The dubious Miss Dalrympre, page 11
“What?” Alastair asked uncomprehendingly. He looked down at the younger man—the man who thought he was the Fifteenth Earl of Hythe—and got an idea. He wouldn’t go directly to Elly. He’d tell Leslie first, assure him that everything would be fine—considering that the Fourteenth Earl wished to marry his sister—and then the two of them would go to Elly together. That way, Alastair might just have a chance to explain everything without being tossed out of his own home on his ear!
“Leslie,” Alastair crooned, putting his arm around the man’s shoulders, “walk with me on the porch awhile, will you? I have something to tell you, and I’d rather do it away from the smell of overripe fruit.”
“Elly said to walk on the beach,” Leslie pointed out, then grinned. “Not that I don’t like the beach, you understand. Both Elly and I had never seen the sea until we came to Seashadow. As a matter of fact, that’s why we came here first, rather than to any of the other estates. But I’m the Earl, aren’t I? I can do what I want—even if I want to commission another three yellow and black waistcoats. It has taken me some time to get the hang of it, John, but I have to own it—I do enjoy being an Earl.”
“I rather wished you hadn’t shared that particular revelation with me, Leslie, old son,” Alastair said, wincing.
Leslie, as usual ignoring all but his own feelings, slipped an arm about Alastair’s waist. “Yes, John, let us walk on the porch,” he agreed happily as the two of them stepped out onto the flagstones.
Ping! The sudden sound of metal hitting brick, following hard on the muffled sound of a distant shot, had Alastair unceremoniously throwing Leslie and himself forward onto the flagstones. He lay there behind the low stone wall lining the edge of the porch, his head raised slightly as he searched the tree line for a hint of a gun barrel glinting in the sunlight, but he didn’t see anything.
After a moment he turned his body about to look at the mellow pink brick that was head-high next to the open doorway. Yes, there was a raw scar in the mortar and—he saw a moment later—a ball embedded in the wall.
“What—what happened?” Leslie croaked at last, rubbing at his bruised shoulder. “Was that a shot, John?”
“It was,” Alastair answered, helping Leslie to his feet and back into the billiards room, “but I don’t think there will be another one.”
“No, there never has been before,” Leslie answered absently, brushing off his pants.
Alastair, who still had his eyes trained on the trees, whirled about to face Leslie. No, it was impossible! It didn’t make any sense. He had been the one targeted for murder, hadn’t he? If somehow someone had discovered that Hugo had saved him, it stood to reason that the bullet had been another attempt, meant for him. It was the only thing that made sense. “Before?” he questioned softly. “What do you mean, Leslie? Has this happened before?”
Leslie nodded. “You won’t tell Elly about this, will you, John? Elly won’t let me out of her sight if she hears about it. After all, it’s only stray bullets from hunters, or poachers, isn’t it? Just like the toadstools were an accident—and the rock that fell near me on the beach. But you know women—she’ll probably start reading all sorts of nonsense into a few coincidences if you get upset now too. Elly does that sort of thing most especially well.”
Alastair’s head was reeling. He had been concentrating for so long on believing the Dalrymples to be guilty that he had refused to believe Wiggins’s theory that someone—either spies or smugglers or both—had wanted the Earl out of the way so that they had free access to Seashadow.
As he had only changed his mind about the Dalrymples this morning, he had yet to think up another theory as to who could be behind his near drowning. Now it looked as if Geoffrey Wiggins had been right all along.
Alastair was supposed to be dead. Perhaps—as he had believed himself—the murderers had thought the title would revert to the crown once the last Earl of Hythe was dead—leaving Seashadow to be run by a skeleton staff, its beaches fair game to anyone who wished to set up housekeeping there. Who was to stop them—the Biggses? Hardly.
But Alastair hadn’t been the end of the line. There had been Leslie, and Elly, both of them walked the beach daily.
And now the murderers were after Leslie!
Alastair opened his mouth to tell Leslie what he thought, caught a glimpse of the shambles that was once his billiards table, and thought better of it. It would be like talking to the wind to even attempt to explain this convoluted intrigue to Leslie Dalrymple.
