, and food, mostly fresh, for Robin could not abide salted and they were not to be at sea so very long.
Out of great chests at Strawberry Hill came Captain McNichols’s most cherished pirate outfit, a gaudy confection in reds and blacks and ice white stripes, something he had not thought to wear again. The doublet had a hole, but that enhanced the theme, rather than posed any real problem.
In truth, Robin was more concerned about the mission than his clothes, which he was certain, in any event, were stowed safely aboard The Albatross. Patch and powder, wigs and buckled shoes, all awaited him, but only after the ropes were tested, the crew assembled and sober—no mean feat, considering the close proximity of the wharf to the Fox and Hound, selling ale to all seamen—and the blacksmith called in to see about certain odd patches of wear. Then there was the matter of compasses, the analysis of currents, the sail selection for the crosswinds, the stowing of a second pair of sails—procured from Abernathy’s at enormous cost, considering the lack of notice—and a dozen different details one would never associate with a pirate, or privateer, or smuggler, or any of these combinations that Robin adopted with such mischievous poise.
Captain McNichols traveled by road to London—and what an adventure he had along the way, for Miss Waring, perceiving that some mischief was afoot, had blithely decided to surprise him by stowing away in the depths of his badly sprung chaise. That, however, is a tale for later, as Lord Caraway had been entrusted with a very dangerous and delicate mission.
Robin, leaving far later, traveled the whole way by horseback. He stopped only at Linklater, to resaddle and water the dappled stallion he had chosen for the purpose, but otherwise rode like the wind and abandoned his mount at a nearby port posting house, with enough oats and hay to keep him happy for a fortnight.
It was well into nightfall that the anchor was finally raised, and only seven leagues into the purple waters of the North Sea did the Caraway flag, green-crested and proud, give way to another, more flamboyant banner. Not the traditional skull and crossbones—but something bold, and bright, and crossed with gold, the crimson crest of Robin Red-Ribbon, fluttering high in the firm crosswinds from the south. There was a bold salute, and not a few tears in the eyes of a loyal crew who had not expected to see this flag flown again—and a whoop of joy from Adam, and an indulgent chuckle from the captain. Yes, high upon the seas, hair once again bound by a single red ribbon, Robin, Earl of Caraway, breathed life into his role.
The cabin smelled of leather and sandalwood as he completed his ablutions and sank into the comfortable winged chair that he had purchased specifically for the purpose. It was small enough for the confined space, but just roomy enough to feel luxurious. The taper flickered, affording far too little light, so he lit a lantern, took a long, reflective pinch of snuff, and drew a leather pouch from his bag.
It had been thrown up at him just as they cast off, and with his usual outstanding reflexes he had caught it without so much as a backward glance. From the jetty, Major Rittledon only smiled as he made a small, mocking salute. It had been no more, after all, than what he had come to expect.
The contents were disappointing, a carefully folded piece of paper, in James’s own hand, stating that Gabriel Addington had neither been born in England, nor died in England, that there was no record of his existence in any registry, employment or otherwise. As a mild addendum, and to show his diligence, Major Rittledon commented that the name Addington itself had a convoluted link to Caraway, originally through the line of one of the previous countesses. Naturally, though, that information was immaterial, for there were other scions of Addingtons with no such connection. A dead end.
Robin sighed as he burned the little wisp of paper on the candle flame and returned the empty pouch to his greatcoat pocket. It rustled. Something made him remove it again, and check that he had not missed a page. He had, though it had obviously been stuffed into the pouch prior to the later missive then forgotten. A familiar hand, Lord Robin thought, though it was overwritten at the top by Major Rittledon’s hasty scrawl.
A note left for you by your cousin, Lady Serena Caraway. I took the liberty of receiving it from the linkboy this morning, in case it was urgent. I knew you would not have a chance to read it, else.
Yours,
James etc.
Robin stared at it for a very long time, then a peculiar smile lightened his features. It was well they had cast off and he had had no chance to respond to Major Rittledon’s question. He rather thought that if anyone should respond, it should be he.
He had never had a letter from Serena before—why should he? Even this one was most improper from a well-bred young lady—but now he could not think why he had not sought out, at least, a sample of her handwriting. A simple matter of peering at her dance card, perhaps, or at the table settings of her quite fashionable soirées. Oh, what a fool he was!
If he had only been a little more observant he would have known at once that the smooth, calligraphic hand of Lady Serena Caraway’s was identical in every way to that of Mr. Gabriel Addington. Yes, a fool, for here were the delicate strokes, and the stylized twirls over the C’s and E’s he had come to know and look for.
