The Perfect Hero

THE PERFECT HERO

Madeleine Conway

THE PERFECT HERO By

Madeleine Conway

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THE PERFECT HERO

Madeleine Conway

© copyright November 2007, Madeleine Conway Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright November 2007 New Concepts Publishing Lake Park, GA 31636 www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

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Chapter One: In which dogs cause difficulties Hero Veasey looked with distaste at Achilles and Ajax. There they lay, curled in a cream and toffee mass by the fire, deeply uninterested in leaving the comfort of the hearthrug for the horrors of a walk in the gloom of a December afternoon. They were charming in their sleep, snuffling slightly, twitching occasionally as a fresh scent crossed their dreams. But roused, they were fiends in canine form, and it was she who must escort them for their afternoon exercise. She usually liked dogs, but Achilles and Ajax were different. They had no purpose: they did not catch rats or collect game or herd sheep. They were toy dogs and Aunt Lydia imposed no discipline on them. Hero and Beattie would take them down to the gardens to the north of George Street and the little menaces would tangle their leads and snarl at each other, and when they were not snarling at each other, they would snarl in tandem at any passing creature, united only in their suspicion of every moving thing. A footman came bearing a serviceable cloak, for the chill, drizzling day was too harsh for one of her prettier pelisses, and Beattie followed him up from the servant’s quarters. The maidservant was warmly wrapped up and bore a dull, sturdy bonnet for Hero. Taking the pair of King Charles Spaniels for their afternoon constitutional was Hero’s only obligation as a guest with her dear aunt and uncle, but on some afternoons, on dank winter afternoons, it seemed an onerous one. She tied her bonnet and signaled for the cloak, which Hero buttoned with nimble fingers. Then the footman slipped leads around the dogs’ necks while she and Beattie drew on their gloves and within seconds the room was filled with a confusion of yapping and growling. Exchanging a glance of mutual commiseration, the girls each took a lead and set off into the fresh air, their charges tumbling alongside. Walking briskly, they soon reached the iron railings of the gardens where residents of this fine new area of Edinburgh were entitled to roam, provided they had paid their subscription. Hero handed Ajax’s lead to Beattie, dug about in her reticule for the key, and opened the gate. The spaniels strained to enter and started leaping up and yapping once again to be released. Beattie and Hero bent down, slipped the leather from each of the animals and watched as the creatures raced off into the shrubbery bordering the square. They were in the easternmost of the three squares planned by the architects of the New Town. There were as yet no mature trees there, but the bushes that had been planted only a year or two previously thrived and there were plenty of nooks and crannies in which two small dogs could happily lose themselves. “Let’s stroll about the paths, Beattie. We must keep warm somehow.” The two girls walked, and Beattie asked what Hero was planning to wear that evening. “One of the new gowns, I think. The bottle green satin, perhaps? I like that better now it is made up.”

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This encouraged Beattie to chatter on, much to Hero’s relief. It was curious how little the new gowns interested her. A year ago, she would have been agog, vying with Beattie in her enthusiasm, but such things no longer seemed particularly important to her. In fact, all her previous interests seemed altogether frivolous and irrelevant. It was astonishing what a change six months could render. But Beattie, who was still very young, rising sixteen, and thrilled by the opportunity to train as a proper lady’s maid, could scarcely resist exclaiming over the delightful items delivered to the house in George Street for the delectation of Miss Hero Veasey. It was ungrateful to be so unmoved by all the pretty things that were showered on her by her father and her uncles and her aunt, Hero knew, and she did her best to conceal how little she was captivated by baubles and bangles and ribands. Her family could no more stop giving them to her than they could cease eating or drinking. She had given them a fright, had suffered a terrible blow and a dreadful sickness, and was more subdued and sombre than she had ever been. Papa, Uncle Anthony, Aunt Lydia, and Uncle William wanted their little Hero back again, and thought to bring her back to her former self with trinkets. She sighed. Even the most delicious of gewgaws and bibelots and pretty new gowns would not restore her silly girlishness. She did not regret it, but she did regret that she could not act as gaily and light-heartedly for her loving family as she had been used to do. With Beattie running on, full of the invitations and excitements of the past week and the week to come, it was easy to walk several times round the square while the dogs burrowed in the undergrowth and came leaping out to chase after twigs and bark at the saplings planted on the lawns. But the light was leaching away, and they needed to return home before it became entirely dark. “Let’s try to catch the little horrors, Beattie. I will seek out Achilles, you look for Ajax. I last saw him over there, digging amidst the camellias.” The girls separated and started calling the dogs. Achilles immediately broke cover and hurtled up the incline to where Hero stood, only to scuffle under the bushes by the gate where they had entered twenty minutes before. Hero picked up her skirts and chased after the tiresome pest. She squatted and tried to peer through the leaves, then stood again in exasperation only to jump back in surprise. A man loomed over her. “Excuse me, I must beg a favor of you.” His voice was educated and his cloak looked expensive. He wore a smart hat and silk scarf, and carried a fine walking stick. In seconds, Hero had taken this in but the sudden apparition still startled her. “What favor?” she asked, examining him. He was not much taller than she, had dark eyes and was slightly breathless. He glanced back over his shoulder. As he turned back to face her, his eyes danced and his smile was rueful. “You may slap me afterwards, any distraction will do.” He stepped towards her and reached a gloved hand towards her chin, which he tilted upwards. Hero’s eyes widened in astonishment as his face drew nearer and nearer. He was intending to kiss her! She was so astounded that she stood stock still while his lips touched hers, once, gently, tenderly, meltingly. He stayed still, and his eyes flickered away towards the gate once, but then seemed to focus once again on her, and she felt his other hand come up to her arm and then round her back.

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He pulled away and murmured something incomprehensible as she gazed up at him, then he pressed his lips to hers again and she felt a shiver of response as he kissed her again, deepening the kiss. Her mouth opened, and she heard him give a brief moan. His tongue parted Hero’s lips. An entirely unfamiliar tingle assailed her, first in her breasts, then her abdomen, then lower. She found her body pressing closer to his, despite their heavy winter cloaks. His fingers were on her neck and jaw and the tender skin beneath her ear, exerting the slightest pressure, but a pressure which made her lean into him and meet his kiss and reach one gloved hand to his shoulder. Her hand should have pushed him away, but she could not help slipping her arms about his neck, clinging a little closer, meeting his kiss, returning it. She was melting, she was incandescent. Valentine had never kissed her like this, never! Beattie’s shocked voice only slowly cut through the miasma of desire that had overcome both Hero and the plundering stranger. “Miss! Miss Hero! Let her go, you brute!” Then Beattie launched herself at the broad back that separated her from her mistress and began to pummel it, accompanying every wallop with her vehement words. “LET--HER--GO!” Hero sprang away as his hold on her fell away, and she watched him turn and easily catch Beattie’s flailing hands. She raised her fingers to her lips, still dazed. The man held Beattie off with ease and looked over the young girl’s shoulder at Hero, “I do apologize. I’m not sorry I kissed you, but I shouldn’t have done it, I know. I do hope we’ll meet again, but in the meantime, I must dash. I have to see some chaps about a boat.” “You might at least help us get our dogs,” said Hero. Her knees felt as though they might give way: chasing after the dogs would be impossible in her current state. “Look, calm the girl down and I’ll do what I can. But I don’t have much time.” He propelled Beattie over to Hero who opened her arms to the girl and held her close. “Calm down, Beattie, calm down, it’s all over now. We must get the dogs.” He placed two fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. The two dogs arrived at his heels in seconds, and he held them, allowing Hero to bend down and loop their leather leashes to their collars. The man stood again, doffed his hat and said in farewell, “Beg pardon, ladies, must toddle.” Away he strode into the gathering dusk. “Miss Hero, are you alright?” Beattie wittered on as Hero stood, gazing after the young man. “What are we going to say to Mrs. Macdonald? Will I lose my position? I’m meant to protect you and I was about as much use as a limp halibut!” Beattie looked as though she might fall to sobbing or screeching, neither of which prospect cheered Hero. She gave Beattie Ajax’s lead. “We’ll say absolutely nothing to Mrs. Macdonald. Do you think we’ll ever be let out by ourselves again if we say anything to her of that gentleman? Which means that you will not lose your position, provided you keep absolutely quiet about this. No backstairs gossip at all.” “But he was kissing you.” Beattie left unsaid the fact that Hero had been kissing the man back with equal enthusiasm. “He was. But what am I to do about it? I have no idea who he was. Come along, Beattie, otherwise they’ll start sending out footmen in search of us. It’s dark.”

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As they stood on the steps leading up to the Macdonalds’ house, Hero whispered, “Remember Beattie, not a word.” The maid nodded and the door swung open for them. “And I want you up in my room as soon as you’ve shed your outdoor clothes. I shall need your help with the new gown, it has so many buttons.” Before Beattie could respond, Hero headed upstairs. In her room, a fire had been laid and lit, all the sconces were ablaze with candles. It was full of light and warmth, a haven from the afternoon’s chill. She sat in one of the chairs by the fire. Unwittingly, she raised her fingers to her lips. Valentine had never kissed her thus and she had been betrothed to him. He had crushed her and squashed her, and she had never questioned it because everybody said men were great rough creatures with base impulses. Of course, Valentine was bigger than the man from the gardens. But that man had been strong and firm. The way he had drawn her close to him, the way he had held off Beattie, the way he’d summoned the dogs: everything she’d seen of him demonstrated his power. But he hadn’t frightened her, not for a second, not the way Valentine had. He’d just made her realize that she too had impulses, instincts, sensations. Glorious, fascinating sensations. She thought back to his kiss and tried to recall the exact motion of his lips on hers, his arms around her, his body pressed against hers, and she began to feel once again the feelings he had aroused in her then. She looked down. Her breasts seemed to ache for his touch, and deep within her, she was conscious of a strange lassitude and heaviness. She wanted his touch again. She wanted more than his touch. The door clicked open and in came Beattie, looking a little hesitant, and Hero gave a little sigh as the memory of that strange moment was dispelled. Mercifully, Beattie was relatively subdued this afternoon, and said little. The less they talked about the incident in the gardens, the less likely Beattie was to chatter about it below stairs. There was little point in fuelling the fire. But gradually, as Beattie shook out petticoats and tied ribbons and combed out Hero’s hair, the girls relaxed with one another until Beattie was chattering away as normal. “Is Mister Valentine likely to be there this evening?” asked Beattie. She thought Valentine Wemyss was the most glamorous creature imaginable. But then she was an impressionable sixteen year-old, just the age Hero had been when she first met the dashing lieutenant. Of course, he’d sold out now and reverted to being plain Mr. Wemyss. But he was still tall and very handsome, even if he no longer wore a red coat nor rode a great grey horse. “I believe he will be present.” Which was too matter of fact a reply for Beattie, who then launched into a flurry of ideas for making her mistress even prettier and even more likely to earn the address of the gallant Mr. Wemyss. And as the maid tugged at locks and heated curling tongs and brought out lace and wove who knows what into her hair, a cloud descended on Hero, because sooner rather than later, she must make up her mind about young Mr. Wemyss and either accept him or send him on his way. Six months was quite long enough to have recovered from her travails, and now the Macdonalds were beginning to make noises and her dear Papa was quite reconciled to Mr. Wemyss, and everyone was saying that spring would be a lovely time to get married. Everyone except cousin Rosamond, but she was far away on the estates of her adored husband, preparing to have her first child in the summer. Her stalwart letters saying that Hero need not have Mr. Wemyss if she did not wish were reassuring, but they could not have the same force as the combined good wishes of her aunt and uncles and father, all

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suggesting that Mr. Wemyss would be welcomed back into the fold if she chose to have him. It was so complicated. A year before, there would have been no question. The summit of her ambitions had been to receive a proposal of marriage from Mr. Valentine Wemyss. And she had achieved that ambition. But then, Mr. Wemyss had repudiated her. He had denounced her publicly as a light-skirt, a hoyden ready for a tumble in the stable with a passing groom. He had been grossly misled by a fellow officer, a man who had deliberately set out to make mischief and destroy her happiness and for no other reason than envy of Weymyss’ fortune in marrying into the Veasey family with its estates and investments. Of course, Hero’s innocence was firmly established, the lies that had been spread were countered, and her reputation had been restored to her. Initially, Hero had imagined that with a little time, she would be ready once again to hear Mr Weymyss’ suit. After all, the whole unpleasant business had reconciled her cousin to Mr. Buchanan and led to their marriage the previous autumn. Mr. Wemyss had been most penitent and attentive. But doubts assailed Hero: how could Mr. Wemyss have so failed to trust her? What could have possessed him to accuse her of infidelity at a public gathering? Why had he failed to respond to her letters for so long in the months prior to his appearance in Yorkshire? The first two years of their correspondence, he had written weekly or fortnightly. Then it had dwindled to monthly, understandably as the great war against Napoleon progressed. But after Waterloo, Valentine’s letters had dried up almost entirely, and she had heard no word at all in the five months before his return from Brussels. Perhaps it was not fair to hold that against him. Perhaps she should just accept him and have done. But somehow, she could not. He had been about to declare himself any time these past six weeks, but every time he had appeared close to pressing his suit, she would swerve away, evade the speaking looks and turn the subject to something prosaic. Which should tell her something about her true feelings. If she were honest, she must finally concede that Valentine Wemyss was the last man on earth she wished to marry, and she ought to put him out of his misery sooner rather than later. But that would mean losing the company of his sister, Elizabeth. And since Hero had met Lizzie, she had found a friend who promised to be as dear and true as Rosamund, but who as a married woman could be no longer. Despite a delight that her somewhat world-weary, cynical cousin should have fallen in love and married, it could not be denied that losing Rosamund had been as bad as losing a sister, for they had been raised together and shared every conceivable tribulation and trial, from visits to the dentist to the previous summer’s difficult passage. Then, when Hero had come northwards to Edinburgh, Lizzie had come south, as representative of the Wemyss ladies. Mrs. Wemyss, of uncertain health and still with two daughters in the schoolroom, had insufficient funds to bring the whole family to Edinburgh simply to meet with a prospective daughter-in-law. But she could send her dear Lizzie to represent the Wemyss family and encourage the match in every way possible. For a good marriage would be the saving of this particular branch of the family, which suffered still for its unfaltering support of Charles Stuart in the Forty Five. Lizzie Wemyss had stayed first with her cousins, but soon joined Hero under the Macdonald’s roof. It had been agreed that she would extend her stay in Edinburgh and remain through Christmas and into January, when the Edinburgh season took off with an

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incessant series of parties and dinners. If Hero were to bring Valentine to the point and then turn him off, it would be deeply awkward for Lizzie to remain in Edinburgh. Yet, the Wemyss family desperately needed one of its children to marry well and, ideally, marry quickly. With Valentine’s prospects dished, Lizzie might be their last hope, and the Edinburgh season was the ideal opportunity for her to find a suitable catch. Hero saw this clearly. While she was not convinced that Lizzie, who was a discerning young woman, would necessarily accept a suitor, at least she should have the chance. But Lizzie would have too much pride to remain in Edinburgh as a hanger-on in the house of the girl who had spurned her brother. At last, Beattie stood back to admire her work. “Och, Miss Hero, I think you’ll be pleased. Will you take a look?” Hero stood and went before the cheval glass in the corner of the room. Beattie came over to shake out her petticoats and give a final tweak to her handiwork. Then she stood back and folded her arms in satisfaction. “If that Wemyss fellow doesn’t swoon at the sight of you, he’s made of stone. You look like a fairy princess, you do.” “You’ve done a grand job, Beattie.” Hero could have told the girl that her elaborately curled hair, with its diamond pins and kiss-curls, was far too grand for a simple evening at home, even with company. But she turned and reached out her hands to the young girl. “It’s not fair that you should have all the work and I should have all the fun.” “I don’t mind, miss. I’d never look as pretty as you even if I spent all day primping and preening, and there’s the sad truth. It’s a treat to see you, and worth all the work in the world.” “Thank you, Beattie. I shall go down and hope to do you honor.” Hero left the girl tidying up at the dressing table and went downstairs to her aunt’s receiving room. There sat a young woman with fiery hair, great brown eyes and a merry mouth which she was chewing in vexation as she gazed at the broad back of her exasperating brother. Both brother and sister leapt and turned as Hero paused in the threshold. Lizzie Wemyss came forward and kissed Hero warmly on both cheeks. “You look absolutely wondrous tonight! What finery!” “All my Beattie’s handiwork. I simply sat and let her do her worst.” “If this is her worst, we must all shade ourselves when she decides to do her best. You do look dazzling, Miss Veasey.” Valentine Wemyss paused a little before speaking Hero’s name, reminding them both of a happier time when he had been given leave to call her by her Christian name. Lizzie shook her head and looked away. Unquestionably, she was cross with her brother, but there was no way to ask the cause of their falling out, not until more people had joined them. An uneasy conversation followed. Hero made light of her dampening excursion with her aunt’s dogs, carefully avoiding any mention of strange young gentlemen. Valentine made heavy weather of a courtly insistence that Hero should not go out in such inclement weather and Lizzie resolutely avoided speaking at all. It was a relief to all three when Mrs. Macdonald came in, accompanied by her great friend Mrs. Grant, soon followed by Mr. Macdonald, Mr. Grant and two other gentlemen of their acquaintance.

