A Scheme for Love, page 13
“Then you must do everything necessary to find Doll in Red.”
“But we have.”
“No. I recalled earlier this morn that I gave the doll to a niece of Viscount Bartone’s—the fourth viscount—many years ago.”
“Aunt Nettie, you thought you gave it to Lady Grewould. You do not know, cannot remember. It was just too long ago,” Mathilda disagreed tiredly.
“I recall this quite clearly,” the old woman said with stubborn pride. “The niece lived with them before the present viscount was born. And she died shortly after his birth. A riding accident, I believe.
“Never mind that, though. I remember that Lady Bartone told me the doll and some other toys had been put aside in the nursery to await the coming of a daughter. However, the present viscount turned out to be their only child.”
“Then he has the doll and it is out of our reach,” Mathilda said, totally defeated.
“But he may not know it is there. Don’t you see?” Lady Pennypiece explained patiently. “Why would he think to look in the nursery?”
“Even if he hasn’t, what can we do? Oh, no,” she waved her hands in protest, seeing that gleam in Lady Pennypiece’s eyes. “I will not do it.”
“There will be so little involved,” the countess shrugged innocently. “You cannot hesitate.”
“The chances of the doll’s being there are very slim—in fact it is impossible,” Mathilda continued to object. “If the doll was not at Pennywise, nor Grewould, why should it be in the viscount’s house?”
“You cannot overlook that it might be. Think what it would mean if it were,” the countess urged. “Today Bartone will be at Whitehall voting. He is quite reformed, you know. Kittridge says he has not missed a vote.”
That has nothing to do with this, Aunt Nettie,” Mathilda said, with more force than necessary, as she turned away, wringing her hands. “I must return to the Hollows. Dannon and Mrs. Bertie will think I have deserted them.”
“Write that you will return shortly and post the letter today so they can prepare for your homecoming,” Lady Pennypiece advised. “Then fetch your bonnet. With or without you, I am calling at the Bartone residence. If I happen to fall on the stairs or from a chair as I search, the servants will find me,” she paused dramatically, “after a day or two.”
Having no doubt that the viscount’s servants would be outmanoeuvred by the countess if he were not at home, Mathilda decided reluctantly that it would be best if she accompanied her. “This is against all I hold,” she repeated. “Won’t you reconsider?”
“Here’s your bonnet,” the countess said, ignoring Mathilda’s plea.
“I will not enter his house. What are you going to do if he is at home?” Mathilda asked, taking the hat angrily.
“We shall think that out only if it proves to be,” Lady Pennypiece answered her lightly. “Wipe away those tears and come along. I mean to find that doll.”
* * * *
“Stand aside, I say,” Lady Pennypiece ordered Green.
“But, my lady, Lord Bartone is not at home,” the butler insisted.
“Then we shall await his return. Come, Mathilda,” she called back to the coach. “The viscount is out and we must await him.”
“Really, my lady, this is most awkward,” Green protested.
“Silence. We shall wait in the library. You need not show us in—I know the way. Mathilda, come along,” she commanded. “If we decide his lordship is too late in returning we shall see ourselves out. Go back to your duties,” the countess ordered the butler haughtily.
“Yes, my lady,” Green surrendered. What is one to do, after all, he thought. One cannot toss a countess out the door.
“I told you it would be simple,” Lady Pennypiece told Mathilda. “Calm down. You will make me nervous. Let us search.”
“Surely you are not going to go through his lordship’s desk,” Mathilda said, aghast as Lady Pennypiece pulled open a drawer.
“If he does not keep it locked, there can be nothing too personal in it.”
“But you said the nursery. Where is it? How can we find our way there?”
“You underestimate me, Mathilda.” Going to the door, she looked out. “No one is about. Follow me and remember, when challenged become insulted. The servants are never certain what to do in such a circumstance.”
Looking to the right and left, ever watchful, Mathilda followed Lady Pennypiece to the third floor.