Gabriel Addington could not be found because he did not exist. It made perfect sense. Serena was intimate with Addington as he had feared, but only because Gabriel was her alter ego. A wide smile curled his lips. It held none of its usual laziness, and the deckhand trying to offer him a mug of black coffee was bemused to find the earl chuckling out loud.
When Robin finally focused on the poor lad, he waved the freshly ground brew away in favor of a bottle of vintage champagne, an essential item for all sea trips. Adam, watching him, could only surmise that Robin, bless his lordly soul, was up to something. He would have inquired further had he not—very guiltily—been up to something himself.
The breeze was high and gulls still circled the topmast despite the lateness of the hour. Robin changed into the familiar attire of gentleman pirate, adjusted his patch—for what kind of pirate could he be without the ubiquitous patch?—and stepped back up into the open, noting with satisfaction that the lanterns had been efficiently lit, the sails were lashed in place, and the hard wood decks quite literally shone.
There was time enough, he felt, to lurk on the ready for Prince Valmont and his precious cargo. The schooner would only leave on the morrow at the earliest, for His Highness—that is, His Royal Highness, the Prince Valmont—had several key engagements in the city he would certainly not curtail for a short sea venture, no matter how interesting the cargo.
Leaving now had been for two reasons—to satisfy James, who was restless, and to satisfy his own suspicions. The Albatross would be closer to Caraway than Robin would be in London. He would row out with the short boat, leaving Adam in charge and undertake some urgent investigations of his own.
Chapter Fifteen
Serena, perfectly oblivious to the excitements of the gentleman, arrived timeously at Castle Caraway. Despite Mrs. Hitchens’s protests, she ordered the carriage to bypass the avenue of oaks that lined the grand entrance. Instead, they pulled to a halt outside Mrs. Hitchens’s own dwelling and although Serena did not meet Stanforth, her son, she did have time to wave to several of the tenants, and to catch up on some of the gossip, some of the troubles, and a great many of the opinions of the people who had colored her life for so long. Only, they were not her dependents any longer. She had a very difficult time remembering that, and cursed once again the system where inheritance was by the male line only.
Not that she grudged Robin his inheritance—certainly, a more worthy master for Caraway she could not imagine. It was only that the place was not hers, anymore, and whilst she could listen sympathetically, she could not actually do anything. Serena was a doing sort of person, and this naturally went hard with her. So it was with a slightly heavy heart that she ordered the carriage to move on this time, but again, not to the castle, but to the bailiff’s quarters, which stood locked, forlorn, and looking rather hollow some fifty yards from the meeting house she’d had erected.
It took some moments to fiddle with the lock, for her key was slightly rusty with age, but she managed, and cast aside her cloak immediately to begin work. It felt strange, for usually she worked from Castle Caraway, and replaced the ledgers when she had done, but this time, of course, she had no wish to run into the dowager before she had conducted her business.
Lady Caraway might have moved to the dower house, but there was no reason to suppose she did not still have the running of the castle! Especially, of course, now that the present owner was conveniently domiciled in London. Serena tried not to think of the present owner, but in vain, for his image just seemed to creep into her consciousness at the most inconvenient of times. Robin Red-Ribbon ... She smiled. It rolled off the tongue whimsically, not at all the fearsome appellation one might expect, though, reading more intensively ( and this time consulting both Hookham’s, the Times and her own extensive library) she heard several gruesome tales of extravagant exploits. Lord Robin, it seemed, was the very devil with a rapier.
But enough of such thoughts. There had been time enough on the carriage trip down, and if she were to make a return journey by nightfall she must make haste. There would be time enough to take up the idle pursuit of daydreaming half her life away when the matters she had come for had been properly concluded.
She took up a quill pen—quaint and old-fashioned—then dipped it into the inkhorn. The letters, when they formed, were a familiar deep indigo on parchment.
“My lord,” wrote Gabriel Addington, for the very last time, “forgive me my hasty departure. The business was personal and therefore requires no real explanation—I have trespassed on your good nature enough.
“However, I would be failing in my duty to the estate—for such I perceive it—were I not to mention a few last points requiring your attention. The first is the matter of Mr. Stanforth Hitchens, lately returned from the war, but unfortunately without the use of his right leg.
“Do not, I pray you, pension him, for he is a man of character and loathes charity, no matter how well meant. In your position, I would appoint him as assistant bailiff, for he has a quick wit—and give him every chance to prove himself. I feel sure you will not be disappointed in this investment, no matter how expensive to your pocket at the outset.
“Now, the dowager ... I shall say no more, for by now you will have met her yourself, a thousand pities to you, sir! Please, I pray you, do not allow yourself to be taken in by her turns and starts and do not open your purse to her any more than you already have.
