Authors: Jo Goodman
"You know I can't tell you."
South rolled his eyes. "Now that you have proven again how irritatingly discreet you are, I will return to my breakfast." On his way to the table he picked up his discarded shirt from the foot of the bed and tossed it to Northam. "Here, catch. For your hands."
Northam snatched it out of the air. "Thank you." He saw South wince slightly as he ripped the linen cleanly in two. "A baker's dozen," North said to placate him, more than doubling the promised replacements. "Firth's. I haven't forgotten." He wiped bits of mortar from his palms. Some of it was ground into the pads of his fingers. He would attend to it more carefully later. For now he merely loosely wrapped each hand in a piece of the linen.
Tipping his chair back on two legs, Southerton watched North fumble with the makeshift bandages. "Shall I ring for someone to find Brill so he can attend you?"
"No."
Southerton dropped his chair hard. "Oh, for pity's sake, let me do that for you. You never had any skill in the surgery and you're making a mess of it." The fact that North didn't protest said a great deal to Southerton. He hunkered down beside his friend and indicated that Northam should raise his hands. He unwound the strips and examined North's palms and fingertips for himself. "Christ. What a mess. Give me a moment. I'm going to get the basin."
"You don't—" He stopped because Southerton was already walking away.
South carried the bowl and pitcher from the washstand back to Northam's side. He poured water into the bowl and put the bowl on North's lap. "Wash up, and don't be gentle about it."
North plunged his hands into the bowl. In truth, the cool water felt good on them. It was only when he rubbed them together to remove more of the ground-in mortar that he winced.
Southerton couldn't quite tamp his grin. "Hands have gotten a little soft, have they?" He held up his own hands in a gesture of surrender when North shot him a sour look. "It's the same with me. Too many gloved functions." Neither of them was sure if he was complaining. "Here. Let me look now." He examined the heels and fingertips and nodded approvingly. "You'll live."
"Oh, good," Northam said. "I collect there was some doubt."
South ignored the sarcasm this time. "Would it be indiscreet of you to reveal how long you attached yourself to that wall?"
"An hour, I think. Perhaps a bit more. The going was slow."
"The terrain, my dear North, was
vertical.
You're not a bat, you know. What in bloody hell were you thinking?"
"Can't answer that, I'm afraid, circumstances being what they were."
Southerton shook his head. "I hope she was appreciative of your sacrifice."
Northam said nothing and gave nothing away.
Expecting no other end than this one, South did not pursue it. He neatly wrapped North's hands and then removed the basin. "Do you think you were seen?" he asked.
"I hope not. I certainly didn't notice anyone."
"Rather difficult for you to do with your nose to the grindstone, as it were."
North found that he still had the wherewithal to laugh. "Here. Help me up. My sticks are like willow branches."
Southerton pulled North to his feet."Have you had breakfast?"
"Um, no."
"You may as well dine with me, then." He pointed to the Windsor chair at the small table. "Sit. I'll pull this other around." He moved a ladderback chair from the hearth to the table and sat down himself. Taking a blueberry muffin from the silver tray, he cut it in half and spread a dollop of butter on one of the open faces, then handed it to North. "You don't look as if you can manage the thing properly, and you know how I cannot abide poor table manners."
Since they could both recall the time South had buried his face in a bowl of trifle on a dare from Marchman—and went on to lick the bowl clean—they shared a moment of comfortable laughter.
"You know," South said, "I don't believe I've eaten trifle since. Mother has it prepared every Christmas for me, unwavering in her conviction that I still like the stuff. And every Christmas I arrange for that trifle bowl to be delivered to Marchman's door."
North hadn't known that. He chuckled."That's very good of you."
Southerton waved this off. "He must like it. At least he accepts the delivery and returns the empty bowl sometime early in the New Year. Mother, bless her, is none the wiser." He pushed aside his cold egg, his appetite for it gone, and buttered the other half of the muffin. "Have you seen Eastlyn?"