At the top of the stairs the old woman stopped and sat upon the last step. “Age is relentless,” she noted acidly, catching her breath. Then she brightened.
“I will remain here and keep watch. You go on. It is three doors down, then turn to your right. It is the second door to the left. If anyone happens upon you, tell them I felt faint and you went for help. Bring them here and I can assure such a fuss being raised that no one will ever question what we were doing up here. At least not until we are gone.”
“Aunt Nettie, this is not the—”
“I have not come this far to leave without making an attempt. Now go.”
Mathilda nervously tiptoed forward. Three doors, turn right, and second door to the left, she thought. Second door... here it is. Gulping, she forced her hand to the doorknob. The door swung open soundlessly, revealing the large, high-ceilinged nursery, bare but for dustcover-sheeted mounds. Two shapes resembled a cradle and a small child’s bed. Small legs of a child-sized table and chairs peeped from beneath another cover. Shelves stood from the floor to beneath the tall windows on one wall.
Walking to the windows, Mathilda gazed out and saw they overlooked the street in front of the house. She turned from them and circled the room. In one corner she spied an uncovered rocking horse and recalled Bartone speaking of one. It had to be the same one, she decided, seeing the tattered reins draped neatly across the neck. Drawn to it, her hand brushed across the smooth, worn wood, fingered the well-used reins.
I can just see him on it, she thought, and then shook herself. “Why can my thoughts not leave him?” she murmured.
“Still regretting your misjudgement of Kittridge?” a masculine voice challenged.
All colour faded from Mathilda’s cheeks at the words. Turning slowly, she faced him.
“Lady Bartone,” the viscount said harshly, stepping uncertainly toward her. “An old man’s wife, a rich widow,” he said sarcastically. “What do you seek here?”
“You know what I have been searching for, my lord,” she answered him with far greater calm than she felt, for the heavy odour of port indicated Bartone’s condition.
“Was it necessary to drag good o’ Lady Netta along?” he asked, reaching out and pulling her roughly to him. “We could enjoy the day much more alone.” He cupped her chin.
“How’d you convince her to help you?” he asked, breathing into her face. “You do make a pretty thief, though.”
“You have been drinking, my lord. I will go now.”
“How?” he laughed, pulling her even closer. “Is this not better than a cold old man,” he sneered, “or Kittridge?”
“I do not know,” Mathilda said shakily, standing unresisting in his arms. “Neither man ever touched me.”
“Never... touched... you,” Bartone repeated. “You lie.” He kissed her roughly.
“Never,” she said shakily, when his lips released hers. “And as for my being a thief—you know more of that than I. I could understand your seeking to deprive me, but the old servants—how could you?” she demanded, a tear running down her cheek.
Uncertainty softened the viscount’s brazenness. He released his hold as confusion overwhelmed him.
“You are contemptible. Will you not even tell me why?”
Bartone remained silent.
“Are you too foxed to speak?” she cried. “Can you not see that justice demands they be given a suitable retirement?”
He shook his head, unable to comprehend.
Mathilda took it for no. She gave the viscount a ringing slap across his face; tears streamed down her own. “I don’t know what kind of man you are, but once I thought there was good in you. Lord Potters has done nothing but worry and fret over you. Why? What have you ever done but use him? How cruel can you be to pretend to take an interest in his work all these weeks? If there ever was any decency, there is none in you now. You’ll die despised, at the bottom of a bottle of port,” she sobbed, “and I don’t care. No one will.” Rushing past him, she ran from the room.
“Mathilda, whatever has happened?” Lady Pennypiece asked, rising from her stair-step seat. “Why are you crying?”
Mathilda brushed past her, unseeing. Escape was her only thought. Down the second flight and the first, flinging open the front door, she ran past the countess’ coach and down the street.
Bartone, thought Lady Pennypiece, and hurried down the stairs. She confronted Green as he closed the door, shaking his head at such happenings.
“Is Bartone in the house?” she demanded.
“Why, yes, but his lordship is not well and... and there were orders given he wished to see no one,” Green tried to explain.
