“That’s true.”
They sank into a companionable silence, each thinking of their close call, and inevitably of that other time they had been robbed. A few lights still burned as they approached the village of East Grinstead. The first building of note was the Rose and Thistle, a half-timbered inn and coaching house. A small knot of people stood in the yard, apparently waiting for a stagecoach. A man straggled on unsteady legs through the deserted village.
“Foxed,” Coffen said.
Somewhere a dog barked.
On the far side of the village they passed Oakhurst, the estate of Jeremy Soames, Susan’s cousin who had written to Luten. It was all in darkness. Oakhurst was a small estate and not very profitable. Soames had sold his land on the other side of the road, which was an apple orchard. The blossoms had fallen, leaving traces of petals on the ground. As they drew close to Appleby Court, they passed a little farm called Greenleigh, owned by a yeoman fanner, Rufus Stockwell. The lower story was in darkness; a light beamed in one bedroom abovestairs.
It was one-thirty when they reached Appleby Court. The iron gate standing between the stone pillars was open. A long sweep of pebbled drive curved in a graceful circle to the house. Luten had taught Corinne and Susan to drive on this road. There by that big elm he had proposed to her
—and perhaps to Susan as well. And now Susan was gone, kidnapped. It didn’t seem real to
Corinne. Surely when they opened the door, Susan would come flying out and throw her arms around them.
From halfway through the park, she could see the general outline of Appleby Court. Its pale stone stood out against the darkness. It was not a palatial house designed by some famous architect but a big, rambling three-story building that had grown over the generations with more attention to use than beauty. A light burned in the saloon window. Someone was still up, then. That was good. She could certainly do with a cup of tea.
She wondered what Luten would say when he heard they had been attacked by a highwayman. She was not an ill-natured lady, but she secretly hoped, with Coffen, that the highwayman had got Luten as well, or they would never hear the end of his “I told you so’s.”
Chapter Four
“I told you to wait and come in the morning!” Luten exclaimed when they finally roused him up from the sofa to answer the door. His tone displayed disgust, yet he was aware of a leap of pleasure to see that Corinne had come running after him. It would be the devil of a nuisance having her here at this time, but a constant worry if she were in London without him. He would just have to make sure that she didn’t discover certain details about his recent doings with Susan.
“We are fine, thank you. I am sure your failing to inquire for our safety does not intimate a lack of interest,” Corinne said, and strode into the saloon. She sat on a faded sofa that rested on a faded Persian carpet, facing a pair of faded velvet window hangings, once blue, now a dusty, opalescent gray. The cold grate across the room seemed a symbol of their cheerless welcome.
“I can see you are safe,” Luten said. “I assume you managed to traverse Hounslow Heath without incident.”
Coffen lowered his brows at Corinne. “We’re here, ain’t we?” he replied.
Corinne wanted to frighten Luten with the tale of their attack, but to spare a lecture, she said, “What have you been doing to find Susan?”
“Resting, so that I might have an early start in the morning.”
“After darting off from the party like a madman, you didn’t bother to speak to Soames?” she asked.
Luten seldom apologized, but he did deign to explain. “His house was in darkness when I passed. It seemed uncivilized to disturb him.”
“Surely manners take second place when Susan’s life is at stake.”
“You are not in Ireland now, Countess. Manners are always in fashion in England.” She was only Countess when Luten was angry with her. Recently she had been elevated to Corinne.
“Don’t be tarsome, Luten,” Coffen said. “You knocked at his door and there was no answer.”
Luten shrugged his elegant shoulders. “If you say so.”
“I hope he ain’t out on the road, or the highwayman—a highwayman might get him,” Coffen said, and turned as pink as a peony.
Luten cast a steely gray eye on the new arrivals. “The highwayman? Don’t tell me you’ve been robbed again!” He flashed a quick, worried glance at Corinne, to confirm that she was unharmed. He saw her small smile of satisfaction at the unwitting gesture and turned at once to examine Coffen. He noticed the dusty rim of the curled beaver on the sofa. “And you hid your blunt in the lining of your hat. Why not just hand it to him on a platter?”