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It was not long before the assembled group went through to the dining room, but Hero found herself seated at some distance from Lizzie. She found no relief in her companions. Mr. Grant was a gentleman in his fiftieth year, who liked to pat young girls on the hand and pass on his tips for securing a husband. On her other side sat Valentine Wemyss who seemed of a singularly blockish disposition this evening, scarcely uttering a word, nor eating the food before him. Hero watched as he stared into his soup, then idly stirred his fork about the plate smearing puréed carrot liberally around its rim but bringing little to his mouth. When Mr. Grant’s attention turned to the lady on his left, Hero spoke in a low tone to her suitor. “Is everything well with you, Mr. Wemyss?” “Of course. I am sitting beside the loveliest woman in the room.” He put his knife and fork together but continued to gaze at the plate as though trying to memorize its pattern. “You seem out of spirits, sir.” “If I am, you know well enough what may be done to revive me.” He turned to look at her, and she was taken aback by the ferocity of his expression. “Sir, this is not the place,” she murmured. “It never is the time nor the place, is it? If you don’t want me, you’ve only to say so, you know, and I shall leave off coming here and plaguing you.” “You don’t plague me.” The words escaped her too quickly. Wemyss looked away in disbelief. Losing her own appetite, Hero set her knife and fork down and looked about her. Turning, she caught Lizzie’s eye; Valentine’s sister rolled her eyes and shrugged, making it clear she had no idea what was so unsettling to her brother. She gave Lizzie a tremulous smile and reached to take another sip of wine. Fortunately, Mrs. Macdonald soon after signaled that it was time to retire. Hero hoped for a chance to speak with Lizzie, for Mrs. Grant and Mrs. Macdonald were perpetually in a huddle over their plans for the Christmas festivities. But her hopes were dashed when Lizzie was almost immediately approached by a footman. Her Aunt Killigrew was already there to take her and Valentine off to their Charteris cousins for the rest of the evening and the old lady had no intention of keeping her horses standing longer than necessary. Lizzie made her farewells swiftly and Hero was summoned to give her opinion on the decorations and food and guest lists that Mrs. Grant and Mrs. Macdonald were discussing in anticipation of Christmas, just over a week away.

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Chapter Two: In which Mr. Charteris ducks and dives The Fettered Cockerel was the lowest kind of dive imaginable, a smoky, rackety, gimcrack lair for bludgeoners, bilkers, fakeman-charleys, fiddlers, filchers, high and low toby men, snafflers, smugglers and all manner of thugs and toughs. Any variety of man might be found for hire here, provided the task at hand were on the wrong side of the law and the employer was not too choosy about references. Freddie, seeing where his quarry had led him, feared that his smart evening rig-out would be conspicuous. But at first glance, the tavern was full of smart individuals: it was only when you were at close quarters that their grimy collars and worn waistcoats became noticeable. He slipped into the inn and eased his way through the press of bodies towards a quiet corner nearer his quarry. The two men he’d been following were deep in conversation with a third. They all looked clerkly, with sharp noses and ferrety features, lively darting eyes and hair carefully curled with Macassar oil. He walked past them casually, heading for the bar. A girl approached him, a merry looking wench with black bouncing curls, green eyes, and a grin across her round face. “Can I help you, or are you sightseeing like the other bucks?” “My friends? I fell behind, and I can’t seem to find them.” “They’re through there, in the saloon. They’re up to some wheeze. You might want to be careful. Whether it’s sticking you head first in a fountain or removing your fine pantaloons, I couldn’t say.” The girl crossed her arms and leant back against a pillar to allow Freddie to pass. “I say, would you help me?” He took out a shilling and held it before her. “There’ll be another of these if you will.” Then he dropped it down her cleavage and winked. “Cheeky besom!” She reached down, extracted the coin, then bit it. “Well you’re no coin-clipper, that’s sure. What do you want me to do?” “Go in there and listen. See if you can work out what they’re planning for me. I’ll wait here in this alcove. Come back in ten minutes or so once you’ve heard enough.” “Very well. I’ll send Flora over with a little glass of something too.” Freddie slipped into the booth directly behind that of the three men and watched his assistant sway back to the saloon. As a result of its status as a centre for Edinburgh’s dodgier inhabitants, the Fettered Cockerel was also a popular haunt of students and young gentlemen seeking the thrill of rubbing shoulders with men who might end up on the gallows. No doubt the helpful girl had taken him for one of those tourists, and if he bribed her sufficiently, she would eavesdrop on anyone he indicated. But their current arrangement left him in prime position to catch what was said in the neighboring booth. Deep in the shadows of his booth, he blew out the candle guttering on the table and raised himself slightly so he could more easily hear the discussion of the three dapper types in the next-door recess. Flora arrived quickly enough with a dram of whisky, and seemed

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ready to sit and flirt with him, except that he counted out his change for the whisky and made it plain that he’d wait for her friend. At first, the rowdiness of the public house seemed too great for his mission, but as his ear became accustomed to the racket, he picked up occasional words and phrases. They spoke of Cockenzie, Gullane and Eyemouth, seeming to weigh up the merits of each harbor as a landing spot for contraband. One port was better suited to barrels of liquor, another was ideal for lighter goods, laces, trinkets and silks, but none was suitable for a person or persons. They needed a safer, more sheltered spot for the Phoenix. Just then, there was a rustle of fabric and Freddie found himself invaded by the presence of his fair spy. “You’re cozy in here, sir. You could make a happy woman of me and no one would be the wiser.” To ensure her meaning was quite clear, she reached a hand and started playing with the buttons of his trousers. He caught her hand and raised it to his lips. “I’m honored, my treasure, but I need to know what my friends are planning for me. Besides, I’d rather savor a lady of your quality at my leisure than rush at you like a beast in heat.” “I’ve a room where we can retire, if that’s your fancy.” “What of my noisy companions? What do they plan for me?” “They said nothing of any young man, sir. They’re aiming to give a serenade to some fine miss they say is too chilly, but that’s in the New Town. You’ll have to hurry off if you want to join them.” Freddie sighed and made as if to leave. “We’ve been going to and fro all evening. It’s very tiresome, all this wandering about.” “Stay a little,” wheedled the whore. She was unusually pretty, but Freddie was in no mood for dalliance. He wanted to shift the girl, but without having to leave his useful refuge. He looked at her archly, licked his little finger and smoothed it across his brow. “You’re a lovely girl, but....” He said nothing, but her eyes narrowed and she looked more closely at him. He ran his hand with a delicacy through his rumpled locks and cocked his head at her. “You’re wanting a molly-house, ain’t you?” She was clearly irked. “You’d best be off to Mother Mackintosh’s, you’ll find plenty of your own kind and all the pretty boys you want.” She scooted out of the booth and brushed herself down. “Your loss, you poor Mary.” Freddie watched her flounce off without regret. He was by nature fastidious when it came to women, and he had before used the same imposture to escape importunate offers without causing undue offence. It seemed to arouse less ire to claim a preference for his own sex than to refuse feminine wiles point blank, Freddie had found. He had been surprised to find over the years that he was the sort of man who did rouse the ladies to make advances. Accustomed as he was to family jokes at his expense regarding his height (or lack thereof, in a family of men over six foot), the habitual dishevelment of his hair, the customary disarray of his clothes and his general incompetence, it had never occurred to him that his appearance was extremely appetizing. At school, he had been protected first by his elder brother from the darkest aspects of life in a virtually unregulated masculine

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society, and then by his friendship with Ivo Dunbar. But it was there that he had registered the mannerisms of young men who preferred their own kind. Freddie turned his attention to the men in the neighboring booth once more, but it appeared they had finished their business, and he none the wiser as to which town they had ultimately decided on as most suitable a landing site for their mysterious Phoenix. There was the sound of tankards being emptied and bashed down upon the table, and the unmistakable shuffle which indicated that the gentlemen were on their way for the night. Freddie could not leave immediately, but he made ready to depart, and once the three men had left the inn by different doors, he made his way through the crowd as unobtrusively as he could. Whatever else happened, he mustn’t be late for his next engagement. Once out of the confines of the tavern, he checked the knife in his boot, extracted the pistol he had concealed in his cloak and cut a purposeful figure as he walked back down the narrow alleyways of the Old Town towards the Mound and across Princes Street to the more genteel areas of the city. The men he had been following had come from offices in the newer quarter of town, the area where the more successful professional men had built their well-proportioned homes and established their offices in imposing temples to Mammon and the law inspired by classical ideals. The conspirators might work there, but that did not mean that they entirely accepted the new ways and ideas, ways of commerce and scientific enquiry, paths of economy and stalwart support for the Hanoverian monarchs who had brought stability to the kingdom. Well, they were fools if they thought that anyone would support the overthrow of the king, even if he was a lunatic, only to replace him with the bastard of a feckless Stuart. Bonnie Prince Charlie’s illegitimate grandson, issue of Charlie’s bastard daughter. But someone appeared to be funding this little plot, and Freddie needed to find out who. The light was better out in the New Town. The merchants and professional men had been prepared to pay for a scattering of oil lamps. The streets were also free of ordure and rubbish from the smart houses, for the inhabitants were also willing to fund nightly collections. It was altogether more salubrious than the Old Town up the hill where terrible epidemics of illness used to sweep through the city and had carried off two of his father’s sisters. The girl he’d kissed tonight was certainly safely stored away in one of the new houses. What had her name been? Miss Hero, the redoubtable maidservant had called her. An unusual name, especially up here in Edinburgh. The last Hero he had encountered had been the dim girl in some comedy he’d seen in Drury Lane some months earlier. She had fainted dead away and had an equally silly lover by the name of Claudio. What business had any parent foisting such a name on a girl? What business had any parent foisting such prettiness on a girl? She had been, even in the dusky light, an uncommonly fine-looking girl, with dancing eyes and golden hair under that fright of a bonnet. And her lips! Delicious. It was possible, he supposed, that he might bump into her again. Would she know him? Would she wish to acknowledge any acquaintance with him? With any sane woman, he would have dished his chances with his opportunistic kiss, but somehow, there was something about her that seemed not quite conventional. Not quite the blushing debutante. It was the way she had calmly demanded that he help her find those dreadful dogs. What a girl!

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Freddie’s reverie about Miss Hero had distracted him from his surroundings. It was not quite a fatal distraction, for just as he was turning a corner, he registered that there were two or three men walking steadily behind him, and somehow, the rhythm of their steps had altered from the straightforward sound of men walking in a hurry to get in from the cold to the more delicate, careful tread of men engaged in stalking something. Or someone. Without warning, he leapt off the pavement and into the street, praying that he might avoid any horse manure that lay there and saw up on the pavement two men brandishing cudgels in an unmistakably threatening fashion with a third following up with what appeared to be a sack of some sort in one hand and a knife in the other. “You nearly had me there, gentlemen. But I defy you to best me now.” Apparently casually, he reached into his cloak and drew out a pistol, cocking it carefully as he leveled it at them. “I’m happy to dispatch one of you immediately and take my chances with the other two thereafter, since it will be only a matter of seconds before every inhabitant of this square opens up the windows to demand what in the blazes is going on out here. Do you want to risk taking me on, or would discretion be the better part of valor on this occasion?” In the dark, he could scarcely make out more than their silhouettes, but the movement of their heads as they sought to establish their course of action was clear, as was their decision to drop back. They had been prepared to take on an unarmed dandy, but a pistol-wielding man was a different proposition. Freddy carefully kept them in his sights as he stepped sideways towards the paving like a crab shifting for shelter in the sand. He knew that he could hold them off only temporarily, unless providence was kind enough to send him a passer-by of a helpful disposition. His attackers might be particularly stupid, but if they had a modicum of sense about them, they would be well aware that he had only one shot at his disposal, and shooting in the dark, he was as likely to miss as to hit his target. They had only to get him to discharge his weapon and they would have ample time to bundle him up before the good citizens of this locality were much aroused. It had been a useful opening bluff, but it was only a temporary stalling of their project which he assumed was to do away with him. He had been so sure earlier that he had shaken off the men set to trail him about Edinburgh. It was too much of a coincidence to believe that this was a fresh set of enemies. Which meant that someone had a fair idea of his movements and his mission. He was not sure he could succeed against all three men, yet it went against his more gentlemanly inclinations to shoot point blank into the mass of darkness created by their huddle. Besides, he wanted to get a look at his assailants. Their bulk suggested they were somewhat larger than the fellows who had been following him earlier that evening. They could simply be opportunists from the Fettered Cockerel, or they could be men sent by the disappointed jade there. Still, felons were normally wary of entering the New Town, which was usually bustling and supported a fairly efficient watch. But not, it seemed, tonight. Perhaps it was too cold and too glum, even for the most hardened partygoers. The stalemate was finally broken by the rumble of an approaching carriage. One of the men shouted out, “Not this time, lads--,” and the three of them scattered and melted away down three separate streets, leaving Freddy backing up towards one of the doors of the houses behind him. The carriage rattled away and he waited, his hand poised

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over the bell until it seemed clear that the men had disappeared entirely. Then he made his way, a little more cautiously than he had before, to his destination. At the green door, he rattled at the knocker, rang the bell, and waited. There was a pause, and then a large footman opened the door and grinned at the sight of him. “Mr. Charteris, they’re all waiting for you.” Freddie swung his cape from his shoulders and draped it over the man’s outstretched arms, then doffed his hat and stripped off his gloves before reaching into a pocket for his formal evening gloves. “Are they, by heavens? I’d best make my way upstairs without delay.” He took the stairs two at a time as the footman shook out the cloak in bafflement at its unusual weight before leaping back in shock as the pistol tumbled onto a Turkey carpet, fortunately without discharging. At the top of the stairs, Freddie paused before hearing a hubbub from the main salon at the front of the house. He tried to slip inconspicuously into the room, but was at once taken up by his sister-in-law Mary. “At last, Freddie, where on earth have you been?” Without listening for his answer, she swept him into the room and pointed out a young man and woman standing by the window. “Lizzie and Val have been on pins and needles, and so have we all. Why how long is it since we were last together, all of us from the band of Mountquhidder brigands? Ten years, or eleven? And now finally, we are reunited, apart from Lillian, of course.” “I saw her only a week or so ago, and looking as rosy as possible. I believe she’s expecting her third baby now,” interjected Freddie. “Good for her, the brave girl. Have you told David yet? Probably not, you men never know what is truly important news. And look at you, Freddie, in boots at an evening party! I cannot ask where you were dragged up, as I know only too well it is your carelessness. You drive your mother to distraction, you know.” “I do know, Mary, and I must apologize, but I was kept by business and had no chance to return to my rooms and change.” He sighed as his sister-in-law took a deep breath and prepared for her next diatribe. Mary was a dear girl, but she did lecture so. Freddie wondered how David bore it, except that he knew that Mary was rather more circumspect with her husband than with her younger relations. Hoping to avoid further haranguing, Freddie made his way across the room to Lizzie and Valentine Wemyss. He bowed over Lizzie’s hand and shook Valentine’s with vigor. “How good it is to see you both in Edinburgh, an unexpected bonus to my trip northwards. How do you both do? And your mother? And your sisters?” “You are become as bad as Mary for not letting one get a word in edgeways,” said Lizzie, smiling. “I believe we all do well. A little older and wiser perhaps, but otherwise, much the same. Except for Valentine, who has returned to us safely and garlanded with laurels.” Freddie looked up at his old friend and did not think he appeared to be doing at all well. His golden hair was lank, his face drawn, dark circles had formed about his eyes and a fine beading of sweat shone along his hairline. Beside the rude vigor of the Charteris family and his own sister, Valentine seemed quite worn out. Freddie exchanged a dubious glance with Lizzie who gave a slight shrug and looked away, her eyes glistening with suppressed tears. Here was a to-do!

