‘They’ve left,” she said to Beau. “Give them five minutes to get beyond earshot, then break a window with a chair, or whatever you can find.” They groped about in the darkness for a moment. “Here, this will do for a start,” she said when she found a poker by the fireplace.
As she was handing Beau the poker, there was a light rattle at the door. Cressida assumed the man had reconsidered his dastardly first idea of leaving them locked in the house and began considering what excuse she could give for being there. When she heard Muffet’s voice, she sighed in relief.
“Missy? Are you in there?”
“Yes! Can you get us out, Muffet?” she called.
The key twisted in the lock and he came into the chamber, tsking and shaking his head.
“What your papa would say about this I do not like to think. Looking at the moon, indeed! I knew you were up to no good.”
“Muffet, you are a pearl beyond price,” she declared, and kissed him on the cheek. “You may lecture me to your heart’s content later. Now I want to go home and have a warm bath, for I stink of fish.”
“Now, missy, ladies don’t use such words as stink. It is not becoming.”
“Neither is this stench.”
They left the room, Muffet leading, followed by Cressida, and Beau with the poker bringing up the rear.
“I shall just check up on the lady in white,” Beau said, and went to the bottom of the stairs. “Is there anyone up there?” he called. “They’re gone. You can come down if you’re there. We shan’t harm you. We’re friends.” He waited, and called again, then ran up to the top of the stairs and opened every bedroom door, but seeing no one, he returned below.
“Wishful thinking,” he said sheepishly, and they went out into the moonlit night.
* * * *
Dauntry watched them from behind a concealing hedge. He had seen Muffet coming and was relieved that he did not have to confront Cressida after his partner had locked her up in that room. Not that she didn’t deserve it! A smile quirked his lips. Perhaps this interlude would dampen her enthusiasm for the cottage. If the incarceration didn’t do it, the kiss surely would. He was fairly sure she had not found the letter, at least. She had been inside for only a minute before she was intercepted.
He was beginning to realize hers was not a spirit to be quenched by a mere fright in a dark house. He must arrange some more daunting obstacle to her returning, and he had a fair idea what would keep her away. He would bring some fair charmer down from London and install her in the cottage for the next few weeks. Amarylla was at leisure since the closing of her latest play. If she had not taken a new patron yet, she would do admirably.
* * * *
Cressida peered all around before leaving. Seeing the coast was clear, the trio hastened along the beach, back to the dower house. It was Beau who stopped and looked back at the cottage before they rounded the bend in the coast that cut it off from view. He was hoping to see a head at a window, but he saw only the reflected moonlight. They picked up their pace and soon reached home. Miss Wantage had not been asking for them, as Cressida feared she might, but Jennet soon appeared at the saloon door to inquire what Miss Wantage meant by a Welsh posset, which she had asked for.
“Heated milk and vanilla, and three teaspoons of sugar with nutmeg grated on top,” Cressida replied.
“Oh, you mean a spinster’s nightcap. Why didn’t she say so?”
At this saucy speech, Cressida had to remind herself poor Jennet’s brain was addled and did not scold her.
“And a regular posset for her ladyship,” Muffet told Jennet. “Which you will take up to bed with you, missy.”
He was not such an optimist as to expect he would be obeyed, nor was he. Cressida and Beau sat for close to an hour discussing their adventure, and what steps they could take to discover
elle.
“I wonder if it’s brandy they’re hiding in that cottage,” Beau said, his brow puckered in concentration. “It’s
l’eau de vie
in French—feminine,
elle.”
“It would not be easy to lose a cargo of brandy in that little chalet. No, it’s something small enough to hide under a carpet. A paper? No, that’s masculine,
le papier.
A letter, perhaps. That’s feminine.”
“I believe you’ve got it. We must get into the house in daylight,” Beau said. “One of us will stand guard while t’other goes in and has a look around. First light tomorrow we shall go, before Dauntry is up and about.”
“Excellent thinking, Beau. Next time we shall go by daylight, and take a pistol, if you have one.”
“I always carry one in the side pocket when I travel. Well, shall we hit the tick, then? I fancy I shall dream of the mysterious lady in white.”