“I did nothing of the sort! I had it hidden under my shirt. The wretched fellow threw my hat in the dust for nothing. I believe his mount must have stepped on it.” He picked it up and brushed at it. “And it was my favorite hat, too. If Fitz had had the pistol loaded as he ought to
—”
Luten rolled his eyes ceilingward and murmured, “Spare me.” Then he turned again to Corinne. His sharp eyes darted over her body from head to toe, looking for signs of violence. Finding none, he said in a thin voice, “I trust you had the wit not to carry your jewelry nor any considerable quantity of blunt in an unguarded carriage at night, Countess?”
“You will be happy to learn he took the little glass pin you have so often disparaged.”
“Did you report it at East Grinstead?”
“No,” she said shortly. “Actually, I am not that fond of the brooch.”
“Damn the brooch! You shouldn’t have left the man running loose to attack other travelers. You should have told the local constable.”
A sense of guilt lent a sharp edge to her reply. “I doubt Hodden even has a mount, let alone the courage to go after the scamp or the cleverness to catch him.”
“The scamp didn’t bother you, Luten?” Coffen asked.
“No, he didn’t.”
“Perhaps he wasn’t in the mood for a lecture,” Corinne said.
“I’ll tell Hodden tomorrow,” Coffen said, and looked at the cold grate. “We could do with a few logs.”
“And a cup of tea,” she added.
“Feel free to help yourselves.” Luten wafted an elegant hand toward the fireplace. “There is the grate. There are no logs, though any of this lumber is fit for the fire,” he said, eyeing the furnishings askance. “The kitchen, one assumes, is belowstairs.”
“I take it the servants have retired?” Corinne asked, reining in her temper.
“I caught the butler on his way to bed. Tobin was kind enough to provide me with this horse blanket,” he said, nodding to the sofa, where he had been resting. An uncomfortable-looking bolster was at one end, a dark blanket, though not actually a horse blanket, at the other.
“Where is Mr. Marchbank?” Coffen asked.
“He was in his study, drunk as a lord, when I arrived. Tobin and I got him upstairs to bed. There is nothing we can do before morning. Tobin tells me the beds are not made up, but if you prefer an unmade bed to the floor, then I suggest you find a candle and go abovestairs.”
Corinne looked all around the saloon. “The place has gone to rack and ruin!” she exclaimed. “I have not been here for some time, but it was not this bad when last I was here.”
“That was at Mrs. Enderton’s funeral,” Luten reminded her. “It seems our Susan takes little interest in homemaking.”
“I’ve been here since then!”
“Shockin’
,
” Coffen said, and strolled off to the dining room in search of wine and glasses.
“So you have not learned anything in all the time you have been here?” Corinne asked Luten.
“The half hour by which I preceded you is well accounted for.”
Coffen returned with the wine and handed around glasses.
Luten took a sip, then spoke. “Tobin tells me Susan disappeared yesterday afternoon. It was fair day in Grinstead. Otto—Mr. Marchbank—was at the fair. Susan told the housekeeper, Mrs. Malboeuf, that she was going to the orchard to do some sewing. It seems she often did so.”
“She made me half a dozen handkerchiefs for my birthday,” Coffen said. “The demmed highwayman got one of ‘em.”
“She took her sewing basket with her,” Luten continued. “When she did not return for dinner, Tobin went in search of her. She was not there, nor was the sewing basket. She hasn’t been seen since. Around eight that evening, Otto reported it to the constable, who has been searching the area and asking questions since that time. None of the neighbors saw her. There were, of course, several strangers in town on a fair day. The thinking is that one of them spirited her off.”
“Has Marchbank received a ransom note?” Corinne asked.
“No.” A frown pleated Luten’s brow. “That is rather odd.”
“Then if this man who took her was not after money ...” Corinne stopped as the significance of this sank in. “She is very pretty.”
“The bounder!” Coffen exclaimed.
Luten worried his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “There would be any number of pretty girls at the fair, some of them available for a pittance. It is unlikely a lecher would go after a lady, knowing the consequences would be severe. I still hope there will be a demand for ransom.”
“He had a lot of gall, going right into her orchard,” Coffen said. “And how would he know about her going there? You don’t figure it could be a local lad?”
They all exchanged a sapient look. “You are referring, I collect, to Baron Blackmore?” Luten asked. “The same thing occurred to me. He would be happy to get his hands on her fortune. If he forced her to spend the night at his house, she would be obliged to marry him, hence the lack of a ransom note. He’d bring her back to Appleby as his bride, a fait accompli.”