“You mean foxed,” snapped Lady Pennypiece, angrier with herself than the unfortunate butler. “Where is Lady Bartone? Where is she?”
“Her ladyship ran right out the door, my lady.”
“Well, open it—my coach,” she said hopefully.
“No, my lady, I do not believe she took it,” Green said, opening the door.
“Where is Lady Bartone?” Lady Pennypiece demanded of her coachman.
“My lady, she ran past.”
“Ran past.” Alarm appeared on the countess’s face. “Open the door,” she shook her fist at him, “and find her.”
Green sprang forward to open the door. “Calm yourself, my lady. Your age,” he tried to soothe her.
Climbing into the coach, she paid no heed. The coach drove for some distance up, and an equal distance down, but there was no sign of Mathilda. Finally Lady Pennypiece tapped on the roof and called out. “Take me home.”
* * * *
In the nursery, Bartone stood at the window as Lady Pennypiece departed. Mathilda’s words echoed in condemnation. Worse, her tearstained face would not fade from his mind.
The viscount had drunk heavily after seeing Mathilda at Mahew’s ball to ease the memory of how crushed she had been. Now her accusations, both in words and look, confused him. Turning from the window, he recalled how she had said, “I don’t care.”
With stumbling steps he went to the wooden horse he had seen her by when he had come into the nursery. He reached to touch where her hand had lain. Exhausted—physically and mentally—and further weakened by the drinking bout, he was overwhelmed by the truth of what he had done.
Slowly, he sank to his knees, an arm thrown across the wooden horse’s back. He leaned his head against it. First one, then another tear fell upon the dust-filmed floor. Anguished sobs followed as Bartone faced himself squarely, completely, for the first time since his release by the French.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Hollon, will you please take care of the hackney?” Mathilda asked tiredly when the huge butler opened the door.
“Lady Netta’ll be most glad to see you. She’s in the salon with... Mr. Kittridge. Hurry, now,” he said, his relief apparent from his light scolding tone.
“Hollon, who are you talking to—Mathilda.” Kittridge strode forward anxiously. “What a fright you have given us. Mother will want to see you are unharmed.” He took her hand and drew her forward. “She has been so distraught.” He drew Mathilda into the small downstairs salon.
“See, she has returned.”
“Oh, Mathilda, my dear.” Lady Pennypiece rose. “I thought you were gone forever. Forgive me, please.”
“I am the one who must be forgiven,” Mathilda hugged her. “But I had to get away. He said...I....”
“Don’t explain—you needn’t. I am a silly old fool to have thought—”
“You would never be that,” Mathilda reprimanded her sternly. “It is I who have not been wise. You warned me.”
“Mathilda, we have all made mistakes,” Kittridge interposed.
She turned to him with a wry smile. “I can even forgive you, Lord Pennypiece, when I think of my mistakes. Do not stand there looking so guilty.” She extended her hand.
“Friends?” he asked, taking it.
She nodded. “I am in dire need of friends. While I was out I thought matters through very carefully. It will be best if I return to the Hollows now. Do you understand?” She looked to Lady Pennypiece.
“If I could keep you, I would,” the countess answered, looking older than Mathilda had ever seen her. “But that would be what is best for me.”
“I shall drive you tomorrow,” Kittridge offered.
Mathilda shook her head. “Please arrange passage on the mail coach for me. It is what I want.”
“Will you insist on it?” he asked gently.
Nodding, she said, “Excuse me, please. I am very tired.”
“I shall call to take you to the coach yard in the morn,” Kittridge told her. “Sleep well.”
“Thank you. Thank you both.” She looked slowly from one to the other, then fled before tears again came.
* * * *
“Is his lordship at home, Green?” Lord Potters asked the butler. “He wasn’t there for the vote today.”
“Yes, my lord, but he is not receiving,” Green answered, filled with worry and concern.
“Where is he?” Potters asked, handing over his hat and gloves.