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Madeleine Conway

15

“I am delighted to see you back safe and sound after your soldiering adventures. But you do not wear your uniform?” “I’ve sold up. The only opportunities now are for service overseas, and I no longer wish to travel. Mother and the girls need me.” Not in this state, thought Freddie, but he was forestalled from probing further as the gathering was called into the ballroom to start their dancing, and he was directed by Mary to usher Lizzie onto the floor. In low tones, he enquired after her brother. “Lizzie, have you any idea what’s up with the old fellow?” They took their places in an eightsome, and their toes started tapping out the rhythm as they waited for other couples to join them. “None. I wish you could take him aside and discover what distresses him so. I’ve never seen him like this, not even when we thought we were washed up after Father died. He seems to get thinner and seedier with every passing day.” “I shall make it my business to find out.” Freddie had his suspicions: he had seen men look so when their doctor prescribed a dose of mercury, but that of course, was hardly a subject one could discuss with a chap’s sister. Or it could be debts, he supposed. Late nights at the gaming table sometimes had the same effect, as did consumption. “I wish you will, and let me know immediately what you discover. I am staying with the Macdonalds. You know them?” “Only vaguely. He’s a pal of Papa’s, so of course I’ve met him, but not since I was a young loon intent on making an ass of myself.” “So he’ll find you little changed, then.” Freddie laughed out loud. “You certainly haven’t, Miss Wasp-tongue. How comes it that you are staying with these Macdonalds and not with all of us cousins?” “Don’t you know about Valentine’s fiancée? Or rather, ex- fiancée.” Lizzie winced. “It’s all deeply uncomfortable, I must tell you. But not now, now you must turn to Aunt Killigrew on your left, and I to dear Uncle John.” The reel commenced and they had no further chance to converse. Of course, Lizzie’s mention of a fiancée intrigued Freddie no end, but he was not to have the opportunity to quiz her about it that evening. Once he had danced with two aunts and a cousin, Freddie took the opportunity to draw Valentine aside. They entered a masculine preserve where their uncles were deep in talk with brother David on sundry matters of great importance. Freddie took a puff of his cheroot before glancing round the room and shaking his head. “A dry bunch, ain’t they. Too much talk and not enough port to my mind.” “I can take you somewhere a little more lively, if you choose. I suppose we must make our farewells to the ladies, but I know that Lizzie is to be taken up by Aunt Killigrew and returned to the Macdonalds. The old girl likes to leave early, so they’ll be on their way soon enough.” “That might be amusing. I shall be happy to accompany you.” “Are you up for play this night?” “I’m always up for play, Val, you know that. Well, perhaps you don’t, since we haven’t crossed paths since the old days at Mountquhidder.” It was half past eleven when Freddie found himself once again in the freezing Edinburgh night, the cold now intensifying. “Do you mind a short walk?” asked Valentine.

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“It’ll be warmer than any other alternative, I daresay,” replied Freddie and made to follow his cousin, hoping that he wouldn’t be led back towards the Fettered Cockerel. Instead, Valentine led them down George Street and then ducked into a mews behind Princes Street. “It’s very discreet you know.” “Does it have a name?” “Not that I know. I’ve only ever heard it referred to as Number Nine.” They were admitted by a large man on whose pate sat an old-fashioned wig like a cherry on a fairy cake. But the man’s eyes were hollow, his shoulders massive, and he caused Freddie an instant of misgiving, for he seemed to share the build of one of the men who had attacked him earlier. Once inside, as he bestowed his cloak on a young woman dressed in footman’s livery, Freddie recognized the type of place immediately. It was a combination of a gambling hell and discreet brothel, run by a woman of steely loveliness by the name of Alethea Sutcliff. She greeted Valentine with a speculative smile. “Good evening, Lieutenant Wemyss.” “You know I’ve sold out, Mistress Sutcliff.” He was gruff, almost barking at her, but the lady did not flinch, merely baring her teeth much as monkeys do when dealing with an aggressor. “I’ve brought my cousin, Mr. Charteris. Recently up from London. He likes a flutter.” Miss Sutcliff raised her eyebrows in silent enquiry, but Val gave a little shake of his head, and her smile deepened but did not reach her eyes at all which remained like chips of winter sky. “How charming. Perhaps you will enjoy our faro table?” Freddie was surprised to find himself unnerved by her. “Is there anywhere I may have a snifter first? We’ve come from such a stuffy evening, I still feel the shadow of our Aunt Killigrew over my shoulder. I cannot go straight to a gaming table with her specter lingering about me.” Miss Sutcliff slipped her hands into the crooks of their elbows and led them down a hallway past several open doors where men deep in play might be seen, accompanied by women who appeared entirely respectable apart from the flimsiness of their dresses. Freddie was deposited like an unwanted parcel in a room occupied by a slight, dark-eyed child singing operatic arias as two rather older women divested themselves of various articles of dress, accompanied by approving growls from an audience of about fifteen men, some of whom he vaguely recognized. Valentine meanwhile, was hurried away for some urgent purpose of Miss Sutcliff’s. If he was entangled with this termagant, no wonder he was run ragged. Still, it was no hardship to listen to Handel, although the nubile nymphs somewhat interfered with Freddie’s concentration. A waiter came up with a glass of cognac, and he settled himself in his seat.

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Chapter 3: In which Miss Veasey considers Valentine Encouraged by Lydia Macdonald’s reminder that every evening until Boxing Day was filled with at least one engagement, Hero retired early. Beattie helped her out of her clothes, lamenting the waste of such finery since Mr. Valentine had left so very early, swept off by that disagreeable old party known to all of Edinburgh’s below-stairs society as quite one of the stingiest and most disobliging individuals. Hero reprimanded Beattie. However enticing it might be to malign Mrs. Killigrew, it would not do. Once she’d dismissed Beattie, Hero found herself still wakeful. She relit the sconces over the writing table, found a fresh nib and settled down to write to Rosamond. She wrote her heart out, as she would have spoken if her cousin had been sitting with her, brushing out her hair and making those sharp little comments that took no prisoners. That was also what she loved about Lizzie, she and Rosamond both said out loud the things that sometimes in her less charitable moments, Hero allowed to cross her mind. They were not vicious, but they were forthright. It would be delicious to be forthright, to speak as she found, never to suffer the platitudes and prattle of one’s acquaintance. But Hero could never bring herself to speak as she found, so she was doomed to nod politely and smile sweetly in response to the inanities she heard, inanities which seemed to increase with every passing day. Once she’d written to Rosamond, Hero sanded and sealed her letter. Then she took her book and stretched out on the meridienne positioned in front of the fireplace. She gazed at the smoldering remains of the fire in the grate, then leafed through until she had found her place in the third volume of Madame D’Arblay’s Camilla. Rosamond had warned her that the book was interminable, but Hero found that she enjoyed it, for it was like hearing someone talk about one’s friends with insight and compassion as well as a little waspishness. Soon lost in the travails of the Tyrold family, Hero lost track of time, but it was not very late when she heard a soft scratching at her door. Then Lizzie eased the door open and looked in. When she saw the candles ablaze, she straightened and entered with her customary energy. Hero shifted up the chaise longue and patted the cushion beside her. Lizzie swooped into position, unlaced her dancing slippers and curled up her knees, massaging her toes. “How glad I am to find you not yet abed.” “I could not sleep. I found myself wishing that Aunt Lydia had not decreed that I must stay home. I have written to Rosamond and read a good deal of Camilla, but as you can see, I have not rested. How was your evening?” “Charming, as all such evenings are at the Charteris’. You will like them very much, I am sure of it, although cousin Mary can be a little managing. And cousin Freddie was there, which was an unexpected pleasure. I was sure he would never come north of the Border again, but there he was, and somehow, despite his air of fashion, as jolly as ever. I am in great hopes that he will winkle Val out of his current fit of the mopes.”

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Madeleine Conway

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An uneasy silence fell. Then, as is the way with such things, both girls began speaking at once. Hero deferred to Lizzie. “It is not your fault, you must not think that.” Hero shook her head. “My head tells me that it is not, but in my heart, I wonder. You and I both know what Valentine can be so gallant, so charming. As he was four years since, when we first met. And even last year, before that dreadful Buchan deceived us all so, he was the same. But it’s been a fortnight since I arrived in Edinburgh and I have found him very altered. One moment he is harsh, the next moment he is all attention. He is more changeable than a weathercock and even less predictable. I hope your cousin Freddie is able to discover the cause of this, for I cannot think it is simply that I have failed to fall into his arms as easily as a pear off a tree.” “If Freddie has overcome his indolence so far as to come to Edinburgh, he can certainly make a push to uncover all of Val’s darkest secrets. I told him as much, but whether he will exert himself is another question.” Hero turned the subject, for sooner or later, she must confess to Lizzie that she had no intention of accepting any renewed offer from Valentine. She did not have the courage to deal with it. Besides, Christmas and the New Year were always such busy times in Edinburgh, the ideal opportunity for Lizzie to make the acquaintance of a suitable young man. Another fortnight or three weeks could make no significant difference to Valentine. “Is he so very idle, this cousin Freddie?” “He didn’t used to be. Not as a boy. He was always up to something. But he is a great worry to all the Charteris clan, for since he left university he has cast this way and that but found no gainful occupation. He worked for a little while under Lord Sidmouth and then for Lord Castlereagh and then he gave up any work and has done nothing of note for two years or more.” “You sound most disapproving. But if his only vice is not to work, he is hardly the only guilty party. Most of our acquaintance do as little. Unless he is massively in debt, gambling away a fortune or flaunting barques of frailty beneath the noses of his family, he does not seem so very wicked.” Lizzie sighed. “I suppose when you put it like that, he is not. But so many of our friends are engaged in all sorts of activities which bring credit upon them and their families, whether in the military, the church, or as men of affairs. Freddie rather sticks out in his failure to stick at anything. That is why I am so surprised to see him in Edinburgh. He’s been avoiding his family and his true friends because he knows we would all be asking him uncomfortable questions about his intentions for the future. It is all very well being rich and young and able to indulge one’s fancies, but it is so contrary to Freddie’s nature. Perhaps that is what upsets us all so.” Hero could not help feeling a twinge of sympathy for this unfortunate cousin: she had fended off so many tiresome and intrusive queries herself that she fully understood the temptation of withdrawing altogether from any arena where these might arise. It seemed, however, unlikely that this particular young man would be able to influence Valentine, except to laze away his time in empty pursuits. “Perhaps your Freddie will find a sense of purpose in saving Valentine.” “Perhaps.” Lizzie rose and gave Hero a goodnight kiss. “I mustn’t keep poor Agnes up any longer. Goodnight, my dear.”

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Madeleine Conway

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If either girl had chanced to see Freddie at that very moment, sitting in Miss Sutcliff’s den of iniquity entirely unsure of what to do next, they would not have held out very great hopes for Valentine’s salvation. Freddie had now sat through the unveiling of four nubile women and numerous songs of an increasingly lewd and rollicking nature, all issuing from the mouth of the weary little child in a tight treble that Freddie suspected would be worn to shreds before much longer. There was no sign of Valentine. Miss Sutcliff had not given the impression that she and Valentine would be giving way to passionate intimacy, but Freddie was reluctant to seek them out in case he interrupted just such a scene. Yet to sit tight and watch this painful burlesque was unbearable. He stood, as if stretching his legs and made for the door. No one seemed to notice him. He strolled out of the room and down the corridor. He headed away from the gambling rooms, avoiding the stairs which would lead only to bedrooms. The house was furnished in the latest style and would have been the envy of many a London hostess. Sin was clearly a paying proposition in Edinburgh, despite the city’s rather strait-laced reputation. But that was lawyers and clerics for you, thought Freddie, hypocrites through and through, appearing abstemious and obedient to the law, but actually seeking to bend it and even break it if it suited them. Of course it did not do to voice such jaundiced notions, but having spent the past hour or more with several of Edinburgh’s more successful advocates and at least three men of the cloth, their tongues hanging out over women half their age, Freddie could not suppress the thought. There seemed little point in hanging about. Valentine would presume that Freddie was availing himself of either the action at the tables or in the bedchambers. There would certainly be no further opportunity for civilized discourse between them. Which was a menace, for it meant that Freddie must look up Valentine on the morrow and try again to extract from his cousin the exact source of his melancholy. Having decided to leave, Freddie found himself thoroughly lost. He had wandered up small stairways, around corners and down steps so often that he had lost his bearings entirely. It was then that he heard a muted burst of cheering led by Valentine. He followed the sound. He was about to enter a door, slightly ajar when he heard Valentine speak again, his voice fiery with energy. “Ladies, gentlemen, I bid you all raise your glasses to the Phoenix. May he rise from the ashes and bring glory to us all.” The occupants of the room responded with fervor. “The Phoenix!!” they chorused and then there was quiet as they downed their wine. Then Valentine resumed his speech. “Caution is the watchword. Stand by, stand ready, stand firm, in the name of the Phoenix. Take your leave of this place now. You will be called when you are needed. We thank you for your support, ladies and gentlemen, and we can promise that it will be wellrewarded when our Phoenix has regained his rightful position.” Freddie stepped away from the door, astounded by the change in his cousin from weary roué to ardent conspirator. With a muffled gasp, he bumped into an unexpected obstacle. He whirled round. It was the singing child. Raising his finger to his lips, the boy beckoned Freddie to follow him. Once they were safely round a corner, the boy opened a door and indicated that they should enter. It was dark, but the child had a tinder box which he used to light the candelabra on the mantel. When he finally spoke, his voice was creaking with weariness and overuse. “You was lost, I daresay, sir.” His dark eyes had lost their vacant stare.

