“Come along, then,” he said curtly.
“We were supposed to be going to the orchard together, Luten,” she mentioned. “Why did you slip off without me? You said you were going abovestairs to speak to Simon.”
“I did have a word with him. When I came down, you weren’t waiting in the hall. I thought you had come on without me.”
“I was with Coffen in the morning parlor.” She hesitated, wondering if she should mention that Coffen had told her what Luten had said about giving
anything
to get Susan back. She decided against it. Luten obviously had secrets, and she knew the futility of asking him questions. He would only get on his high horse and give her a setdown. She wondered, too, if the word he had had with Simon was to give Susan’s room a good search before they returned. He had been in a great hurry to get her out of the room and to search that desk himself. What did he think was there?
When they stopped at the stable to have the curricle harnessed, they discovered that Luten’s traveling carriage had arrived.
“Thank God,” he said. “My trunk and a few footmen will be here. Armand knows his way around a kitchen. We might have a luncheon fit to eat after all.”
“How did Simon get here?”
“He rode my mount. I knew I would need his services before the others arrived, and I felt the mount might come in handy.”
Luten’s sporting carriage and team of grays, like everything he owned, were top of the trees. The couple were soon flying down the road with the wind on their faces and the fresh greenness of spring meadows flashing by. Sleek cattle grazed in Greenleigh’s lush meadows. Greenleigh was a farmstead around an old stone house with a lead roof. It was neither large nor beautiful, but it was in excellent repair. The windows gleamed in the sunlight. Fresh paint shone on doors and window frames.
They drove to the well-ordered stable, where a boy looked up from brushing the horses to relieve Luten of the reins.
“I’ll give your bloods a brush-down, sir. A dandy pair of tits.”
“Thank you, lad,” Luten said, and tossed him a coin.
Luten and Lady deCoventry walked back to the front door, where the shining acorn knocker soon summoned the housekeeper. Mrs. Dorman was all that Mrs. Malboeuf was not. She was clean, tidy, thin, polite, and helpful.
“Mr. Stockwell is upstairs,” she said. “I’ll fetch him, if you’d care to step into the parlor, milord—and milady. Could I get you a cup of tea?”
With a memory of the turbid coffee they had had for breakfast, Corinne said, “That would be lovely. Thank you.”
In a few minutes they were joined by Rufus Stockwell. Corinne had seen him from a distance before, usually mounted on a dappled mare. She had never actually seen him at close range until this moment. He might have been carved from marble by Praxiteles and brought to vibrant life by some latter-day Pygmalion. From the tip of his flowing blond curls to the toe of his top boots, he was a perfect model of young manhood. And on top of it all, he was disarmingly shy. His blue eyes did not quite dare to meet hers. A rosy flush rose up from his open collar. He did not wear a cravat, but his shirt was spotless. He was still arranging his jacket, which suggested he had donned it in honor of their call. The jacket bore small resemblance to the work of the better London tailors, but it was adequate.
When he smiled, a glint of white teeth showed, and when he spoke, his accent, while provincial, was by no means uncouth. “I am honored at this visit,” he said, bowing uncertainly. “You are here because of Miss Enderton’s kidnapping, I collect?”
“Precisely,” Luten replied. “We have ascertained she disappeared from the apple orchard. The markings in the grass suggest she came—or was brought—in this general direction. I wonder if any of your servants happened to see her, or indeed if they spied anyone lurking nearby the Monday she disappeared. A carriage stopped in the roadway, perhaps? Or even a mount?”
“You already know she was brought in this direction? That is clever of you, milord. But I fear none of my people saw a thing. I was at the fair myself. I questioned Mrs. Dorman and the stableboys and the farmhands. I am sorry to say none of them can help us.”
“There is one other avenue of query,” Luten continued, and asked about any gentleman who might be hiding from the law or an army deserter.
Again he met a dead end. “There has been nothing like that,” Mr. Stockwell said, shaking his head. “This is a quiet little place.”
The tea tray—a decent silver one—arrived. “I meant to serve you some honey cake, but found it was all gone,” Mrs. Dorman said.
Mr. Stockwell said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dorman. I worked late over my books last night and helped myself to it before retiring. My housekeeper makes a lovely honey cake,” he said, blushing.