Cressida just smiled. She knew what she would dream of. The dashing Frenchman who had kissed her in the dark and called her
chérie.
It had been a very nice kiss. Overpowering, but not roughly so. He could have harmed her had he wished. But he only kissed her, rather playfully really, as if demanding a forfeit for her transgression into his business. Perhaps they would see him tomorrow at the chalet....
Cressida awoke in the morning with a sense of tingling excitement. The ennui of isolation had been blown away by the interlude at the cottage. Now that she had a mystery—and a dashing Frenchman—to amuse her, she did not bother posting her letter inviting her friends to call. Beau was in a similar mood.
“I dreamed of her last night,” he said with a wobbly smile. “I have already been past the cottage once. I think I saw a movement in one of the attic windows, but I could not be sure. I have been thinking about Jennet’s taking a tray to the cottage yesterday. She might have been taking it to the lady in white, eh?” he said.
“I begin to think there really was a lady in white, although I did not see her. Tory is up to anything.”
“True, she could teach the Jesuits a thing or two about ratiocination.” When Cressida frowned at this heavy word, he translated it for her. “Reasoning,” he said.
“I’m glad to learn your expensive education was not entirely wasted.”
“Devil a bit of it. I had a lovely time at Oxford. When I go to the cottage this morning, I mean to do a thorough search. I only peeked into the bedrooms last night. The lady might have been hiding in a clothespress or some such thing.”
“What will you do if you find her, Beau?” sheasked, just making conversation. The question ofmore interest to her was what would she do if shemet her handsome Frenchman? He was no roughsmuggler; he had been wearing a well-tailored superfine jacket. Probably one of the aristos who hadsought safety in England during the revolution inFrance. One occasionally came across them in London. And there was no stigma attached to marrying one....
Cressida was too impatient to make a proper breakfast. She nibbled idly on a piece of toast and sipped a cup of coffee. As soon as she put her cup down, Beau was on his feet.
“Shall we go? I have my pistol right here.” He patted a bulge under his jacket.
“I wore my riding habit to fool Muffet. We shallleave by the back door; he’ll think we are going tothe stable,” she replied. It was her newest, mostfashionable habit that she wore, the burgundy one.Before leaving, she perched her hat over her eyeand caught it under the chin with a ribbon. Thewinds were strong by the sea.
They skirted around the rear of the house and clambered down to the beach beyond sight of the dower house. The cottage, perched on the cliff, looked innocent in daylight, with the windows reflecting a golden sun instead of pale moonlight. No lady appeared at any of the windows.
“We shall knock at the door like regular visitors,” Beau said. “If there’s no answer, we'll go in. The door was not locked last night.”
They did as he suggested. Three rattles of the brass knocker brought no reply. Beau tried the doorknob. “It’s locked!” he said. "We left it on the latch last night when we left. Someone is here right enough. Shall I knock the door down?”
“Let us try the back door. And, Beau, best have your pistol ready.”
The path to the rear was overgrown, not with poison ivy or poison oak, but with harmless English ivy that formed a green carpet over the stone and clambered up toward the land above. The back door was reached by a set of wooden steps. As they mounted the stairs, Cressida gave a little shriek.
There, just outside the back door, sat a silver tea tray, the same one she was accustomed to having her tea served on. On the tray sat a teapot and Wedgwood dishes, still holding the remains of a breakfast. Only one of the boiled eggs had been eaten. The other was still in its cup. A piece of toast had one bite out of it, a covered silver jam pot was there as well, along with a discarded linen napkin.
“These dishes are from the dower house!” she exclaimed, staring in confusion.
Beau paid her no heed. “I was right!” he said exultantly. “She is here. We must rescue her.”
“I am not sure she wants rescuing! It seems to me she is living in luxury—at my expense. My servants must be bringing these meals from my kitchen. How dare he!”
“Who?” Beau asked in confusion.
“The so-called lady you saw last night is no one else but Dauntry’s
chère amie.
She ran up to the attic when the Frenchies broke into the house. He as well as told me he had a woman here, and I, like a fool, did not believe him,”
“It seems to me you are jumping to conclusions,” Beau said. He was reluctant to give up his romantic dream.