He would just have to assign Hugo to guard the man until he could lay everything out in front of Elly, call in Wiggins, who was still in London trying to tie things up at that end, and locate the person or persons who were trying to eradicate the residents of Seashadow!
Ordering Leslie—who was already most happily engaged in adding a coat of paint to a canvas boasting the rendering of a single blade of grass—to stay put until Hugo could join him, Alastair headed for the kitchens, hoping to locate Elly.
“Missy’s up in her room, your lordship,” Mrs. Biggs told him a few moments later, clucking her tongue. “I think she’s come down with what Rosie’s got—or at least she came inter the kitchens lookin’ as green as Rosie did a while ago, though Rosie’s settin’ up and sippin’ soup now, tryin’ her best ter fill up her empty belly. It comes on sudden, and leaves just as quick. I suppose I’ll have ’em all down with it afore too long. Do you want me to send Iris upstairs ter ask Missy ter come down?”
Alastair rubbed a weary hand across his forehead. His confession—as well as his suspicion that her brother’s life was in danger—would have to wait for another day. “No, Billie, don’t disturb her. Just have Harry get some of the farm laborers to help him stand guard all around Seashadow tonight, and send someone to fetch me tomorrow as soon as Miss Dalrymple is up to seeing visitors. Hugo will be staying with Mr. Dalrymple.”
“Is somethin’ goin’ on, yer lordship?” Mrs. Biggs asked. “Somethin’s goin’ on, ain’t it? Are we goin’ ter be able ter stop this playactin’ soon?”
“Soon, Billie, very soon,” Alastair assured her, scooping up two still warm strawberry tarts as he headed for the door, before stopping to tell the woman mournfully, “Believe me, I like this even less than you. Have you seen what he’s done to my billiards room, Billie?”
“It’s a cryin’ shame, your lordship,” the housekeeper commiserated, shaking her head. “But yer’ll set it all ter rights soon, yer lordship, and so say we all.”
Alastair’s shoulders shook in wry mirth as he walked back out through the kitchen garden. “Poor Billie,” he said aloud. “Wait until she finds out that Leslie Dalrymple is to become a permanent fixture at Seashadow. The whole lot of them will probably hand in their notices.”
CHAPTER SIX
ELLY STARED INTO the mirror in the drawing room, a hand to her cheek, appalled at the sight of the white face that looked back at her.
“Good afternoon, Miss Dalrymple.”
She whirled about—the quick movement reminding her of the still-not-quite-settled state of her stomach—to see Lieutenant Jason Fishbourne standing beside the open doors leading from the patio.
“Lieu-Lieutenant!” she exclaimed unsteadily, before her rising temper hardened her tone. How did he walk in on her, unannounced? “Have you lost your way? The front door—and the knocker—are on quite the opposite side of the house.”
The man appeared impervious to insult. He bowed deeply from the waist, saying only, “We have pressing matters to discuss, madam, privately,” before walking more fully into the room.
“We do? Indeed?” Elly countered, wondering if all men were so rude, or if blonde men, like John Bates and the Lieutenant—and even her beloved brother Leslie—had some taint in their blood that predisposed them to riding roughshod over the formalities. “And what would those matters be, sir?”
She walked over to the settee, motioning for the Lieutenant to sit across from her, and sat down, for her legs still weren’t too steady twenty-four hours after her brief but violent relationship with whatever stomach upset was fast laying low nearly every Biggs at Seashadow. Mrs. Biggs, Big and Little Georgie, Iris, Harry, and even Baby Willie had all fallen victim to the same illness during the night—which undoubtedly had made it easier for Fishbourne to make his way into the house unchallenged.
She watched as the Lieutenant sat back at his ease, crossing one long leg over the other. “You have a guest on the estate, madam, I believe?” he asked without further preamble. “One Mr. John Bates?”
Elly’s heart began pounding hurtfully in her chest. “I do,” she answered, knowing her chin was tilting at an aggressive angle. “Does that present a problem to you, Lieutenant?”