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“You’re from London!” “What if I am? What’s it to you where I’m from? Now give me a shilling and get out of here before they find out you been ear-wigging.” The outstretched paw was surprisingly clean, but the gesture made his tight blue velvet jacket ride up his sleeve, revealing a cruel bruise. “You should leave this place. Your voice won’t stand much more of that caterwauling,” said Freddie dispassionately as he withdrew a shilling and handed it over. “Caterwauling!” The boy’s brows drew together at the insult, like delicate caterpillars. “I’d like to hear you sing half what I sung tonight, mister. Go on, before I change my mind and let them Bedlamites know you been listening in.” “What’s your name?” “What’s it to you?” The boy’s air of belligerence warned Freddie that he was overstepping the mark and rousing suspicions in the child that had nothing to do with the Phoenix and his followers. “I need to know more about the Phoenix. And his supporters. I can pay you.” “Yeah, and I’m going to roll up at your fancy digs and the man’ll admit me with no more than a by your leave,” scoffed the child. He must be ten or eleven, though he looked several years younger in build. Freddie reached into his breast pocket and extracted one of his calling cards. The boy snatched it and to Freddie’s astonishment, was clearly able to read it. “Frederick Charteris, Esquire. Any relation to the Charteris lot that live in Charlotte Square?” “Same family. How do you know of them?” Freddie thought it highly unlikely that David had frequented Number Nine, but perhaps one of the less reputable uncles was a regular. “I makes it my business to know what’s what. I look about myself.” He shoved the card into a trouser pocket, then offered his hand. Freddie shook it. “Dewpin. Edgar Dewpin. Keep your guineas by you for when Dewpin calls.” The boy nodded, and Freddie accepted his dismissal with good grace. The boy would call within the week. It would take more than a guinea to persuade Murdo to admit the urchin, but Freddie had a feeling that Dewpin’s information would be more useful than a month of nights out on the town with Valentine. Once he’d collected his cloak, Freddie took up the porter’s offer of a linkboy. He had no energy for another assault on his person, but anyone walking home alone at two of the morning was offering himself up for a battering at the very least. A hulking fellow appeared, equipped with a lantern and a cudgel. He had a good deal of hair and not much wit, as far as Freddie could tell, but he looked bruising and that might be sufficient deterrent. Once the man discovered that Freddie had come up from London and had seen Daniel Mendoza give an exhibition, he became incessant in his queries and by the time they reached Freddie’s lodging, he half expected the fellow to insist on coming up to demonstrate his science. But the linkman took his fee and tipped his hat to Freddie quietly enough as the door to his rooms opened and Murdo, his blond hair awry and his eyes swollen with sleep, took his cloak with a yawn that would have graced a lion. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

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“No you aren’t.” Murdo lit a second candle and handed it to Freddie. They made their way to the bedroom and there Murdo extracted his master from his clothes. “I hope it was worth it.” “I think it was. I’d better warn you, a young man by the name of Edgar Dewpin is likely to land up on our doorstep in the next few days. Lay in a stock of sweets and some decent biscuits. No dried up wafers. Proper shortbread. And when he comes, treat him better than you’d treat a duke, you understand.” “What start is this? Edgar Dewpin. What kind of a name is that?” “I have no idea, but he’s going to be a very handy chap to have on our side, so you behave yourself when he comes calling. He has my card.” Murdo snorted as he folded up Freddie’s clothes and removed them for laundering. “What time do you want calling in the morning?” “Don’t rouse me before nine. Ideally later. Get some Arbroath smokies for breakfast, will you? I haven’t had a decent kipper in years.” Murdo made to answer back, but Freddie waved him away. “Get to bed, man, get some sleep and no backchat.” Freddie blew out the candle but he did not fall asleep immediately. Valentine Wemyss had clearly misplaced what few marbles life in the army had left him with. He was going to end up on Tower Hill, his family in disgrace once again, what little land and money his mother and sisters had left forfeit. Freddie had a choice: reveal what he had discovered about the Phoenix to his Home Office friend, or keep quiet and see what he could do to make Val abandon this crazy scheme. Sooner or later, he must contact Ivo Dunbar back in London to confirm the suspicions that had been roused in the government about another Stuart pretender no longer content with lurking on the Continent. He did not yet know the exact identity of the mysterious Phoenix, and arguably, simple confirmation of his existence was insufficient for Ivo. Which meant that it would be explicable if he held off for a few days before writing to his old school friend. He shifted once more on his mattress and then fell into blissful and guiltless slumber. When Freddie woke up, it was well past nine. He looked round the room and saw that Murdo had managed to get the fire going without rousing him. He hopped out of bed and into his dressing gown, then ambled to the dining room, where he discovered the table laid for one, a copy of a sporting paper and two invitations. There were two kippers keeping warm in a chafing dish on the sideboard and all felt right with Freddie’s world. He knew that while he ate, Murdo would be preparing hot water and laying out clothes and generally seeing to his comfort. If things went as quickly as they had done yesterday evening, they should be free to return to London in a week or two. Once he was shaved, bathed and dressed, Freddie set out for the Charteris house round the corner. He expected a jawing from Mary about his desertion of her soirée the previous evening, and received his due within seconds of stepping into her morning room. But she could only hiss a muted scolding for she had visitors: cousin Lizzie and with her a very fetching young lady, with merry eyes, a dainty nose, dimples and a mass of golden curls. He swallowed hard. “Miss Veasey, this is my naughty brother-in-law, Mr. Charteris. Make your bow, Freddie dear, do and then sit down and you may explain exactly where you went last night after abandoning us so precipitately.”

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“Forgive me, Mary, once Aunt Killigrew had left the company all the sparkle went out of the evening for me.” Lizzie chuckled as Mary Charteris rolled her eyes. “One day your funning will catch up with you.” Freddie noticed that Miss Veasey had jumped slightly when he had spoken and was now watching him intently, her elegant features troubled by a slight frown. “The truth, Mary, is that Valentine noticed how low Aunt Killigrew’s absence had brought me and suggested that we join some friends of his for wine and song. It is a good long while since our paths crossed, and we both wished to hear each other’s news.” Miss Veasey shook her head slightly as if to clear her mind of some pressing notion, then turned her attention fully to the conversation. “Are you planning to meet up with him again today?” asked Lizzie. “Val?” replied Freddie. “No, you looby, the duke of Wellington! Of course Val.” “No fixed plans. And you?” He did not mean to exasperate Lizzie, but he did wish that females would cease trying to pump him for information. There were some things one just did not wish to reveal to females from one’s family. Respectable females. “We should be returning home,” intervened Miss Veasey. “The dogs, you know. They need a little more exercise and then they will sleep for the rest of the day.” It was then that Freddie saw the cream and caramel mass that lay by the fire. He looked once at the dogs and then at Miss Veasey. She met his gaze with limpid eyes as blue as the sea on a sunny day. He opened his mouth then closed it again. The blush rose from his neck, the blood rising to his cheeks until he was puce as the shawl carelessly lying across the back of a chair. Miss Veasey’s pretty lips curved and her sparkling eyes danced with mischief as she surveyed Freddie’s discomfort. “Are you quite well, Mr. Charteris?” asked the minx, and he sputtered, which made Mary fuss and rush to a side table where there was a tray of biscuits and orgeat. Lizzie threw her hands up in frustration and went to the window, which calmed both Freddie and his tormentor. “I’m perfectly well, thank you.” He could feel his skin cooling and his confusion abated. “What charming animals. But I find that certain breeds make me sneeze.” Lizzie snorted. “That’s the first I’ve heard of it.” “It has come on me recently. Since I was in London. That’s where I first noted it.” “I daresay you don’t experience it with gundogs and foxhounds,” said Miss Veasey. “Many people who encounter Achilles and Ajax react exactly as you have done.” Her features were calm, almost bland. She had superb eyes, sweeping brows, and an entirely delicious mouth, the lower lip full and the upper sweetly curved and rich, thick hair the color of spun sugar blended with gold, tendrils escaping at her temples and the nape of her neck. Freddie knew he must be gawping, but he could not help himself. He’d kissed her the previous night because he’d feared the men he was following were aware of his presence, but today, in the watery winter sunshine of his sister-in-law’s first floor parlor, he wanted to kiss her because she was quite the loveliest woman he had set eyes on. Mary thrust a glass of orgeat into his hand. He could not quell his revulsion. “This will make me far sicker than the dogs.”

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Lizzie came over and stood by him, her tone menacing. “Drink it, and it will arm you to escort us back to Queen Street.” He closed his eyes and drained the glass, grateful that it was a delicate little tumbler. He swallowed the sickly sweet liquid and stood up. “I am ready to escort you and your dogs to the ends of the earth, ladies.” Mary bustled and fussed in the hallway as the two girls donned their pelisses and bonnets. Freddie was quite relieved to have escaped his brother’s house so easily, for he knew that if Mary had been alone, he’d have been subjected to a thorough grilling on all his doings. As they set off down the west side of Charlotte Square, Lizzie looked at Freddie approvingly. “You may be a noodle, Freddie, but at least you are a very dapper one. It will do us no end of credit to be seen with such a swell. Now, tell me what you discovered yesterday evening.” She linked one arm with him and the other with Hero, who had her two nemeses on leads in one hand. “Very little.” He watched as Ajax and Achilles tangled themselves. All three had to stop as Hero patiently unwound the leads, then offered to take one of the dogs himself. “If you are sure it will not make you sneeze, Mr. Charteris.” She gave that deceptively demure smile again. He wished Lizzie at least a hundred miles away. Several hundred miles, or a thousand. “Quite sure.” They resumed walking and Lizzie continued to worry at her cousin. “Do tell me, Freddie. You may be quite free before Miss Veasey, she is as concerned for Val as I am.” It was Miss Veasey’s turn to blush, although her bonnet concealed the worst of her confusion. “I have known Mr. Wemyss for several years now. He visited my home in Yorkshire last year.” After the sweet realization that he had so swiftly encountered the object of his attentions the previous evening, this intelligence was dismaying. Valentine was a fool to be hanging about the skirts of La Sutcliff when he had a charmer like Miss Veasey to woo. Freddie’s discretion was exercised to its limit in avoiding Lizzie’s probings. Fortunately the walk to Queen Street was short and Lizzie spent a good deal of it inveighing against Freddie’s incompetence in allowing Val to wander off while he absorbed himself at some tiresome game of chance. He apologized profusely for being so blundering, promised faithfully to do better in the future and by that time, found that they had reached the Macdonalds’ door. He made his bow and extracted a promise from both ladies to dance with him at the Charteris ball the following evening. Then he handed Ajax back to Miss Veasey. Their eyes met. She had been subdued during their walk, perhaps because Lizzie’s grilling had left little room for anyone else to speak, but he thought also that there was an air of sadness about her. Perhaps news of Valentine’s misdemeanors had reached her ears. And he distinctly remembered that Lizzie had said she was an ex-fiancée. Miss Hero Veasey intrigued Freddie considerably more than the clandestine activities of his cousin Valentine, but after their first precipitate meeting, what sensible girl would have anything to do with him?

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Chapter Four: In which there is dancing and gaiety The Charteris ball, which took place every year the week before Christmas, was widely regarded as the unofficial opening of the Edinburgh season. Everyone from Edinburgh society was there: old Maconochie the Lord Advocate, Sir William Rae and his great friend Walter Scott, said by some to be the author of Waverley and Guy Mannering, not to mention Erskines, Elphinstones, Mintos, Colquhons as well as luminaries of the literary scene like young polemicist Gibson Lockhart and, finally, a host of empty-headed youth eager only for dancing. This was Mary’s fourth year in charge of the festivities, and she appeared determined to outdo herself. She had taken for her theme Jack Frost, and seemed to have pressed elfin sprites to run through all the public rooms in the Charlotte Square house coating everything in silver and white. In each of the main rooms there was an ice sculpture: in the card room, a seascape with two ships and a beach on which an abundant ice jungle shimmered; in the dining room, a pastoral scene of cows and sheep, surrounded by a cornucopia of nature’s bounty, suspended in frozen water, grapes, peaches, plums, apples, lemons, and an arrangement of iris, tulips, jonquils, carnations, roses and even dahlias, somehow sculpted with infinite care. The pièce de resistance was in the main ballroom, where on a dais stood a proud castle atop craggy cliffs, with a knight painstakingly climbing the path on his charger, fully armored to rescue a princess reaching from a tower. Magnificent as the ice statues were, they filled Hero with unexpected melancholy, for so much time and effort and discomfort must have gone into their making and yet within a few hours, they would dwindle into nothing more than puddles, scarcely worth a mention in the journals of the guests who were by now thronged in the various rooms. But Hero’s dejection was swiftly dispelled for almost the second they entered the ballroom, she and Lizzie were both taken up by partners who had reserved their dances with both young ladies several days beforehand. Hero had scarcely a moment to herself again that evening, for she was wellknown and well-liked. She was a nimble dancer as well as being agreeable and soothing company. Although many still assumed that Valentine Wemyss had first call on her affections, this did not deter the gentlemen from asking her for a dance. Valentine was one of the first to lead her onto the dance floor. It was an energetic reel, leaving little time or breath for private conversation, which was a relief to both parties. As soon as it was over, he returned her to the care of Lydia Macdonald, checking that he was still down to escort her into supper. Freddie was waiting with Mrs. Macdonald, for Hero was promised to him for the next dance. He bowed as he saw her approach and held out his arm for her. She slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow and they both started a little. Brown eyes met blue, they glanced away and both swallowed. Freddie led her to their set and they took

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their positions. The fiddles started up and the dancers bowed and curtsied before coming together. The dance was altogether more sedate than the previous one, allowing the dancers to catch their breaths and converse a little. But Hero and Freddie were both silent as they turned and brought their palms together then twirled away again. Even through her kid gloves, his touch seemed warmer, more alive than that of other men. It was as if some current ran between them, and she spoke to distract her attention from it. “Charming....” “Lovely....” Freddie inclined his head, “Ladies first.” “I was just going to say how beautifully Mrs. Charteris has decorated the house.” “Yes, she has a gift for it, I think.” “Lizzie tells me that this is the first time you have been in Edinburgh for some years.” “Yes.” Freddie racked his brains for something clever to say, but somehow, the sight of Miss Veasey drove out all rational thought, and he wanted only to gaze at her like a moonling. It wouldn’t do. “This is the first time I’ve been to one of these great affairs since I was a lad of sixteen. Spectacular, don’t you think?” “Quite. But you must be accustomed to such magnificence in London.” “A little. Not really. Not much of a fellow for balls and such.” He was making a fool of himself, he knew, but somehow, he could not stop himself sounding like a complete idiot. So it would be better, he concluded, to say nothing at all. His last hopeless response had successfully quelled Miss Veasey’s attempts at small-talk, so they danced on in silence, their mutual embarrassment increasing like a balloon filling with hot air and noxious gases. As he escorted her to her next partner, Freddie asked for another dance. “Another?” Miss Veasey’s patent astonishment made him smile. She smiled back and hope took wing. Very definitely, he said, “Yes, if you please, if your card is not full.” “Are you sure?” “Of course.” She consulted her dance card and he saw as she read through the scrawls there that she had the last dance of the evening still unspoken for. He took the tiny lead she carried and penciled in his name. “There. I should have recovered my wits by then.” Hero laughed. “You have been an unusual partner thus far.” “I hope to be more remarkable and less foolish.” He was about to add more, to explain the kiss, apologize, beg her pardon, but just then a stout fellow in regimentals approached with a proprietorial air. Freddie handed over his partner with good grace. “Dalhousie, you are next in line for Miss Veasey, I take it.” The soldier bowed over Hero’s hand and swept her away. Freddie watched her go. She did not cast any further glances in his direction, and he noticed that Dalhousie had already managed to make her face light up with laughter. “It’s damnable to see her smiling and joking with other fellows. What a fool I’ve been.” Valentine’s aggrieved tone made Freddie start. “Have you?”