The guests expressed a polite disinterest in cake. Corinne poured the tea. She was so delighted with Mr. Stockwell that she accidentally splashed Luten’s tea into his saucer. He glared but said nothing. Stockwell leapt forward with his napkin to mop it up, apologizing as though it were his fault.
“The really odd thing,” Luten continued, “is that there has been no demand for ransom. You don’t think Miss Enderton might have run away?”
“Because of Blackmore, you mean?” Mr. Stockwell asked.
“What do you mean by that, Mr. Stockwell?” Corinne asked in alarm.
“Why, it is no secret old Marchbank wanted her to accept Blackmore’s offer.”
“Good God! We heard nothing of that.”
“We have not actually spoken to Otto,” Luten pointed out.
“In his cups again, was he?” Stockwell said, shaking his gorgeous head. “Pity. It is really a shame the way things are run at Appleby Court since Mrs. Enderton’s death.” He looked a trifle disconcerted after this speech. “Servants’ gossip, you know. I do not visit at Appleby, nor does Miss Enderton call on me. It was Mrs. Dorman who told me of Blackmore’s offer. Who might help you is Mr. Soames. He and Susan were ... very close.”
“Indeed!” Luten exclaimed.
“Oh yes. I believe there was an understanding between them a month ago. No public announcement was made, however.”
“We must call on Soames,” Corinne said.
The guests soon rose to leave. “If there is anything I can do to help, you have only to ask,” Mr. Stockwell said as he accompanied them to the door.
While he exchanged a few last words with Luten, Corinne glanced around the hallway. A Chinese urn holding umbrellas was just inside the door. Beside it rested a pair of badly knitted slippers in blue wool. Unlike Luten’s, they were not secreted in a drawer but held the shape of their owner’s foot.
“That was a fairly futile visit,” Luten said when they were outside.
“I would not have missed it for a wilderness of monkeys,” Corinne replied.
The stableboy led the curricle out, and they began the trip back to Appleby.
“You found Rufus handsome, I expect?” Luten asked, with an air of indifference.
“I have never met such a handsome man—outside of novels, I mean. And so shy. We can stop imagining that Susan was haring after some other man. With a neighbor like that, she would not waste her time.”
“Despite his manifold charms, however, Stockwell is not eligible,” Luten said stiffly.
“Because he is not a gentleman? What prevents him from being a gentleman, Luten? He owns land, he is well spoken and well mannered. Is being a gentleman only a matter of birth, of ancestors?”
“That comes into it, certainly.”
“Well, given a choice, I would rather be Mrs. Stockwell than Baroness Blackmore. And so would Susan, I daresay.”
“Speak for yourself. As to Susan’s preference, I trust she has better taste.”
“Then you failed to see the pair of slippers in the front hall? Blue, knitted.”
“I expect Mrs. Dorman knows how to knit,” he said woodenly. “In any case, we can acquit Stockwell of having abducted Susan, I think. I noticed he always called her Miss Enderton and did it quite naturally. A ‘Susan’ would have slipped out if he were accustomed to calling her that.”
“Oh, certainly. Mr. Stockwell seemed very proper in every way. So gentlemanly,” she added mischievously.
“Not quite in the mold of your usual flirts, Countess. You usually prefer Black Irish,
n’est-ce pas?
Rufus, I rather think, has some Teutonic blood in his veins.”
“Or perhaps Scandinavian. Those blue eyes and broad shoulders belong on a Viking,” she said, and sighed deeply.
When he did not reply to this taunt, she said, “We really must call on Soames. She gave me no hint that she was interested in him. Did you hear anything of it?”
“I don’t believe it was serious. I expect Stockwell has only Soames’s version of that so-called understanding.”
“Do you think Marchbank was trying to force her to have Blackmore? If that is the case, she might have run away. She would certainly run to us for help, either you or myself. Perhaps she is even now on her way to us in London.”
“She had ample time to reach London before we left. She has been missing since Monday afternoon. Soames’s letter did not reach me until late Tuesday evening. Her carriage is not missing. One assumes she would have taken her own carriage.”
“Well, it is very odd.”
“She was kidnapped,” Luten decided. “Susan would not put me—us!—and Otto through the anxiety of running away.”
Corinne gave him a knowing look and said, “But why has there been no ransom note?”
“Perhaps there has, by now.”