“We’ll see about that. I shall call on him at once.”
“It might be best to wait until he calls. I mean to say—Lady Dauntry. Not the thing to bring the dirty linen into her saloon.”
“You are right. I shall send a note demanding that he call on me. He must come at once, for he mentioned leaving for London today. We shall not honor his
chère amie
with a morning call, Beau.”
“Shall I take the tray?”
“No, leave the evidence here. I want to confront him with it.”
She turned and strode down the stairs without so much as a backward glance.
“But what about the lady?” Beau asked. “I think I ought to try to rescue her.” He tried the door, but it was locked.
“Rescue a lightskirt from one of the richest patrons in England? I doubt she will thank you for that, but if you want to make a cake of yourself, go ahead,” she called back without breaking stride.
Beau ran after her, arguing and trying to convince himself the woman was being kept there under duress.
“Don’t be an ass, Beau,” she said sharply. “You saw Jennet leaving the house with a tray yesterday. She was obviously bringing it here. If Dauntry’s woman cannot overpower or outwit that simple girl, then she does not deserve rescuing. She is obviously here by choice.”
“I daresay you are right,” he finally admitted.
They returned by the shortest route, the beach. Beau spent no time at the dower house that morning. He spotted the
Sea Dog
sailing around the outcropping a mile off Beachy Head and was in the house only long enough to pick up his telescope to watch her progress. In his excitement, he forgot all about the mysterious lady in white.
Cressida wrote a brief, angry note to the castle, asking if Dauntry would please call on a most urgent matter before leaving for London. While awaiting his arrival, she rang for Tory, who came puffing into the saloon.
“What can I do for you, milady?” she asked with an ingratiating smile,
“You can stop sending Jennet to the cottage with trays from my kitchen,” she said.
“Ah, the trays. You see, it is like this. Jennet is a bit of a knock-in-the-cradle, as you well know.”
“I am aware of that, Mrs. Armstrong. I, on the other hand, have the full use of my wits. Pray do not try to con me with one of your stories. Jennet does not take my good silver and china to eat her meals on the door stoop of the chalet, where I discovered them this morning. I know the meals are going to Dauntry’s—friend. You are taking your orders from me now, not Lord Dauntry. Is that quite clear?”
“As clear as a bell, milady. Just as you say. No more trays.” Strangely, Mrs. Armstrong looked relieved.
Cressida took pity on her. “I do not hold you entirely accountable, Tory,” she said more gently. “Old habits die hard, and I know you are accustomed to taking orders from Dauntry.”
“He cuts up rusty if you don’t do just as he says.”
“Let him send trays from the castle if he has no cook for her.”
“Now, there is an idea!” Tory exclaimed, smiling.
“I wonder it did not occur to him in the first place. It is because the dower house is so much closer, I expect.”
“That’s it exactly. Would you care to give me the menu for dinner while I am here? Them steps ...” She drew a weary sigh and wiped imaginary perspiration from her forehead.
“It doesn’t matter. I am not in a mood to discuss it. Some pork might be nice for a change.”
“Ah, now, there is a pity, for there isn’t an ounce of pork in the larder. I’ve a nice joint of beef.”
“Very well, with some peas.”
Why did the woman bother to consult her if the decisions were already taken? “Tomorrow we shall have a roast of pork.”
“Certainly, milady. I’ll make you up a nice prune sauce to go with it, from Cook’s receipt at the castle.”
“Thank you. That will be all for now.”
“Then I’ll just see to Miss Wantage’s tray, for she claims she is ailing again, though she asked for two eggs and gammon for breakfast. Cleaned her platter, too. She says she will be down for lunch. She wants pork jelly, if you please, and me with not a drop of pork in the house.”
“Beef jelly will do.”
“It will have to. What ails the lady, if you don’t mind my asking?”
With no sensible reply, Cressida said, “She has a nervous disorder.”
“Ah, one of
them!”
Tory disappeared in a bustle of starched apron. Cressida sat on, tapping her toe and glancing at the clock. When a half hour’s wait did not bring Dauntry, she could sit still no longer and saddled up her mare to go after him. She would not mention the matter in front of his mama, but she would have this out with him before he left.