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Valentine rolled his eyes. “You must be the only person in Edinburgh to be unaware of my folly.” “You’d better tell me all about it, old chap.” This elicited a garbled account of a betrothal, a misunderstanding, a breaking of the betrothal and all laid at the door of some fellow from Valentine’s regiment who had been sowing mischief in Yorkshire the previous summer. “I fear I am a little slow, Val, but what was the exact nature of the misunderstanding that led to you breaking the engagement?” “I cannot speak of it. It was too shameful, not the sort of thing one can mention. But it is a testament to Miss Veasey’s good heart that she will even stand up for a dance with me. If only she would allow me to renew my suit.” Freddie forbore to say that Valentine’s interest in Miss Veasey seemed to owe more to remorse and regret than any true affection. In addition, he had noticed some glaring omissions in Val’s erratic account of the affair. It was hardly possible to question Miss Veasey, which left only Lizzie. It was fortunate that he was due to dance next with his cousin. It was difficult to navigate the tide of guests in the rooms, for many were old acquaintances who had not seen Freddie since he was in short coats and on seeing him now, a fetching young buck with charming manners, neither too formal nor too dégagé, were determined to commend the alteration. He was swept forward, then checked by first this lady then that asking how he did and how long had it been since he had last been in Edinburgh and did he intend to stay this time and how long his hair was and was that really the height of fashion in London? Eventually, he found Lizzie, who was examining her dance card with puzzlement. “Can you make out this name, Freddie?” She shoved the tiny case at him and he turned it this way and that in an effort to decipher the scrawl there. “Johnny Lynedoch swore it was his name, but after I danced with him, Mr. Henry Sinclair came and found us and gave us both a jawing for it was his dance.” “One of your typical scrapes, Lizzie. And you shouldn’t have anything to do with Lynedoch, he’s a tearaway.” “Funny, that’s what he says of you. But at least he comes home regularly. Are we going to dance or do you prefer to walk me gently about the room?” “Which would suit you best, Lizzie?” “The walking. You need not worry that I will dance again with Lynedoch, he’s got the heaviest feet, and he managed to land them on my toes with painful regularity.” They made their way round the room until they found a vacant love-seat with an excellent view of the dance floor. Lizzie maintained a running commentary of the gowns on display and updated Freddie on certain new personalities who had come to prominence since his previous exposure to Edinburgh society. Inevitably, his eyes followed Hero. She looked delectable. “She’s in extremely good looks this evening, isn’t she?” said artless Lizzie. “Magnificent. What color do you call that?” “Blue. A modiste might call it ice blue, or arctic blue or some such poetical thing, but I call it blue. It is made of satin and embroidered in silk, and very cleverly, Hero has instructed the dressmaker to eschew any excess lace. It goes well with her eyes, which are several shades darker and very fine, wouldn’t you say?”

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“Very.” He could not seem to stop gazing at her. She was laughing now as she danced with Hugh Elliott. She looked even more beautiful when she laughed, which was strange because so many people looked quite terrible throwing their heads back and cackling like zanies. One could not describe Miss Veasey’s laugh as a cackle, more a thrilling ripple of delight. He sighed. “I should not encourage you, Freddie. I should be busy promoting my dear brother’s interest and warning you away from Miss Veasey.” Lizzie nudged him and that finally broke the spell that Miss Veasey had unwittingly cast on Freddie. “Why so glum, Lizzie?” “If Val’s suit founders, so shall we all. He’s used up all our money. We’ve not a bean left.” “Unless you make a good match. You’ve admirers aplenty.” “I suppose I have, and several honest, upright fellows who would make splendid husbands, quite ready to take on a parcel of refractory females from Fife. But I don’t particularly care for any of them. I shall have to make up my mind soon. In my heart, I know that Hero and Val will never make a match of it.” “Why not? You were about to tell me all about it, but we were distracted the other night. Tell me now, let me know the worst.” “I haven’t managed to winkle the whole story out of Val, for he says that it is indelicate, but I have pieced together this: Hero first came to Edinburgh four years ago, and when she saw Val was quite smitten. They corresponded and when he returned from the Low Countries last year, he went to stay with his colonel whose place is near the Veasey’s home in Yorkshire. They were engaged, but something happened, something wicked, which made Val believe terrible things of her. So at the very party where they were meant to be announcing the betrothal officially, my stupid brother denounced her in public in the most humiliating and reprehensible fashion. She was very ill, and during her illness, it was all uncovered that some loathsome creature from the regiment had sown a pack of lies that had sprung into a fully-fledged wheat field. Hero’s name was cleared, but she has, understandably, never looked on Val in quite the same light since.” This clarified some of Valentine’s more obscure mutterings. “Does he genuinely believe there is any hope?” asked Freddie. “I do not know. He behaves so inconsistently. One moment he is all attention, the next he vanishes like a particularly shy vole. He tells me nothing, but I have my suspicions that there is some woman who has her claws dug rather deep. One of the muslin company, though I know I ought not to speculate.” “No, I suppose you shouldn’t.” Freddie’s collar seemed unreasonably tight. He ran a finger down it. Lizzie fixed him with her gimlet eye. Suddenly he felt like a pigeon that has blundered its way into the path of a peregrine falcon which was even now bearing down on him at high speed. No wonder Val was shy around Lizzie. “Where did you go with him the other night, Freddie?” “I ah, lost track of him, and ah, found myself in a--a....” He frowned and scratched his head, then nursed his chin, “do you know, Lizzie, I have no idea where I found myself. I was quite castaway, which I’m sure I shouldn’t tell you, but you know how low we chaps can sink.” Lizzie’s glance was at once scornful and pitying. “Is that the best you can do?”

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There was nothing for it but to brazen it out. He certainly wasn’t going to discuss Valentine’s attachment to the alluring Alethea with the fellow’s sister. Freddie applied his most vacant grin and said, “I say, yes. It is. You know, this dance is nearly over.” “Freddie, you are too tiresome. Are you going to be of any use or are you going to obstruct me at every turn?” “What have I done to obstruct you? Now, that’s going too far, Lizzie, I haven’t done anything of the sort.” “You won’t tell me what you’ve discovered, and I know you have discovered something, Freddie Charteris, you never come the looby unless you’re hiding something. And you’re mooning after Hero Veasey like a--a....” “Moonling?” “The very thing.” “Does it matter?” “You dangling after Hero? Not in the slightest. But I wish you would be frank with me about my brother.” Which made Freddie feel very guilty. It was a relief when Lizzie’s next partner came up, and Freddie himself saw that it was his duty to stand up with the numerous wallflowers that dear Mary had invited. It was fortunate that Freddie’s reputation for being a rather blockish young man had survived all the years of his absence from Edinburgh, for he was most distracted as he danced through reels, jigs, strathspeys and even a quadrille with scarcely a word for his partners. He never missed a figure or stepped on a toe, his smile was amiable and his deportment pleasing, but he had no conversation despite all those years of supposed London polish. Freddie was well aware of his shortcomings. While he could manage to concentrate on the dance steps which seemed to be ever more complicated and still mull over all he had learnt from the Wemyss siblings, he could not also manage small talk, which was tricky but not insurmountable. At least Mary could have nothing to complain at since he was standing up for every dance. And how interminable they were. He glanced about the ball room for a clock, but he could not see one. The ball seemed destined to continue all night, and that final dance with Hero appeared very distant. Even if he managed to survive until that last dance, they would both be too exhausted to enjoy it. And why had Mary included not one waltz in her program for the evening? Edinburgh was straitlaced but quick enough to adopt London fashions within a season. At last, Freddie was rewarded when he sought out Hero at past two in the morning. She looked quite as soignée as she had at the start of the evening, although a little weary. “Miss Veasey?” He bowed and held out his arm. She slipped her hand into the crook and followed with a nod. “I saw you dancing with Mr. Lynedoch. Lizzie tells me he is a little careless with his toes. I hope you haven’t suffered unduly.” “No, I managed to whisk my feet away in time. She had warned me, but it is a hazard of this kind of party.” “This will be the first of many for you, I daresay.” “But not for you, Mr. Charteris?” “I cannot tell. I do not know how long I will be in Edinburgh.”

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“We will miss you if you desert us so swiftly.” “I shouldn’t think so. I’m handy as are all unmarried gentlemen, but I am persuaded that my absence would go unremarked within a day or two.” The band completed its tuning up and the first bars of a waltz were played. Freddie was glad to see that Mary was not so impervious to London fashions as she claimed. “You do waltz, Miss Veasey?” asked Freddie. “I do waltz, Mr. Charteris.” And she held out her arms. He put one hand to her waist and held out his hand so that she might rest her palm in it. He kept a slight distance between them and they swung onto the dance floor. It was difficult to sustain the light hold he had on her, for as soon as he drew close to her, he had wanted to pull her even closer, as he had only nights before. Delicate strands of hair had escaped from her coiffure, creating a nimbus of light around her head. Although her gown was modest, it did reveal an expanse of creamy skin, and a gentle flush of exertion added roses to her cheeks. He had not previously realized how long and luxuriant were her eyelashes, nor how neat and elegant her nose was, nor how gracefully she carried herself. “Miss Veasey, I must apologize.” She looked into his eyes and gave a little nod. “You probably should, but I do not believe I wish to know what it is you are apologizing for. I think it would be best if we consider that the deed for which you should apologize never happened. No one knows it happened except for you and me, and I am perfectly prepared to forget it.” “Therein lies my difficulty. I am not so prepared.” “I find that hard to believe. A gentleman should forget anything a lady wishes him to forget, and I am sure, Mr. Charteris, that you are a complete gentleman.” She had him. He could not press her further. “There,” she said, “I am enjoying this dance enormously. And now that you have cleared your conscience for some misdemeanor that you never actually committed, I hope you are enjoying it too.” Her words released him from all the irksome speculation that had marred his evening hitherto. She had given him permission to devote himself to the waltz and her, and he was determined that nothing else should interfere. Even when he caught a glimpse of Valentine with a face as sour as an unripe plum, he could not help reveling in the sensation of whirling about the dance floor with this delightful young woman in his arms. When it came to its inevitable end, they applauded and he escorted her back to her aunt. As they wove through the crush, he said, “I hope that you will favor me with another waltz very soon.” “I should be delighted. Now that we have cleared the air between us, I hope that we can be firm friends, just as you are with Lizzie.” Freddie raised his eyebrows. Clearly Miss Veasey had not spoken to Lizzie Wemyss this evening, or she’d know that he had vexed her friend. Besides which, Lizzie regarded him as someone meriting as little respect as a brother, and brotherly was the last thing his feelings were for Miss Veasey. But brotherly was better than nothing, so he lowered his eyebrows and made his bow. “Friends it is, Miss Veasey.” Up bustled Mrs. Macdonald, pleased to see Freddie again, and hoping, as no doubt his dear mother did, that he would stay put and settle down now that he’d had all

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that gallivanting down in London. She followed this with enquiries after Grizel Charteris and a minute inspection of Hero, then decided it was really time that they should be on their way and bade goodnight to Freddie. “Call on us, dear boy, you know your cousin Lizzie is staying with us and I am sure you will wish to catch up with her.” “I shall do that, Mrs. Macdonald, thank you.” He watched as Hero was swept away by her aunt. She turned and gave him a final smile as she left the ballroom where, as she had anticipated, the magnificent ice castle lay in a shapeless ruin. It took at least another hour before the final guests left the Charteris house, which was the point at which Freddie felt he could bid goodnight to his brother and sister-inlaw. He congratulated them for a stunning evening and left before any post-mortems on the evening’s events could begin. He knew that David and Mary were both likely to discuss the ramifications and complications of who had danced with whom, of who had avoided whom, of who had spoken in quiet corners with whom until dawn, but he did not have the stamina for such intense dissection. He left the Charlotte Square house to hear the bell of St. George’s church toll the quarter past three. He had accepted his brother’s offer of an escort in the person of one of the larger footmen, but when Valentine loomed from the church’s portico, both men stopped. “Valentine, why on earth are you lurking about there?” “I wanted to talk to you. Send this fellow back and I’ll walk you back.” This was an eminently reasonable proposal, but it filled Freddie with some misgiving. “No need, Val, head off to your bed now, and Laurie will see me to my rooms.” “I’ll walk with you then. I’m going that way myself.” It occurred to Freddie that he had no idea where Valentine was lodging. It was quite possible, if he was so very short of money, that he was staying at Miss Sutcliff’s disorderly house, but that was hardly an address to which correspondence and sisters could be directed. If Valentine were genuinely going his way, it would be churlish to turn him off. And once he was home, he could call on Murdo for assistance if Valentine took a pop at him. “Val, do you want to take a pop at me?” “Why should I?” “I’ve no idea. Do you, though?” Freddie pressed on, hoping that he appeared a touch foxed to his companion. “Of course not. I don’t think you should have danced that waltz with Her--Miss Veasey, but that isn’t enough for me to want to strike you.” “Good.” “Are you drunk, Freddie?” “Nary a bit. You know how it was, had to stand up with every antidote that Mary had hauled out of hiding, no time for drink. Bit of lemonade. Vile stuff. Even the negus was a namby-pamby concoction. Did you try it?” “Yes. Very safe.” “Too safe by half. You’d have thought a punch would have had a bit of punch to it, a kick or something. Don’t know what David was thinking of, leaving it to the petticoat brigade. Left everything to Mary. Always does.”

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“That’s not what I want to talk to you about.” By this time, they had arrived at Freddie’s door and there stood Murdo, holding it open with a resigned expression. “I suppose you’d better come up,” said Freddie, finally. He tipped Laurie and led Val upstairs, followed by a yawning Murdo.

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Chapter Five: In which Freddie behaves foolishly The furniture which occupied a little of the cavernous room was sparse but respectable. Murdo had drawn the curtains, and two upright walnut chairs sat on a frayed rug before the embers of a fire. The only other pieces in the room were a secretaire, its upper shelves devoid of books, and a pair of half-lune tables on which sat, to Valentine’s relief, a pair of decanters, both full. One held port, the other whisky. “A touch Spartan,” commented Valentine as he looked round the room. “I believe the proprietor expects his tenants to bring their own furnishings. It was with great difficulty I persuaded him to supply two chairs. He thought one would be more than adequate. As for the tussle over the provision of a bed--well, it is a tedious tale.” Freddie followed Valentine’s gaze and went over to the table, “Port or whisky?” “Whisky. Whose is it?” “I’ve no idea, never drink it. Murdo bought it, in case of visitors.” Freddie walked over to Valentine with the glass before giving the fire a prod. Murdo had brought up more coal before turning in, but the fireplace was too small to have much of an effect on the room. “This place never seems to warm up. I might give it up and take up David’s offer of rooms at Charlotte Street.” “I can’t think why you aren’t staying there in the first place. These places cost a pretty penny and this one’s damnably uncomfortable.” Val took a swig from his tumbler. “Mmm, a good malt this.” Freddie sat and watched as Valentine drank. He did not think his friend would notice that he had not availed himself of a fortifying port. If only Val would get to the point swiftly. But the silence between them deepened as Val gazed into the fire like a seer seeking enlightenment from an oracle. Freddie half expected him to rise and start intoning weird incantations before attempting to summon supernatural aid. With Val in his current mood, anything was possible. “Freddie, you’re pretty warm, ain’t you?” The perfectly coherent question startled Freddie, although it was somewhat forward. “I scrape by.” This was a gross understatement, but Freddie was not prepared to reveal to his impoverished cousin that he had made the most of the money his parents had settled on him, not to mention a pair of handy legacies from a godfather and an aunt. Although he concealed it from his family, Freddie had an unexpected talent for spotting a likely prospect and was quite happy to put up some money to back a venture before it was quite commercial. Sometimes he lost the investment, but usually, he made it back safely and on three occasions, had found winners that flourished and promised to make him extremely rich. It seemed a much better use for his assets than dropping them in a game of dice or cards. “Scrape by? That’s what I do, old man.” Valentine took another gulp of whisky. He leaned forwards, his elbows resting on his knees, cradling the glass in both palms, rolling it to and fro. “I’m in the suds.”