He whipped up his team and was back at Appleby Court in minutes.
Chapter Seven
Mr. Marchbank had finally arisen by the time Luten and Corinne reached Appleby. Like the house, he had deteriorated sadly since Corinne’s last visit. His hair had faded from gray to white, while his nose had blossomed into that ruby brilliance commonly known as a whiskey nose. He had always been a gruff, unpolished gentleman, but at least he used to make some effort to present a tidy appearance. On this occasion he had shaved and brushed his hair, but the hair was in sore need of barbering. The condition of his shirt was, perhaps, due to the broken washing dolly that Susan had not bothered to have repaired.
He met his guests in the saloon, where he sat with a bottle of wine before him and a glass in his hand. He was still sober enough to rise and shake their hands. At this close range, his eyes betrayed the enlarged veins due to drink.
“Ye’ve come about Susan,” he said, shaking his head. “A terrible business. I hardly know which way to turn. I asked Soames to send for you, Luten, but with the house the way it is, we’re not prepared for company. Ye’d be better off at the Rose and Thistle.”
“We’re not here for a holiday, Otto,” Luten said, in a more sympathetic voice than Corinne had expected. “Have you any idea where she could be?”
Again he shook his head. Tears dimmed his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was unsteady. “Nay, I fear some lecher has carried her off, for a prettier gel there never was, and so friendly. ‘Twas fair day, you know. I’ve been hoping to get a letter demanding money, but none has come. That looks bad, does it not?”
“There is money to pay, should a demand come?” Luten asked.
Marchbank looked surprised at the question. “Aye, there’s her dot of twenty-five thousand and a little something besides that has built up in interest. We live simply. I’ve been after her to fix the place up, but she hasn’t her mama’s knack for it. She is happy to sit with her nose in a book or magazine. I’ve been looking for someone to replace Mrs. Malboeuf. She was supposed to be temporary when Mrs. Acton retired, but we never found anyone suitable. Susan’s money is in Consols,” he said distractedly, hopping from subject to subject. “Do you think I ought to cash them in to be prepared? How long do you figure it would take to get the money?”
“For such an emergency, a bank would take them as collateral and give you the cash at once, I should think. You might have a word with your banker here and make sure he has that much cash on hand. In a small village like East Grinstead, it might take him a day to accumulate twenty-five thousand.”
He shook his head. “To see her dowry fly away in such a manner. What sort of husband can she hope for without a dowry? Well, that is something I can be doing, going to the bank. It’s the waiting that kills you. Where could she be?” He dropped his head in his hand and sat, a very model of anguish.
“We’ll find her,” Luten said, with more sympathy than conviction. “Is there any chance she ran off with a beau?”
Again Otto looked surprised. “She doesn’t have one. She had an offer from Blackmore, but she put her little foot down at that.”
“Stockwell seemed to think Jeremy had offered for Susan.”
“It never came to an offer. Susan walked out with him for a week or so, but she found she couldn’t care for him. He began telling her how she should run Appleby and that she should hire a house in London and such things. He’s a climber, I fear, but he was fond of her. He thought to please her, no doubt.”
Corinne listened with interest. “How did he take it when she turned him off?” she asked.
“He was pretty cut up about it, but he settled down in the end. Where can she be? Susan would not be so cruel as to run off without a word to her old uncle and all her friends. She is a good, kind soul, despite her little ways.”
Had Jeremy, in a fit of anger, kidnapped her to bring her to heel? No, it was too implausible.
“How did Blackmore take being rejected?” Corinne asked. “Is it possible he might have abducted her? Had her kidnapped, I mean, as he was at the fair that day himself.”
“I doubt he’d go that far. It’s not as though he were mad for her. ‘Twas her blunt he had in his eye, I believe.”
“But if he is in dire need of blunt ...” Luten said, and looked a question.
“He ain’t. He was short last winter when he offered, but he came into an inheritance from some aunt in Scotland and has begun repairing his estate. No, money seems no object to Blackmore these days. He bought a new carriage and team this spring, and speaks of going to London in the autumn Little Season to find a bride. No one who knows Susan would harm a hair of her head. It has to be
a stranger who has got hold of her. He might have taken her off to London or Scotland or America by now. Will I ever see my little niece again?” he asked, with tears starting again in his eyes.