"As a matter of fact, I have." Northam settled himself comfortably into the wide spindle-backed chair and began his account of the morning, starting with Lady Battenburn's bloodcurdling scream. Of necessity the entire interlude involving Lady Elizabeth was left out, and Southerton once again proved he was gentleman enough by not questioning certain holes in the story.
"So you think the Gentleman made his escape through the window," South said when Northam wound down his tale.
North didn't think any such thing, but it provided him with a reason for scaling Battenburn's stone edifice. "I needed to see if it could be done."
South made a sound at the back of his throat that was wholly skeptical. Still, he didn't pursue that perhaps there had been other reasons for North to take to the outer walls like an arachnid. "A shame you didn't catch the miscreant," he said. "I should have liked to have my snuffbox returned."
"It was uppermost on my mind, South."
A dark brow kicked up. "Uh-huh."
North was saved defending his white lie by Eastlyn's timely arrival. He opened the door without knocking, saw his friends in cozy conversation at the table, and let himself in.
"Eh? What's this?" he asked. "North, I've been looking for you. How'd you get here?" He picked up a muffin from the tray on his way to take a seat on the bed. Sprawling across the rumpled length, he bit into the muffin with obvious relish. "Should have liked to have had breakfast in my room myself. Couldn't though, could I? I was sent off on some cork-brained chase after a thief who was no doubt already enjoying breakfast in
his
bedchamber."
Southerton and Northam exchanged long-suffering glances.
"I saw that," East said. "Ill-mannered of you both."
South could not let that pass. "Pot calling the kettle and all that," he drawled. "I don't recall you waiting for an invitation to come in here. I might have been entertaining someone a great deal prettier than North." He glanced at Northam. "Sorry, North. No offense meant."
"None taken."
Eastlyn turned on his side and propped himself on one elbow. He swallowed the last bit of his muffin. "If you mean Lady Powell, you're sadly out of it there. She's wandering the gardens on Mr. Rutherford's arm. Saw them myself not above twenty minutes ago. Looking very enamored of each other, they were." He and North shared a chuckle at Southerton's expense and their friend's expression became perfectly disagreeable. "I shouldn't wonder if they haven't lost themselves in the maze by now."
Southerton merely grunted, which gave rise to more knowing laughter from the others.
"I suppose you'll have to find another partner for the baron's treasure hunt," Eastlyn said. "Mr. Rutherford's not likely to pass on the opportunity to ask her. Shouldn't have let him steal a march on you, South."
"You know, East," the viscount said pointedly, "I'm not of a mind to take romantic advice from someone currently between Scylla and Charybdis himself."
"He means Mrs. Sawyer and Lady Sophia," North said helpfully.
"Actually I meant it the other way around."
Eastlyn flung himself back on the bed again. "I
know
what he means."
South warmed to his literary allusion. "Mrs. Sawyer always reminded me more of a seething whirlpool, the kind of female monster that would suck a man into her vortex and—"
"I
remember
Homer," Eastlyn said, exasperated.
"And Scylla... wasn't she a nymph or something equally naughty before her appearance was changed?"
Northam nodded. "It does seem more fitting that Lady Sophia should be Scylla."
The Marquess of Eastlyn sat up, glared at both of them, and said in clear tones, "I am carrying a pistol." He saw that had the immediate desired effect. "Deuced uncomfortable it is, too." He removed it from where he had tucked it in his trousers and laid it on the bedside table.
"Bloody hell!" South said feelingly. "There are other ways to extricate yourself from an amorous coil that don't involve shooting yourself in the ballocks."
"Have a care," Eastlyn said. "I still may shoot
you
there." Eastlyn propped the heels of his boots on the bed frame. His glance at his friends finally took in Northam's bandaged hands. "What happened to you?"