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At this point, clearly Freddie was expected to offer to lend Val some money. Instead, he said, “I could send money to Mrs. Wemyss. We could say it came from you. A small sum, nothing unbelievable. A monthly sum. Would that help?” Valentine grimaced. “Anything would help, Freddie, but I’m not yet reduced to fleecing my friends and family. No, I’ll come about. I simply wondered if you wished to come into a little venture I have in mind.” “What sort of venture?” “It could make our fortunes, Freddie, make us richer than Croesus. All we need is a sum to start us off and then everyone in Scotland will be flocking to fund us.” It was with foreboding that Freddie realized what Val was talking about. “Start who off, Val? Explain it to me. I’ve invested in uncertain ventures before, but not on so little information.” Passion fired in Valentine’s weary eyes. “There’s a man, a man who can change everything. We need money for him, you know what this place is, you can do anything, buy any number of people, if you have enough money. Once we have the money, this man can help Scotland regain its independence. Perhaps even bring the rest of Britain with us. We just need a little money to start things off.” Freddie gave a rueful grin. “Frightfully sorry, Val, I only invest money in things, not people. If you were talking about a coffee house or a manufactory of gas lamps, I’m your man, but not this kind of business. It’s all a bit vague for my taste.” “Vague! Well, I ought to have known better, you’ve made your preference for London and its soft ways perfectly clear. Forget I spoke.” He drained his tumbler, but his dramatic gesture fizzled out somewhat when he realized there was no convenient table on which he could slam it before stalking out of the room. He stood, looking about him and the five paces it took him to reach the tables against the wall rather deflated his bombast. “It’s true enough, Val, I do like London. It’s a most amusing place and when I’m there, I may please no one but myself. The other offer still stands, cousin.” He walked over and held out his hand. “Friends?” Val gave him a long look, then held out his hand, almost against his will. Freddie took it and pressed it in both hands. “Whatever you’re up to, Val, come to me for help if it all gets out of hand. But I’d advise against you putting your trust in one chap. Look at the poor Frenchies, stuck with that blighter Napoleon. Remember your father. He followed the Young Pretender and where did it get him?” “Nowhere. Perhaps you’re right.” “Of course I am.” Freddie cleared his throat. “Besides, you have Miss Veasey to consider. With her at your side, you might make a decent future for yourself.” “Miss Veasey! You were mighty cozy with Miss Veasey this evening, Freddie. What do you mean by it?” “I might ask you the same, Val. What are your intentions? There’s Miss Sutcliff on the one hand and Miss Veasey on the other.” “It’s none of your business.” “I might make it my business. You’re mad to waste your time with Miss Sutcliff when you might be making the most of your opportunities with Miss Veasey.” “That’s blunt.” Val tried to appear affronted but was simply mystified. “What’s my love-life to you, Freddie?”

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“Lizzie worries about you. And when I met Miss Sutcliff, I began worrying about you also. She’s a cool piece, Val, a dangerous piece. I’ve seen the type before and I’ve seen my friends entangled in that kind of snare. I don’t wish it on you.” “I believe you misunderstand Miss Sutcliff. She’s a fine woman, one who’s had to overcome obstacles a girl like Miss Veasey could not dream of. Miss Sutcliff has suffered. I only seek to alleviate that suffering a little, rebuild her faith in her fellow humans. That’s all, Freddie.” Freddie forbore to comment further. Val was clearly infatuated with the woman and there was no gainsaying him. Any attempt at advice or persuasion would fail. Freddie stood and waited while Val gathered up his evening cloak, hat, and gloves. He sent his cousin on his way and headed to bed where his last conscious thought was of Miss Veasey’s graceful presence and luminous smile. At breakfast, a late breakfast at eleven, Freddie had ample time to contemplate the sorry state of his cousin’s affairs. Valentine Wemyss was remarkably detached from the young lady he professed to love. Except that Freddie could not recall Val saying anything much about loving Hero--Miss Veasey. He berated himself for the opportunities he had missed the previous night: if he had had any wits about him, he would have managed his cousin better, seeming to dangle the bait of money before him and then extracting from Val the names and numbers of his associates, including, no doubt, the seductive Miss Sutcliff. But the lengthy evening and the dances with Miss Veasey had distracted him. He would not allow that to happen again. She was the most charming young woman he’d met, but she was not for him. It was hardly as if he needed to marry an heiress, it was hardly as if he needed to marry anyone and marriage was the only direction in which flirtation with a lady such as Miss Veasey might lead. Quite apart from the ticklish issue of Val’s prior claim on her. Freddie did his best to recall the conversation with Val, but it had been late and he had been feeling impatient. Damn and blast Ivo Dunbar and his wild ideas. Freddie had scarcely been in Edinburgh a fortnight and he now found himself knee-deep in Jacobite sympathizers, romantic entanglements and social engagements, none of which had played any part in his winter plans. Thoroughly disgruntled, Freddie went out, not entirely sure what his purpose was in leaving his lodgings, but certain that he did not wish to sit in the draughty barracks he had rented. He soon left the New Town and within half an hour, was striding into Holyrood Park past St. Margaret’s Well. He headed east towards St. Anthony’s Well before turning towards the south to climb Arthur’s Seat. It was a scramble, but a beautiful one as he rose above the clamor and grime of the city. The year had been damp and glum, but for once, the sun was out, the sky was clear and he had magnificent views towards the Loch. After being cramped up in ballrooms and salons, the fresh air was chilly but welcome. In London, he was accustomed to regular bouts of fencing, rides out to Richmond or walks up to Hampstead with friends. But since his departure from London some three weeks before, Freddie had scarcely managed to stretch his legs, so the exercise was exhilarating. It took two hours for him to climb to the summit and by the time he reached it, he was ravenous, not having thought to provide himself with any refreshment for the climb. Once he’d caught his breath and had his fill of the view, he began clambering down the steep incline towards Duddingston village, where he knew of an inn where they served a

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respectable dinner. Then he must return to the New Town by the quickest means possible, else he’d be late for another of his sister-in-law’s soirées. He had forgotten how wild and beautiful even this relatively civilized corner of Scotland could be. Rolling hills unfurled to the south, a blend of cultivated land, pasture and forest, the leafless trees black against the green and brown of grass and bracken. The loch below him gleamed, reflecting the blue of the sky and the pewter of the rocks around its edge. It had not yet iced over. They needed a month of hard frost for that, and the temperature, although it was plummeting after an unseasonably warm and humid November, was not yet cold enough. Freddie wondered whether there would be skating this season, remembering jolly skating parties got up by his parents and their friends. One year, Val had fallen through the ice, the lumbering great clodpole, and it was only Freddie’s fleet action in finding a branch for him to hold onto that had saved him. By the time he reached the Sheep’s Heid Inn, Freddie was ready for the meanest of meals, but they put before him oysters, a decent game pie, mutton and potatoes and a crumble of blackberries and apple. The cellar was stocked with a fine claret, and Freddie was quite happy to settle in a parlor beside a decent fire after his meal for a final glass of the Pomerol. He had no inclination to return to the bosom of his family. By the time he’d finished his meal, it was almost five. He was very inclined to send a messenger to Charlotte Square and remain at the Sheep’s Heid for the evening. Except that Mary would harry and hound him for the lapse and it would not be fair to subject his brother to countless animadversions on his worthlessness and inadequacy. Tucked into a corner of the snug, Freddie sipped at his wine and glanced through an old copy of the Edinburgh Review that he’d found lying about the place. Jeffrey’s reviews were as spiteful and amusing as ever, rousing Freddie’s envy and making him wonder whether he should take up his pen in the service of some cause, except that he felt that if he were sufficiently angered to do so, his prose would be immoderate, while if he were not sufficiently irate, it would be insufferably dull. However, the realization that another party was entering the parlor did rouse him. He rose from the wing-chair as the door opened and in came, wearing a most delicate bonnet, the unmistakable Miss Sutcliff. Freddie remained standing and bowed. She did not recognize him at first. “I do beg your pardon, I must have misheard the direction. I understood that there was a private parlor.” “I believe this is it. I am on the point of departure in any case, so please, make yourself comfortable and I will withdraw.” Her glance was a little perplexed. “Have we met, sir?” Freddie was not sure how to reply. It would be indelicate to state that they had met at her bawdy-house, especially since she seemed to be travelling in the guise of a gentlewoman. He resorted to a somewhat doltish stammer. Miss Sutcliff inclined her head and nodded, a contemptuous smile playing at her lips. “Oh, yes, Mr. Wemyss’ friend, I believe. Mr. Charteris, was it not?” “Mm, ah, yes, entirely, just so. Miss Sutcliff, I recollect.” “I’m sure you do. And what brings you to the Sheep’s Heid, Mr. Charteris?” “Just rambling, you know, in the park, got a bit peckish.” He held a chair out for Miss Sutcliff. She sat in it as an empress might occupy her throne. She removed her bonnet and smoothed back her hair.

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“Do you require anything, madam?” “They are bringing me some tea, I believe. It is what I have ordered, at any rate. Are you returning now to Edinburgh?” Freddie nodded. “And you?” “Yes. May I take you up in my coach? It would not trouble me in the slightest.” “That is very kind of you.” He could imagine what his acquaintance would say if it got out that he’d accepted a seat in the carriage of the most notorious woman in Edinburgh. But she had some purpose in offering him the seat. Either it was to pump him for funds or for some idea of how much he knew of her business. The tea came, Miss Sutcliff drank it quickly and they were ready to set off. She had a very smart equipage, certainly not paid for by Valentine. A crest had been painted out on the door, but whose Freddie could not make out. The seats were of red leather, quite new, he thought, and she had two mounted postillions and two seated on the back of the carriage, the latter bearing arms. The coach was very well sprung, thought Freddie as he settled across from Miss Sutcliff. Given the lateness of the hour, the streets were virtually empty so it would take no more than twenty minutes to reach Charlotte Square. “You and Mr. Wemyss have known each other since you were boys, haven’t you?” asked Miss Sutcliff as the coach pulled away. “We have. We are cousins and grew up on adjoining estates.” “It is a shame that he must struggle so hard now.” “It is indeed,” agreed Freddie, his eyes wide, his tone heartfelt. Miss Sutcliff’s mouth tightened. “So, Miss Sutcliff, have you been in Edinburgh long?” “Long enough.” “And where were you before? London?” “No. Brussels, as it happens.” Which was where, presumably, she had met Valentine. Which meant that he had engaged himself to Hero while entangled with Miss Sutcliff. Freddie wondered what Miss Sutcliff thought about that. He would not put it past her to have engineered such an alliance. Although her equipage and the set-up at Number 9 suggested she did not need Valentine to secure money. “Never been to Brussels myself. Pleasant city?” “Quite charming when the French are not within five leagues.” Miss Sutcliff was losing patience with her companion. She gazed out of the window, although in the winter gloom, there was nothing to be seen. The coach rattled along. The tentacles of discomfort which stifled Freddie’s customary ability to burble happily on any subject tightened their grip. Anger as well as awkwardness kept him silent. Miss Sutcliff was a machinatrix, Valentine was an ass, and Miss Veasey was an ignorant little fool. He did not wish to be involved in any way with any of them. “What could you find to say to my serving boy?” “I beg your pardon?” The only safe defence against this unexpected attack. “You were speaking to the child who sings and run errands. Why?” “I was lost. I asked him to guide me back to the public rooms.” Miss Sutcliff patently did not believe him, but could not press him further. Her gloved fingers drummed at the leather upholstery. Freddie was clearly trying her patience as much as she was trying his. Fortunately the carriage pulled up in front of Freddie’s

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lodgings. Freddie’s steady gaze tried to read Miss Sutcliff’s features, but it was too dark to tell much. “I did not give you my address.” “Everyone knows your direction, Mr. Charteris. You are an ornament to our poor Edinburgh society and every linkboy in the city is hoping to earn one of your generous tips.” She held out her hand. He made the sketchiest of attempts to kiss it before clambering from the carriage. The postillion tucked away the steps and leapt back into position as the coach lurched away. It was not an auspicious start to the evening. Murdo muttered at him for the unscheduled absence, moaned about the mud on his clothes and grizzled at him while assisting him into his formal clothes. He wore black pantaloons and a black jacket over a white waistcoat and shirt with a black cravat. It looked a little as though he were in mourning. The prospect of another night of idle chit-chat interspersed with fierce trimmings from cousin Lizzie and Mary was dismaying, a sensation that would no doubt be exacerbated by Miss Veasey’s presence. Worse was to come. Almost as soon as he had joined the company, Aunt Killigrew saw him and nobbled him, taking him to task over his indigence, his negligence and his general demeanor. In an effort to escape, he offered to procure her an ice, a luxury of which she was particularly fond, especially if the flavor was strawberry. Quite how Mary had managed to get strawberries at this season Freddie could not imagine. The prospect of a respite from the old lady’s badgering propelled him to the food table with considerable enthusiasm. He squeezed through the bodies all reaching for sweetmeats and savories and managed to snaffle the last dish of strawberry ice, fighting off rival fingers for the delicacy. He then needed a spoon so that Aunt Killigrew might actually consume her treat. He held the ice away from the table as he tried to reach for the required implement. Unfortunately, someone chose to tap him on the arm with a fan and as he turned to view his assailant, he lost control of the ice cream dish. He turned his attention back but it was too late. The half melted gloop had already left the dish and was inexorably flying towards the ample cleavage of Miss Malvina Murray, Aunt Killigrew’s bosom bow. Later those present were agreed: Miss Murray’s squeals of outrage and shock were very like those of an enraged piglet. What they could not agree on was whether Freddie Charteris had deliberately or accidentally thrown the water in her face, nor if he had meant to cover her head with a napkin. It was certain that every remedial action he attempted only seemed to worsen the situation, and it was definitely for the best that his brother David had led him away, a poor, shaking creature, while Mrs. Charteris had stepped in to look after Miss Murray, whose face by this time was certainly as pink as any pig’s. David escorted Freddie into his study, preserving a façade of extreme seriousness just so long as it took to close the door before giving way to immoderate laughter. Freddie watched as his brother succumbed to a fit of uncontrollable giggles. “Come now,” he said as David’s mirth subsided a little. “It wasn’t that funny.” This just set his brother off again. David Charteris managed to reach one of the arm chairs in front of the fire before collapsing again, gasping and spluttering. Freddie sat there, eyes fixed on the ceiling as he waited for his brother to calm down. Gradually, the snorts and chuckles diminished, and David caught his breath again.

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“I’ve missed you, Freddie. I haven’t laughed like that since you stuck that toasting fork into Finch-Dutton’s buttocks. Lord, you’re one for the mishaps!” Freddie’s smile was rueful. “You would remind me of that. I suppose this contretemps will be wheeled out at all family occasions now. I don’t know what happened. Someone tipped my elbow and then I simply thought to dampen a napkin so that she might wipe it a little and before I know it, I trip and the poor woman is doused from head to toe.” “It was the way that napkin landed on her head, as though you were trying to silence a parrot. Wholly appropriate for Miss Murray, the mad old biddy.” “I should go home. I can’t go out there again. Shan’t be able to mingle in society for at least a week before I live it down.” The prospect was quite cheering. “Mary’s short of men. She’ll never forgive you if you bow out without dancing. That would be infinitely more heinous than dousing Miss Murray.” Freddie winced. “Please don’t make me go out there again. Tell Mary I fell and bashed my head on the fender so you had me escorted home by your strongest footman.” David shook his head. “Impossible. Come now, Freddie, the dancing is meant to be impromptu, you need only stand up for two or three sets. Once Mary has seen you have not abandoned your post, you may abscond without further interference.” “It never works out like that. I shall be here for the duration and every lady that I dance with fearful that I shall hurl further comestibles about the place.” “That simply means you may not go near the supper table. Come, Freddie, it will not be so very onerous. Mary is already spitting over the defection of our cousin Val.” “Where’s he got to?” Freddie sat up, surprised. “I rather assumed you would know. We were all hoping that he’d make a go of it with Miss Veasey.” The familiar notion led Freddie to roll his eyes and shake his head. “I know. But I think it highly unlikely and quite honestly, I’d warn her off. He’s not a safe pair of hands, you know.” “What do you mean?” “He’s tangled up in some mess. I can’t say exactly what, for I’m not sure, but he’s after money. A good deal to be sunk into some dodgy enterprise.” David looked sharply at his brother, who he was quite sure could have said precisely what mischief their cousin was up to. Others might underestimate Freddie given his air of lackadaisical, daffy charm, but a shrewder judge of character David had yet to meet. “What’s to be done about Miss Veasey?” “What do you mean? What should be done?” “We can’t simply leave her to Val’s mercies,” objected David. “It don’t look as though she’ll have him, whatever happens. She don’t act like a girl in love, you know. Think how it was with Lillian when she met her baron. They were forever spooning about, gazing into one another’s eyes, and if she’d danced her regulation couple of dances with him, she wouldn’t dance with anyone else except for me. A touch inconvenient at times.” “I wasn’t there during the courtship, if you remember, Freddie. It took place in London, and I was here, minding the family business.” “Don’t come the martyr with me. There’s nothing you could endure less than a London season.