“In the library, my lord. He has been there ever since Lady Bartone and Lady Pennypiece left this mom. We are quite concerned. We don’t know what to do, my lord.”
“Did they argue?”
“I don’t know, my lord. But Lady Bartone was most distressed when she came down. Ran right out into the street without a word. And then Lady Pennypiece was very upset. I didn’t know what to do.”
Potters nervously adjusted his spectacles. “These matters are never as serious as they seem, Green. Lady Bartone is safely with Lady Pennypiece,” he assured the worried butler. “I’ll speak with his lordship. You needn’t come with me.”
“If you wish, my lord.” Green remained at the door as the thin figure walked slowly to the library doors, knocked, and entered.
“Thank God,” breathed Potters as he watched the slow rise and fall of Bartone’s chest as the viscount slept upon the sofa. Finding a flint, he lit a candle, then the lamps in the room.
He gently shook Bartone. “Will. Will, wake up. It’s Potts.”
Awaking with a start, Bartone sat up, and then fell back as he recognized Potters. He shook his head and rubbed it groggily. “Still speaking to me, Potts?”
“Only if you will consent to ride in my phaeton,” the other returned.
A reluctant smile came to Bartone’s lips. “I deserve a far worse fate than that.”
“Why don’t we decide that after we get you looking somewhat better,” Potters answered, eyeing the unshaven, dishevelled state of the other. “Frighten your own mother, you would,” he said, tugging the bell cord and then pulling the viscount to his feet.
“Yes, my lords?” Green asked, entering anxiously.
“Water for his lordship to shave and bathe. Then a light supper for us both,” Potters ordered, wrapping Bartone’s arm across his shoulder to support him.
“Come along, Will,” he told the viscount as the other leaned against him. “You may well have to do this for me one day. I want you to know exactly what to do.”
* * * *
“So you see, Potts,” Bartone ended the telling of his last two encounters with Mathilda, “there is little hope for me with her.”
“Let’s get some food into you before we decide how hopeless the situation is. You are much improved already,” the Baron quipped taking in the simple black cutaway jacket and grey breeches. “I do wish you could show me the secret of your cravat, but then it would damage my image if I were to become a faultless dresser,” he sighed.
“Green is ready to serve, and you should be ready to do some justice to a meal.”
Giving an uninterested shrug, Bartone followed. At supper Lord Potters chatted away, watching the viscount carefully, which ensured the latter ate, if only a little.
Over a single glass of port, the two settled into overstuffed, high-backed chairs before the library’s ornately carved fireplace. A portrait of the late viscount gazed down at them with benign interest.
“What are you going to do now, Will?” Potters asked, breaking the silence that had fallen.
“Because of Angelique,” he began, then glanced at Potters. “But then you don’t know of that French beauty. There was a time I would have offered her as an excuse for my actions, but I see things far more clearly now.”
“Would you tell me of her? She was in the Indies, was she not?”
“You could guess it all, Potts, and if anyone should know about her, it is you. What I have put you through demands that. But I can say, at last, that I no longer think of her with bitterness,” he paused, “or the need for vengeance.” He dropped his head into his hands.
“Tillie, what have I done to you?”
“This Angelique was responsible for your capture?” Potters asked quietly, deeply touched by his friend’s anguish.
Bartone straightened and composed himself. “Yes. Because of her—no, because of my stupidity-I spent almost two years in the hands of the French. Oh, it could have been far worse.
I almost led an entire company into their open arms. What a fool I was not to see her for what she was. I heard stories but just didn’t....” He shook his head.
“Isn’t it ironic? I should have ignored what I heard about Tillie. There is a difference, though. With Angelique I followed my heedless heart; with Tillie I battled it. I realize now I only wanted to hurt her as I had been hurt because I knew she had the power to wound me. I was so afraid—and I have hurt her so badly.” Anguish filled his face.
“Potts, do you think she would see me if I called?”
“Hollon has been told to prevent your entry,” Lord Potters answered reluctantly.