Fishbourne searched in his pocket for a small copybook, holding it in front of him as he read what was written there. “Name, John Bates. Occupation, retired soldier in His Majesty’s service. Personal history, none. Companion, a hulking deaf and dumb brute named Hugo.”
“Only dumb,” Elly corrected, feeling her hackles beginning to rise anew. “Although I must say I dislike that description intensely, as it implies that Hugo is stupid as well as speechless. Nothing could be further from the truth. As a matter of fact, Hugo’s intelligent action saved my brother from a nasty fall just the other day.”
The Lieutenant looked up from the pages of the copybook, directed a level, assessing stare at Elly, and then returned his eyes to the page. “I stand corrected, Miss Dalrymple. I shall, of course, adjust my notes accordingly once I am back at headquarters. Dumb, but not deaf. Now, if I might proceed?”
Doubting that she could stop him without resorting to physical violence, Elly motioned for the man to continue.
“The aforementioned Mr. Bates,” Fishbourne went on, still consulting his notes, “is a stranger to the area who somehow came into possession of a cottage on this estate for an indefinite term—paying no rent, by the way—through application to the Fourteenth Earl, your brother’s predecessor.”
“Obviously a patriotic act of thanks to a man who had been injured fighting Napoleon,” Elly said wearily, for it appeared the man was going to prolong his introduction into whatever matters he felt they had to “discuss.”
“Alastair Lowell—patriotic? Surely, Miss Dalrymple, you jest. Yes, of course you do. I am much amused.” As if to prove his amusement, Lieutenant Fishbourne laughed aloud, a short, barklike laugh that had the hairs on the back of Elly’s neck standing at attention. “The man was a useless wastrel, as I believe you yourself said.”
Whether it was because of her growing dislike for the Lieutenant or due to her own feelings of vulnerability about her initial opinion of the late Earl, Elly heard herself springing to the dead man’s defense.
“I have been reading some of the late Earl’s private papers, sir,” she said, her voice cool, “and I believe you to be in error. He was very active in Parliament on behalf of our soldiers in the field. As the last of his line—or so his solicitors have told me the man believed—and without issue, he had every reason not to endanger the Hythe succession by crossing the Channel to spill his blood on foreign soil. Someone, my dear Lieutenant, had to stay behind to help run the country. Have you, Lieutenant,” she ended, hoping to change the subject, for she felt curiously uncomfortable in the role of defender of Alastair Lowell, “served anywhere other than along the relative safety of these well-defended shores?”
His cold, faded green eyes raked her from head to foot as Elly mentally added the term “dangerous” to those she had already assigned to the man: pompous, boring, and rude. “That is not germane, Miss Dalrymple,” was all he answered as she involuntarily squirmed in her seat. “We seem to have digressed. We were, I believe, discussing Mr. John Bates.”
“What about him?” Elly asked pugnaciously, for ill as she still felt, she knew she was about to order this insufferable martinet out of her house.
The Lieutenant referred once more to his notes, tempting Elly to snatch the copybook from his hands and rip the offensive thing to shreds. “The man is not what he appears, Miss Dalrymple. There is no record of a John Bates serving anywhere in His Majesty’s army, in any capacity.”
Elly shrugged, hopefully appearing to be unimpressed by the Lieutenant’s shattering news. “So? Perhaps he served in His Majesty’s navy. I think your information is incomplete.”
Fishbourne smiled at her. “He said he had served in the army, Miss Dalrymple. I saw no reason to investigate further.”
Anxious not to draw out the interview, which was becoming increasingly painful to endure, Elly asked, “Have you confronted Mr. Bates with your findings, Lieutenant?”
He ignored her question, his attention once more on his copious notes. “You—and your brother the Earl, of course—have been seen conversing with this Mr. John Bates, and he has partaken of his meals at Seashadow on several occasions.”
“Two occasions, Lieutenant,” Elly inserted through clenched teeth. Yes, she would definitely like to rip up that copybook—and stuff the pieces one by one down Fishbourne’s throat. “I hadn’t known that my brother and I were under surveillance, sir.”
“No one is totally above suspicion, Miss Dalrymple, when the safety of our beloved country is at stake,” Fishbourne informed her authoritatively, snapping the copybook shut at last. “Not that I believe you and the Earl could possibly be involved in any traitorous activity.”