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David acknowledged this, but he was not deflected from further enquiries about Valentine. “How’ve you found out all this about Val in little more than a fortnight?” “He’s hoping to get money out of me. Always makes a fellow confiding. He’s out of luck there. My capital is quite stretched enough at the moment.” “Do you need money, Freddie?” “By no means. I’ve simply none to spare for Val’s wild schemes and if he thinks I’m hobbled, he’s less likely to badger me.” “Who are you working for?” “No one. I’ve offered to keep my eyes and ears open on behalf of Ivo Dunbar, but that’s the sum of my involvement.” David stood. “I’m glad to hear of it, dear brother. Come, it is time we rejoined the fray. Better get it over with.” Freddie sighed and followed his brother out to the public rooms. But if he still wished to cut and run, he gave no sign of it to the delighted, although wary, maidens with whom he danced that evening.

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Chapter Six: In which Miss Veasey watches for her moment Naturally, Freddie could not avoid dancing with Miss Veasey and Miss Veasey could not avoid bringing up his unfortunate contretemps with Miss Murray. “Will it comfort you to know that Aunt Killigrew was amused?” “Not in the slightest. Aunt Killigrew’s amusement has never been my prime object, and now I must endure this tale told and re-told for the next fortnight at the very least. It is tiresome indeed.” “Will it drive you back to London?” Freddie’s head inclined as he watched Miss Veasey twirl before him. “Would it concern you if it did?” Hero took the opportunity of an exchange of partners to avoid answering Freddie’s question. As she was swept round by another gentlemen, she caught glimpses of her partner and knew that she would be very much concerned. But how to respond to his inquiry without seeming unduly forward, that was the difficulty. Nor had he forgotten by the time she rejoined him at the top of the set. “Well, Miss Veasey?” “We would all miss so adept and graceful a partner at our dances.” “There’s no need for sarcasm.” Freddie assumed a wounded air and was gratified to find that he had made Miss Veasey laugh. “It’s true. However cack-handed you may be in the supper queue, you are a very pretty dancer and we are sorely short of such gentlemen. Mostly, your sex prefers to retreat to smoking rooms and gaming tables. My uncle Macdonald, your brother, and half the husbands and brothers of this company are settled in chairs with their port and their claret, determined to come nowhere near a dance floor. It makes me wonder how the Edinburgh ladies ever make a match, for the men scurry away as soon as a fiddle tunes up. We don’t permit such things in Yorkshire.” “That’s your country, I take it.” “Yes. We are some miles from York, but there are assemblies in Northallerton and there are no little rooms where the gentlemen may bury themselves. All dance.” Freddie grinned. “As prettily as me?” Hero returned his smile. “Fishing, Mr. Charteris? Some rather more prettily.” “You wound me, Miss Veasey.” “You deserve it.” The dancers stilled and there was a ripple of muffled applause. Freddie escorted Miss Veasey to the side of the room. “Who is your next partner?” he asked. Hero was glancing round the room, her gaze a little troubled. “Your cousin. But I do not see him. He was here earlier, with Lizzie, but that was when the dancing started.” “I fear he has absconded. Mary is quite put out, for as you have noted, she is short of gentlemen prepared to follow Terpsichore’s call. May I lead you out?”

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“Do not trouble yourself. I see my aunt Lydia.” She made a curtsey to Freddie who was tempted to ignore this dismissal, but the distracted look in her eye quashed the notion that she was prepared to engage in any further conversation, however inconsequential. It was unconscionable for a gentleman to engage a lady for a dance and then fail to stand up for the dance, but Hero felt only relief at her escape. There was such a strange look in Valentine’s eyes these days, half hunger and half emptiness, but the hunger was not for her. It was not that sort of hunger, the sort she thought was in Mr. Charteris’ eyes, the gaze which spoke more eloquently than words of allure and charm. When she had met Mr. Charteris’ eyes during the dance, when their gloved hands had met, she had almost felt the breath knocked from her. It was like riding fast in a high wind. No, the yearning in Valentine’s eyes was quite different, more like a fire intent on devouring its fuel. Hero could not guess what he needed, and she was reaching the stage when she did not care. This time a year ago, if she had found Mr. Wemyss in such a plight, it would have been her mission to bring him succor, but now, she felt that his concerns could never be hers. The truth was he frightened her. She could not say that to his sister or his cousin, but from herself she could not hide it. Sitting quietly by her aunt Lydia, watching as the dancers dipped and swayed and circled on the floor, Hero began to wonder whether she had ever loved Valentine at all. She had worshipped the handsome young lieutenant, she had adored dancing with him and walking with him and going about with him, she had thought of him constantly and built castles in her mind which they populated together. But these seemed insubstantial, dreams that had faded and dissolved. Still, some shadow of her former affection remained and as much as she feared him, she feared for him. She almost rose from her chair with the realization. She wanted to find Mr. Charteris, demand that he tell her what he knew of his cousin, for know something he certainly did. There was a woman in it too, Hero was sure. Perhaps even the same woman who had so nearly distracted him when he was still in Brussels after Waterloo. Of course it was a matter too indelicate ever to have been broached before her, but when Valentine had fallen silent after months of regular correspondence, when there had been awkward silences when she asked about his time in the Low Countries, when she had caught some ribald comment from a fellow-officer, she would have been a complete ninny not to have known that there was a mistress. And naïve she might be, but Hero hoped that she had grown out of being a complete ninny. Naturally, it had occurred to Hero that the woman was now in Edinburgh and driving Val hard, but she had no proof. If she had been a gamester, however, she would have put twenty guineas on the presence of the lady in the city. She needed to get Mr. Charteris on his own so she could question him. It was no good trying to do so at a rout or a ball or an informal soirée like this. A good stretch of time with no interruptions was called for. Until she was in possession of the full facts concerning Mr. Wemyss and his paramour, she would not be able to make up her mind. The difficulty now lay in finding a way to accost Mr. Charteris without drawing too much attention to it. Hero’s lips, normally pliant and tender, firmed as she began to plot. The next day, Hero watched and waited. Her morning was spent practicing songs with Lizzie in readiness for Mrs. Macdonald’s dinner party, a pleasure since Lizzie had a fine contralto. Then the callers came, among them, Mrs. Jeffrey, a lady from the

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Americas who had lately married Mr. Francis Jeffrey and was full of alternate raptures and lamentations following her husband’s purchase of a ruined castle some miles from Edinburgh’s New Town. “It is the most delightful spot, but only the tower remains and that in the most parlous state, yet Mr. Jeffrey declares he will spend the summer there even if it means bivouacking under canvas. I thought I had left all such things behind me in the New World.” Hero sighed. “One’s very own castle, how charming that must be. Is there no possibility of effecting repairs in the winter?” “Well, we have tried to make it water-tight, so I suppose the masons could be brought to work since they would be under cover. What does not need replacing needs pointing, and the whole must be plastered and lead-lights installed, and new floors. I blench at the expense, but my dear husband would be quite content, I believe, to lavish every last shilling of ours on this dratted building.” Mrs. Macdonald was full of advice on suitable workmen and how to manage them, so much so that Mrs. Jeffrey, quite without prompting on Hero’s part, invited her hostess to visit the tower. “Oh, Aunt Lydia, may we get up a party? There would be room for Lizzie and me, and perhaps Mr. Wemyss and Mr. Charteris could accompany us? We could have a picnic, with a fire and baked meats. Do let us, Mrs. Jeffrey, I would so love to see your ruin and it would be a splendid outing.” Although Lizzie and Aunt Lydia exchanged skeptical looks, they did not entirely quash Hero’s notion, and Mrs. Jeffrey took to it with great enthusiasm. “A capital plan. We shall have all the men along, Mr. Jeffrey and Mr. Macdonald and all the Charteris family. How are you fixed for Boxing Day?” Since no particular arrangements had been made for Boxing Day, it seemed an ideal day for the visit to Craigcrook. It was nearly a week away yet, which frustrated Hero a little, but fortunately for her, Mary Charteris came to the rescue by putting Mr. Charteris into her way on a more regular and rather warmer basis. Intent on outdoing her winter ball, Mary Charteris decided to get up a series of tableaux on a Christmas theme, to be performed at her house on Twelfth Night. She recruited first Lizzie and then Hero very promptly, for they were two of the prettiest girls available and would look charmingly, she thought, arrayed in Grecian robes, entwined with mistletoe and holly berries and dancing a brief masque. Aunt Lydia was not entirely sure that this was quite decorous, but Mr. Macdonald pooh-poohed her notions of propriety, pointing out that if the girls did not take part, it would only be said that they were not considered pretty enough, and that would do both an injustice. It was inevitable that Mrs. Charteris should rope her brother-in-law and cousin into her plans, as well as numerous other suitable young people to sing carols and create costumes that would recall the spirit of Christmas past from the Nativity cradle to the travails of King Wenceslas. There was great debate over Mrs. Charteris’ desire to incorporate the tale of St. George and the Turkish Knight, a tradition she brought from her Sussex home where mummer’s tales had been enacted every year in the hall of her father’s home. It did not seem quite right to celebrate the patron saint of England so Mrs. Charteris decided she would then create tableaux of all the British saints until it was

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pointed out that this might offend the clerics who were expected to attend and it was decided after all to give an abridged performance of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. Through all the brangling and discussion that this entailed, Hero sat quietly. Lizzie might dispute her cousin’s wife’s notions, but Hero simply hoped, particularly once it was settled that Twelfth Night was the best possible choice of play, not to be given any major role. She did not enjoy conning lines and the prospect of performing in front of others put her to the blush, a most becoming blush, Lizzie pointed out, but nonetheless, a sensation of some discomfort. It was a relief when Lizzie was selected to play Viola. It was decided that Mrs. Charteris would give her Olivia (a most imperious Olivia she would be too, muttered some rather rebellious recruits to the enterprise), while Valentine would play Sebastian, and Freddie Charteris was unanimously nominated to take on the part of Feste the clown. Hero was offered the choice of a silent (but vital) role as Olivia’s attendant or Maria, the madcap maid who assists Sir Toby and Feste in their taunting of the tiresome steward Malvolio. As always the problem was a superfluity of ladies offering to take part and an insufficiency of female roles. Hero solved the difficulty by bowing out altogether, offering instead to accompany the performance and act as prompt, a solution which was widely regarded as noble and self-sacrificing except by Lizzie who knew perfectly well Hero’s disinclination to appear on stage. The initial rehearsals were enjoyable, and Hero found herself busy, for the actors were slow to learn the lines and Mary wanted music at many points throughout the performance. Abridged it may have been, but it still lasted well over an hour. Practicing the whole took far longer, for the actors were a troublesome lot, forever fussing about the angle at which they should hold their heads or hands, jockeying for a prime position on the stage and elongating their lines to maximize their impact. Freddie Charteris was refreshingly free of such posturing, Hero noticed, and learnt his lines promptly. He came on stage, spoke clearly and carefully then exited and would come round to sit by her, assisting her in turning the pages of her music and watching the action. “They make a deuce of a fuss, don’t they?” he asked. “They do. It is such fun for them.” “Shame you aren’t up there. You put the lot of them in the shade.” “It’s not a shame, it’s a blessing. I could never bear such attention as it calls on oneself. I look at Lizzie in wonderment.” “But she could never play the piano half so well as you, and they need the music quite as much as they need a decent Viola.” “You are kind, Mr. Charteris, but you flatter me. Lizzie is a very competent musician, or they could have brought in a professional who would be much quicker than I am.” Freddie saw that she was uncomfortable when complimented and forbore to make any further comments of that nature. Perhaps Miss Veasey had always been so inclined to make little of her accomplishments. Her discomfort might, on the other hand, be the work of his cousin. She certainly did not think very much of her own intellect, but he never found her dim-witted or trivial. Untried, perhaps, but aware of that and reluctant to make a twit of herself. Once, she went into a dream and forgot to prompt and all on stage turned to look at her expectantly. She came to with a start and exclaimed, “What a silly fool I am! I beg your pardon, I was wool-gathering.”

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There was laughter, some a little unkind. Later, as they were taking tea after the rehearsal, Freddie found himself sitting beside her. “You should not call yourself a silly fool. You are one of the least foolish people I’ve met since my return to Scotland.” “You would not say that if you knew me better, Mr. Charteris. I am not known for my brains.” “Few of us are and I think it is mighty uncomfortable to be too clever.” “I would just like to be a little bit intelligent. It is tiresome to have people forever explaining things in great detail to me because it is assumed that I am too witless to retain any information. Or worse, concealing things from me because I might not fully understand them.” Freddie sighed in agreement. “It is tedious to be considered slow, but you know, it can also be frightfully handy. People say all sorts of things in front of one if they don’t believe one will remember or follow them.” This invited a keen glance from Miss Veasey. “Perhaps.” She did not sound entirely convinced. Up came Valentine. “Servant, Miss Veasey,” he muttered as he made his bow, but it was clear that his true quarry was Mr. Charteris. “’Lo Freddie. Wondered if you were interested in coming out this evening. To Number Nine. Or somewhere else if you’d prefer it.” He seemed very casual, but it was clear to both Hero and Freddie that he was taut with tension. “Not tonight, old man. Otherwise engaged, you know how it is.” Valentine shrugged and sauntered off. “Number Nine, Mr. Charteris?” Freddie jerked round and met Miss Veasey’s eyes, solemn, wide and suspicious. “Gambling den. Not reputable. Not the sort of place ladies go.” “But there are ladies present. Or perhaps, not ladies exactly.” Freddie did not reply. Hero folded her hands in her lap and looked down. And waited. Freddie grew flustered. “Not been there often myself. Only once, in fact. Not keen to go back. Not my sort of thing. Don’t like dropping money on cards. No good at that sort of thing.” “Is she very pretty?” “Not really. Beautiful in a sinister sort of a way.” He gulped and shut up. Miss Veasey looked up and smiled a little wearily. “I’d guessed. I’ll keep this secret, Mr. Charteris, if you will.” “I’m no good with secrets.” “This one you will keep because it will hurt Lizzie terribly if you give it away. If she discovers, she’ll tell me and that will dish her. You don’t want to dish her, do you, Mr. Charteris. If I’m not to marry Val, she must have her chance to find someone. Someone who’ll look after her and her mother and her sisters.” There was no need to mention Valentine again, but Hero’s brief, quiet observation made Freddie feel thoroughly queasy. She had wormed what she needed out of him in seconds, she had seen through Valentine Wemyss, and she was planning something further. Then he was summoned onstage to tease Sebastian, a role in which he took waspish pleasure, particularly as it became clear that Val had not learned his lines, eliciting mews of complaint from Mary Charteris. Valentine made amends for his brusqueness with Hero, or so it appeared, for the next thing Freddie noticed was the two of them in a corner apparently going over Val’s