North told him, giving the same abbreviated account as he had given Southerton. Eastlyn was equally dubious about some of the particulars, but likewise he asked no questions. "I take it your search was also without results," said North at the end of his summary.
"Completely lacking," East said. "And I'm here to tell you I am off for London. Damned convenient to find you both in the same place. My carriage is being readied now."
"You will inform us, will you not, how it goes with your ladybird and your lady?" South asked.
Eastlyn sighed. "I shouldn't be at all surprised if rumor reaches you before I do, but yes, I will take pains to keep you abreast of my love life, since yours is so sadly lacking."
South chuckled. "Give me a moment to find a jacket and I will see you off."
North held up his hands. There were pinpricks of scarlet at the fingertips where blood had seeped through. "You'll understand if I bid you farewell now."
Smiling, Eastlyn nodded. "I would not have it any other way."
* * *
Northam was not surprised when Elizabeth continued to avoid any situation where she might find herself alone with him. Her evasion was not as blatant as it had been and therefore did not invite comment from the other guests. At least no one felt obliged to remark on it to him. Elizabeth did not immediately absent herself from a discussion if he joined her group. On occasion, when he had been engaged in conversation with the baroness and her friends, Elizabeth came to the circle and participated in the discourse. She was seated beside him at dinner at two different times, once on his left and another at his right, and she proved to be an entertaining and relaxing companion, treating him no differently than she did her dinner partner on the other side.
Lady Battenburn's encounter with the Gentleman Thief was the subject of considerable speculation and a certain amount of exaggeration upon the retelling. She made much of the point that the thief was every bit the gentleman he was purported to be, and the fact that she had screamed should cast no reflection on his manners. It was just that he absconded with her favorite necklace and she had been overcome by the loss of it. There were those who quite naturally believed the Gentleman might have tried to be more intimate in his attentions than the baroness recounted, but they refrained from mentioning this within the lady's hearing.
There was conjecture about the possible identity of the thief, but an accusation was never leveled at anyone's head. Southerton's name was whispered about, a rumor that brought Lady Powell flush to his side again. Other names were mentioned in a good-natured way and no offense was taken. Indeed, the fact that the Gentleman Thief seemed to be among the invited guests at Battenburn did much to raise the social standing of the gathering. After all, it was reasoned, the Gentleman could certainly choose quality.
Other than starting the rumor about Southerton, Northam kept his theories to himself. The baroness's description of the thief was not helpful. In her overwrought state her accuracy was suspect. She sounded very certain of herself at one moment then questioned her own memory of each detail. He was tall, certainly. But perhaps he was wearing lifts in his boots. His hair was dark, though she was not at all sure it wasn't a wig. He was broad of shoulder, yet because of the way his coat hung she could not say with confidence that it was not padding that made him seem so.
Tall. Short. Husky. Narrow. Fit. Fat. And so it went.
Northam sighed, reining in his horse. He let her slow to a walk along the stream and finally pick her way carefully through a shallow pass. On the other side he dismounted and allowed her to wander while he sat on the bank and chewed thoughtfully on a blade of grass. It was not his best thinking posture because he had nothing to lean against, but he reasoned it would serve him well enough.
Battenburn Hall stood like a fortress on the rise of land in the distance. Looking at her gray stone walls, nearly mirror-like in the bright sunlight, Northam could hardly credit that he had managed to inch his way along them. The proof that he had done so rested on his fingertips, now protected by soft leather riding gloves. If the Gentlemen Thief had been able to make a similar exit, then he had had the foresight to wear gloves. While taking pains to hide his own injuries, Northam had made a point to examine the hands of all the guests. It had proved no easy task, and he was reminded of the truth of Southerton's observation: They attended too many gloved functions.
Northam removed his gloves now and laid them at his side. His beaver hat joined them. Unbuttoning his frock coat, he leaned back on his elbows and crossed his Hessians at the ankle. Sunshine was pleasantly warm on his face. His mare snuffled in the tall grass nearby.