“Miss Waring, however, is another matter, and will probably require a dowry of sorts when the time arises. I leave the matter to your capable judgment—it behooves me not to overstep the mark now that you have returned to your rightful position.
“Finally, dear sir, to a matter I cannot help acknowledging I feel uncomfortable about, but which must, I suppose, be addressed. You will notice I have not allocated any funds to myself this year past, being in the comfortable position of living off a legacy inherited through my uncle. Whilst I have very much enjoyed the task assigned to me, I nevertheless feel that a small annual stipend for the work done should be allocated.
“I am certain you will pardon my forthrightness in suggesting a sum of eighty pounds—this, though high, being in keeping with the salary of the bailiffs of County Moors, Darrington, and Upper Leith, though I cannot confirm the latter. At all events, I shall leave the precise sum entirely to your judgment and ask that you forward it to me care of the Dowager Marchioness of Penreith, with whom I am now employed.”
Serena had long mused over this further lie, but considered it unlikely that the dowager marchioness (who was a dear, but sadly deaf) would deny that her bailiff’s name was Addington. This because she, being in her dotage very likely had no notion that she had a bailiff at all.
As for the eighty pounds, Robin would not miss it and it would molder away for ever more under the pile of my lady’s correspondence. Serena hoped that one way or another, it would be set to a good cause, but she could muse on the matter no further. A reckoning had to be made to allay Lord Caraway’s suspicions and set his far too active conscience at rest. As for her, she must sign off, for the last time, as Gabriel, and stop being such a damned watering pot about it.
Serena sniffed. Yes, she actually sniffed, for as she folded the wafer, she knew for a certainty that she was closing a very special chapter in her life forever. She only hoped that the letter would serve its purpose. Both for Stanforth Hitchens’s sake, and for her own.
She found the familiar tinderbox under a pile of papers, and lit herself a taper. Then, very carefully, using the flame and the traditional green sealing wax of Caraway, she sealed her missive, placed it in the out tray. One of the house staff habitually cleared the mail from the bailiff’s quarters and she had no wish to be associated with that particular missive. Then, and only then, she rose to leave.
Not far behind her, my lord had berthed close to the cove known, amusingly, as “smuggler’s cove.” He should really have waited for nightfall, but felt the urgency of his mission upon him. If the prince’s vessel left a night early, he would feel a fool to have missed it. Best, he thought, anchor closer to Upper Leith to get ahead of Valmont. This meant conducting his personal business by day, but Robin, weighing the odds with a slight, mischievous curve to his indecently handsome lips, did not seem to care.
He approached the bailiff’s quarters almost at the same time as Serena approached Castle Caraway. He was not unseen, for the gamekeeper, who was still cherishing his half sovereign, doffed his cap knowingly and pointed toward the castle with a great—and very impudent—wink.
Torn between depressing the man’s pretensions and casting him at least a florin for the welcome news, Robin restrained himself and did neither. In the event, he merely nodded slightly in greeting, then spoiled this noble effect by winking ever so slightly.
This unprecedented action set his gamekeeper to guffawing, so that very soon the whole of Caraway knew of the lord’s presence, save Serena herself, who was closeted with the dowager in a hideous room swathed in purple silks. The dowager was reclining smugly on an ottoman reminiscent of either a Chinese dragon or a werewolf, Serena could not quite tell, save for the bill, which she remembered quite distinctly. This had itemized—at preposterous expense—one ottoman, Ming dragon, gilt on cherry oak, and a figure that had made her gasp for air and write at once to the earl.
Lord Caraway had paid for it without a murmur—or rather, with a caustic comment that had made Serena laugh. Now, however, she was not laughing as she confronted her sister-in-law, who seemed to want to do nothing more than smirk horribly and threaten to call in the watch.
“For I can tell you, Serena, there is something smoky going on with Lord Caraway, and I won’t stand for it, and that’s a fact! If I weren’t so furious with the Princess Valmont, I’d speak to her myself, for her husband is forever going on about spies and pirates and what have you, though why he should worry I really cannot say.”
Neither could Serena, but the news, under the circumstances, was not welcome. Lady Fanny continued. “He has the ear of Prinny, after all, and I cannot imagine anyone wishing to attack his schooner, which is positively overflowing with guards, all in a hideous mustard uniform—no taste at all, these foreigners ...”
Serena stemmed the tide. “I thought you liked the Princess Valmont? I could swear the last missive you sent Julia was full of nothing but her praises.”
“She is a tedious woman. I do not wish to discuss her at all.”
“Very well, then, we shall not. But tell me, will you still wish to inform on the earl if he agrees to marry your Julia?”