“He’s had her long enough to fait accompli her. Why didn’t he bring her home?” Coffen asked.
“We must go and rescue her at once!” Corinne said, rising.
Luten gently pushed her back onto the sofa. “Blackmore was at the fair. The devil of it is, all the local suspects were there.”
“Who would these chaps be?” Coffen asked.
“First and foremost, Blackmore. Then there is Soames and that Stockwell fellow from Greenleigh.”
“Soames wouldn’t kidnap her,” Corinne said. “When she refused to come to London to make her debut, I figured she was going to accept an offer from Soames.”
Luten’s gray eyes focused on her with bright intensity. “Did she intimate anything of the sort?”
Corinne noticed his sharp look and felt sure it was jealousy that caused it. “No, but she had no interest at all in coming to London, and you know how she used to talk it up. She could hardly wait to get there.”
“We shall speak to Soames in the morning. And Blackmore,” Luten said.
“And Rufus Stockwell,” Coffen added.
“And Rufus,” Luten agreed. “There is little we can do tonight. I suggest you find yourselves a bolster and a couple of blankets and tuck in. We shall be up and about early.”
“Up with the fowl,” Coffen said, frowning at the thought. “I could do with a bite to eat before we hit the tick.”
Luten yawned, covering his lips with his raised hand. A carved emerald glowed on the small finger. “It takes longer than twelve hours to starve to death, Pattle.”
Coffen frowned at his protruding stomach. “Where are we to sleep?” he asked.
“I have no idea.” Then he turned a mischievous eye on Corinne. “Unless you would like to share my sofa, Countess?”
“Is there no bed of nails available? That would be more to my liking.”
“That is my cue to offer you my sofa and find myself another bolster.” He rose and gestured toward the sofa with a wave of his arm.
“I wouldn’t dream of discommoding you, Luten, knowing you put your creature comforts above all else— even manners. I expect Susan’s bed is made up. I shall sleep there.”
On this setdown she left the room, to see her trunk had been deposited in the hallway by Pattle’s groom and footman. To have it taken abovestairs would cause too much racket, so she removed her nightwear and a muslin gown for morning and went upstairs. The stairway was dimly illuminated from the hall below, but once she reached the second story, she was plunged into darkness. Rather than return below for a lamp, she felt her way along the hall, counting doorknobs. Susan’s room, she remembered, was the third one on the left. When she opened the door, a faint ray of moonlight gave enough illumination to show her the lamp and tinderbox. She lit a lamp and gazed around at the familiar room.
It had not deteriorated as badly as the rest of the house. Although Appleby Court belonged to Susan, she had not removed to her parents’ grander bedchamber upon her mama’s death. Her belongings were still in the room she had used as a girl. It was not part of the nursery, but had been decorated in a manner to please a young girl. The wall was covered in light paper decorated with apple blossoms. The carpet, though worn, still showed a pattern of pink flowers. The furnishings were dainty ladies’ pieces, painted a creamy shade and trimmed with gilt, similar to those in Corinne’s bedchamber in London. Susan had disliked canopied beds. She imagined monsters were hiding in the curtains. Her mama had removed the hangings, leaving the four posts bare. Susan had used the posts at the end of the bed to hold two of her straw bonnets.
Corinne turned to the desk, thinking there might be some clue there. She smiled to see the volumes of
Camilla
resting on the desk. She had sent Susan the five volumes for her birthday, thinking she would enjoy the romance. She noticed that volumes one to three were there. Presumably Susan was reading volume four, and it was somewhere about the house. It was odd, though, that she had taken volume five with her as well. Corinne was a little surprised to see Byron’s
Childe Harolde’s Pilgrimage
on the desk. A little risqué for Susan ... She opened the cover and read, “To Susan. Many happy returns on your birthday. Love, Luten.” She might have known! How exactly like Luten to send a young girl such a book. She frowned at the casual “Love.” He usually signed any note to herself “Sincerely” or “Your servant.”
She was suddenly overcome with fatigue. She turned down the counterpane, happy to see the bed had not been stripped. She undressed and climbed gratefully beneath the covers, where she lay awake for a long time. Hunger gnawed at her, but it was not what kept her awake, nor was it the strange bed. Where could Susan be? Was she even now confined by some lecher such as Blackmore, being forced to give herself to him? Or worse, was she already dead, killed by some raving lunatic? Why had there been no demand for ransom?