“How terribly condescending of you, Lieutenant,” Elly purred with heavy sarcasm, rising to cross over to the bellpull, knowing that none of the Biggses were in any condition to come to her rescue.
Fishbourne rose as well, tucking the copybook back inside the jacket of his uniform. “My question, madam, is simply this: Why, when you said you would do all in your power to help your government, did you not report the existence of Mr. John Bates to me as soon as you discovered his presence on Seashadow property?”
It was a good question, Elly knew, and one she had racked her brain to answer on more than one occasion. After all, she had promised to report any suspicious person or persons, hadn’t she?
Lieutenant Fishbourne considered John Bates to be suspicious, and he didn’t even know about either the feigned limp or John’s disquieting familiarity with Seashadow.
She opened her mouth to tell the man these things, then closed it again. She wasn’t going to reveal her own discoveries about John Bates. She had never really planned to tell him—not deep in her heart of hearts. She was going to be stupid and foolish and protect John Bates from Lieutenant Fishbourne—behaving just like any at-her-last-prayers spinster who needs desperately to believe every man who so much as compliments her is in love with her.
She tugged once more on the bellpull, hoping her brother—whom she had last seen in the kitchens, creating some muddy-looking concoction he called “prunes and prisms gruel” for his luncheon—would come to her rescue. Where was Leslie when she needed him? Silly question. Where had he ever been when she needed him—nowhere to be found!
“Miss Dalrymple?” The Lieutenant had somehow come up beside her, and his voice made her flinch. “I sense some discomfort in your manner. He hasn’t threatened you, this John Bates, has he?”
Of course John had threatened her. He threatened her peace, her supposedly well-ordered life, her traitorous heart that she had believed would always belong to Robert. She turned to face the Lieutenant, her smile as brilliant as she could make it. Elly closed her eyes, watching her figurative bridges burning into ashes behind her eyelids. “Threatened me, Lieutenant?” she repeated, then giggled. Lord, how she abhorred giggles! “Why, sir, I don’t think so—unless you consider a proposal of marriage a threat.”
Fishbourne took a single step back. “He—he proposed marriage?”
Well, Elly thought meanly, the man didn’t have to sound so surprised. She knew she wasn’t looking her best—what with her face still pinched from being ill and her hair pulled so unattractively atop her head—but he didn’t have to make it seem as if John would have to be the most desperate, or least discriminating, creature on earth to have proposed to her.
Her chin lifted. “And what do you think he proposed, sirrah!” she asked archly. “I think, Lieutenant, that you overreach yourself.”
For once she seemed to have penetrated Lieutenant Fishbourne’s thick hide. “I—I didn’t mean to infer—that is, I certainly was not implying that—”
Elly took his arm and steered him toward the door. “Of course you didn’t, my dear Lieutenant,” she said soothingly. “Just as I may have overreacted to your questions about my dearest John. You do understand how shocked I was to hear that you thought my betrothed could ever be involved with anything nefarious.”
“Still,” the Lieutenant persisted as Elly led him through the foyer, “I think I should stop by the cottage to meet your fiancé. Perhaps he has seen something unusual in the area?”
No! He couldn’t see John—at least not until she could see him herself and tell him what she had just done! Giggling girlishly again, and hating herself twice as much for it, Elly trilled, “Oh, pray do not trouble yourself, Lieutenant. Mr. Bates has gone to visit his doctor somewhere or other today, and will not be back in his cottage until very late this evening. Perhaps you will accept an invitation to dine with all of us tomorrow night—giving me, um, giving my fiancé, that is, time to recuperate from his trip?”
Elly stood at the open front door, watching as the Lieutenant strode away, willing her pulse to return to its usual slow, steady beat. Now what had she done? Wasn’t it bad enough that she had protected John Bates from the law? Had she really been forced to claim him as her fiancé as well? Now she had no choice but to go to John as soon as possible and convince him that her lies had been in his own best interests.
“Ah, there you are, Elly. I’ve been looking high and low for you. Now, let me think, what was it that I wanted?”