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lines, close as a double conker. He sauntered over and pulled up a chair. Valentine rolled his eyes and tossed his head like a restive pony while Hero smiled sweetly and asked him to join them in helping Val learn his lines, which were not so very many. The next hour passed swiftly but uncomfortably for Freddie. He made a mental note never to take a ringside seat at a lover’s reconciliation again. Val made it abundantly clear that Freddie should leave him alone with Miss Veasey, while Miss Veasey made it equally manifest that he should not desert her. Inevitably, he was called on once again to take to the boards, and Miss Veasey could no longer put off the inevitable. “Freddie can be utterly insufferable, Miss Veasey,” said Valentine, his voice low and quite unlover-like. “I find Mr. Charteris pleasant enough company.” She groped for something more to say, something that would deter Val from coming to the point yet would arouse no suspicions of any tendre on her part for Mr. Charteris. She could not help noticing that Mr. Wemyss seemed far more passionate in his irritation with Mr. Charteris than in his affection for her. He also looked gaunt and his skin seemed to have a green tinge, although that might be because he was seated right beside the wall which was covered in watered silk the exact shade of dusty ivy. “Miss Veasey.” She stood up and waved towards the stage. “Excuse me, Mr. Wemyss, Lizzie is summoning me. I appear to have missed a cue yet again.” She skittered to the piano and sat. “I beg your pardon. What a dunderhead you all must think me.” Then she played and any idea that she might be a dunderhead had to be put aside, for she was very competent. It was just as well no one could read her thoughts, for they were far more turbulent than the pretty tunes she picked out for the cast. She did not like to hold out any further hope to Mr. Wemyss. It occurred to her that frankness might be the only remedy. If he knew that she was aware of his belle-amie, perhaps he might cease to importune her without quite cutting up Lizzie’s expectations. Belle-amie. She was sinister and lovely. Not pretty, not like Hero who was simply pretty with nothing more. Perhaps that was not what Mr. Charteris had really meant to say, but it was what everyone thought. Hero might be pretty and obliging and endowed with all the relevant accomplishments expected of young ladies, but she had lost Valentine Wemyss many months before to a dangerous creature who was too enchanting to be merely pretty. She had to concentrate very hard on preventing her fingers from stiffening up and battering at the ivory keys of the pianoforte. In the carriage on the way home, Lizzie asked if all was right with her world. Abstracted, Hero nodded and murmured a gentle, “Quite, thank you.” But she seemed stricken and subdued, quite unlike the Hero Lizzie had come to cherish. “Perhaps you are sickening for something.” Hero shook her head and came round. “No, not at all. I was just remembering other Christmases. This is the first I have ever spent away from Cheveley, you see, and I was simply a little homesick. Nothing more. But you must say nothing to Aunt Lydia, she would be too upset. I am looking forward to finding out all your traditions and customs. But it simply struck me. Perhaps because I had to play that silly tune of Feste’s and I used to play it at home. Dear Lizzie, it really is nothing more.”

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But Lizzie watched her friend closely and knew that there was something more to the melancholy which had swept through her during the short drive back to Queen Street. She longed to press Hero, but did not quite dare, for between them now sat like an unkissed frog the presence of her brother. Any attempt to cut through to the truth might destroy the complex system of roots which kept all the lily pads in their notionally serene pond afloat.

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Chapter Seven: In which Valentine vanishes Miss Alethea Sutcliff paced her parlor. It took twelve strides to cover the length of the room, and the width was eight lengths, and if she walked corner to corner, it took fifteen paces. She varied her path because she had no wish to wear out the carpet for which she had paid a goodly sum, although she was not convinced that it came from the markets of Istanbul despite the salesman’s solemn oaths. Still, she had not yet settled the bill. She had better order something more from the man or he’d be dunning her. She went to the bureau. A commonplace book lay there and beside it a pencil. She scanned the list she had already written, crossed off two items then added her latest note about the carpet. Then she turned in her chair, tapping her foot as she waited. She’d sent for the boy nearly ten minutes ago. If necessary, she would have to summon the sister, but the chit was one of her best girls and it went against the grain to take up her time when Alice could be seeing a client. The door handle turned and Loomis was there, his eyes small in his round pink face. He was breathless. “No sign of the little blighter.” “The girl?” Miss Sutcliff’s hand closed round the fan she had left beside her papers. She tapped it against the palm of her left hand. “Busy.” “Does she know that her brother is missing?” The brittle, wooden fan cracked in her hand. “Dunno.” “I suggest you find out from the other girls as quickly as you can. And send two men out to hunt the boy down. He can’t know the city that well, they’ve only been here a matter of weeks.” Loomis lumbered away and Miss Sutcliff took to pacing again. The boy might have run off to that maddening Charteris man, but she thought not. They had met so very briefly and the foolish Freddie seemed hardly to have noticed the child. No, the boy was roaming the streets of Edinburgh, no doubt lost. She wanted him safely in her house again, first because the whores thought of him as a mascot and second because his singing calmed them, and third because she was somewhat concerned that he had pieced together a little too much of her clandestine plans. Miss Sutcliff would have been irked to discover that Edgar Dewpin was exactly where she thought he would not be. He had told his sister that he could sing no more for his supper. He would send for her as soon as he was set up, and that would not be long. Alice Dewpin had gazed at him with her worn eyes and nodded, simply relieved that at last her brother had been brought to leave her to her fate. He at least might have a chance of climbing out of the mire, a better chance than he would if stuck to her day and night. She pretended to believe him when he said he would return for her. Then she went back

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upstairs, sat at her dressing table, and began to apply the paint which allowed her to mask her misery as she entertained another night’s worth of gentlemen. Edgar Dewpin was enjoying himself so far as he was able. He had commented liberally and scathingly on the spartan nature of Freddie’s quarters, but the hardness of the chair on which he sat did not prevent him from enjoying the cheese and ham, the bread and jam, and the hot chocolate that Murdo had pressed on him. He particularly liked the hot chocolate, and Murdo was heating a second mug for him. It was assumed by all three parties that Edgar would not return to Number 9. Not with the information that he had collected. In the few days since he had first met Freddie, he had compiled a list of the regulars who came to Number 9 and of those, the ones who frequented the meetings regarding the return of the mysterious Phoenix. However, it was equally clear that Edgar could not remain in Freddie’s lodgings. He would be conspicuous, there was no bed for him unless Murdo or Freddie gave up their own rooms to the child, and sooner or later, Edgar suggested, Loomis would be after him, for the huge, dense man of Madam’s, as he called Miss Sutcliff, had already interrogated him closely about any encounter he chanced to have with any visitor to the house of ill-fame. But Freddie was not equal to taking the somewhat grubby Edgar to his brother’s house. The child needed to be spruced up, cleaned, and dressed in clothes which fit. Apart from being tight and short in sleeve and leg, Edgar’s green velvet suit was worn and the frippery tin buttons had lost much of their gilt. After the second mug of hot chocolate was served, Murdo was sent to procure some decent clothes for the boy, who would then take a bath. Edgar took a dim view of baths, but accepted the necessity after Freddie made forceful arguments for cleanliness. Murdo was soon back with a bundle which he undid with pride at his foresight. Within was the livery of the main Charteris household, white stockings, white breeches, a white shirt and a smart coat in blue with silver frogging, a powdered wig and a pair of black shoes with simple buckles. “That page of Mrs. C’s has grown out of his kit. I wangled it out of him. It cost me nearly a guinea though. Yon Tranter is never one to let anything go for free.” “Brilliant,” said Freddie, ignoring Murdo’s wry comment about his brother’s butler. “It will be perfectly in order if I am seen in the company of one of my brother’s household. And it will be the ideal disguise for the young fellow. No one ever looks twice at a chap in livery. Draw the bath, Murdo, and let’s set about turning our urchin into a respectable member of society.” Freddie’s cheerful demeanor was tested when he saw the weals and bruises on the boy’s body. Edgar eased his body tenderly into the water and the tension almost visibly drained from him, although he winced a little as the water stung the tender spots where Loomis’ belt-buckle had struck him. It was one thing to take a cane to an idle schoolboy--a fate Freddie had met with more than once--but the deliberate battering of a child was something he had not previously encountered. He found his hands had become fists and his own shock was mirrored in Murdo’s eyes. Murdo’s hands were gentle as he helped the boy out of the bath and wrapped him in a towel. Then he sat Edgar down and cut his hair, pared his nails and checked behind and in his ears. “You have to pass muster, and Mistress Mary is a stickler for neatness.”

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Edgar dressed himself promptly enough and came out to the main room where Freddie was nursing his own cup of hot chocolate. “You look most convincing. Now, what tale can we tell Mary to persuade her to take you on?” “I know.” Edgar seemed entirely phlegmatic about his changed fortunes. “You can say you tried me out, but I wasn’t hardy enough to be a tiger and I had such pretty manners you thought she might want another page.” Murdo’s snort was quickly converted into a cough as Edgar turned a chill eye towards him. Both Freddie and his manservant were reminded unaccountably of a formidable Duchess who had once thought that Freddie might do for her daughter until he swept a chair away from the young ladyship just as she was about to seat herself. It had been one of those customary misunderstandings that seemed to dog him, and Edgar’s darkling glare brought it all back in a confused and unpleasant jumble. “Excellent plan. Well, let us go and beard the dragon in her den.” “I don’t want to go from a harpy to a dragon,” said Edgar. “Metaphorical. Mary’s charming.” Freddie corrected himself. “Lady Charteris is charming. Of course she’ll help, and if you can be kept busy it will make the disguise seem more realistic, you know.” “Will she pay me?” “I will pay you.” “I wish you could get my sister out of that place. That would be better than any payment. But if I have no money, I could not keep her from such places.” The child’s over-adult eyes burned, and old though he was for his years, he could not conceal the rage and shame and frustration he felt at being unable to save his sister from her fate. “Edgar, as soon as this business is over, and it can be safely done, I will pay a pension to you and you may look after your sister as a brother should. Without you, I should never have discovered so much so speedily. The government owes you a considerable debt, but governments don’t like to part with their money, so I shall make sure you are properly rewarded for your services to His Majesty.” Edgar’s demeanor conveyed unmistakably that he was not yet ready to put his trust in fine gentlemen, however warm their words. Freddie resigned himself to returning to Number 9, seeking out Edgar’s sister and liberating her from her servitude by claiming to be taken with her, a prospect that filled him with gloom for it would almost certainly expose him and his family to comment. And it couldn’t yet be done for it would be a suspiciously close connection between himself and the Dewpins, one that would place them all in jeopardy if Miss Sutcliff was half so ruthless as Freddie suspected. Edgar proved a swift study in the manners and bearing of a page. Murdo gave him pointers and within the hour he declared himself ready to be taken to his new home. He led Freddie to the Charteris house with aplomb, and when the footmen attempted to stop him accompanying Freddie into Mrs. Charteris’ parlor, his glance was as sharp as a saber and just as effective. Young Edgar certainly knew how to look after himself. Mary was delighted to see her brother-in-law, but a little baffled by his new companion, especially since the child wore her livery. But she nodded sagely as Freddie provided a stumbling explanation as to why the child should be taken into her house. She went over to the boy and said, “Let me look at you, child.”

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Edgar lifted his chin, his hands behind his back. She took his chin and turned his face this way and that, then looked behind his ears, lifted his wig from his head and inspected his hair, then held out a hand. He placed first his right hand and then his left in hers and she examined his fingernails. Then she nodded and said, “You will do very well, provided you follow instructions and give no one any cheek. The work will not be arduous in terms of effort, but it can be long and dull. Are you ready for that?” “Yes, ma’am,” replied Edgar. Satisfied, Mrs. Charteris rang the bell for a footman and when he came, instructed him to take the boy downstairs for cake and a cup of tea. Once the door closed behind the boy and his new guide, Mary turned to Freddie. “What on earth is this all about, my dear?” “A matter of the utmost importance, Mary, but I cannot say any more. Can you contrive to keep the boy indoors, and away from visitors? I don’t think people will recognize him--he looks very different from his previous guise, but the fewer people see him, the better.” Freddie paused. “And if you can keep his duties light, it would be a kindness. He’s had a terrible time of it lately. But he does need to be kept busy, for otherwise he’ll dwell on his sister and that will lead to some rash act, I am sure.” “Where did you find him?” Mary was resigned to the worst, but Freddie’s answer unsettled her nonetheless. “I do not like to say, but it is not a place I would care to leave a child. He has seen much more than a child of his age should, and he is, I think, in very great danger. His treatment has been unconscionable, Mary, and he is not at all strong.” For the first time since his arrival in Edinburgh, Mary Charteris saw her brother-in-law moved. “If I can lay my hands on the brutes who have manhandled him, they shall suffer for it.” “I shall take care of him and his disguise is quite ingenious, I think. We will do our best to preserve it. I take it you want him kept in Edinburgh?” “I do. You think he’d be safer at Mountqhuidder?” “He’d be much less conspicuous. Besides which he’d have a chance to regain some strength in the country air. Cities are so unhealthy for young souls.” “I’m sure you’re right, but we may yet need further assistance from him. I don’t believe he’d leave Edinburgh without his sister and it is not yet safe to remove her from her current residence.” It was such a relief to Mary Charteris to see her customarily indolent brother-inlaw so animated that she did not press the point. She was tempted to summon her husband, but that would be too remarkable and one could not trust all the servants. It would be tricky enough easing their most recent employee into the household without undue comment. It was also a considerable comfort to reflect that Freddie did not seem excessively attached to either the child or the mysterious sister who seemed to be an individual whose chosen path was not so much primrose as scarlet. On returning home, Freddie observed that he was being followed and that a watch had been set upon his apartments. He could not quite understand how he knew these things, but know them he did. He had half expected some such development, particularly since that uneasy ride in Miss Sutcliff’s carriage, but he certainly had not expected to find either Miss Wemyss or Miss Veasey waiting for him up in his rooms. The ladies were sitting in the two unforgiving upright chairs. These Murdo had disposed about the fireplace, which was full of smoldering coals giving out very little

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heat and rather too much smoke. Murdo had furnished them with cups of tea and they both stood and rustled their way across to the sidetable to deposit their saucers and cups before coming over to greet him, a pair equally matched for grace and grit. “Freddie, you must help us,” began Miss Wemyss. “In any way I can, Lizzie, you have only to name it. But are you sure you wouldn’t both be more comfortable if we all sat down again?” He turned to the doorway of his bedroom where Murdo was hovering. He nodded and the man went to fetch another chair--the only other in the place. “Really, Freddie, this place is beyond Spartan.” Lizzie’s customary acerbity could not be quelled, although he could tell she was under considerable strain. Miss Veasey gazed into the fire as if it would reveal the secrets of the Northern Passage to her. Murdo appeared with the third chair, and Freddie seated himself. “Haven’t had a moment to spare, old thing. You know how it is. Besides, not accustomed to entertaining ladies here. Not accustomed to entertaining at all.” “You needn’t remind me. I know we shouldn’t have come here, only we didn’t know what to do.” “What’s up?” It transpired that the customary rehearsal at the Charteris home had been reorganized to take place at the Macdonald home, for Mrs. Macdonald had expressed a wish to see the progress of the play, yet had little time at her disposal to attend the regular rehearsals. They were meant to be going over the final scene where Viola and Sebastian were reunited and both Olivia and Count Orsino were to make their peace. All had assembled at the duly appointed time, apart from Valentine. At first, it was thought he was simply late, but then the hour grew later and later and still he failed to appear. Mrs. Macdonald had sent a man to his lodgings, but it transpired that he had not been there, nor at any other of his customary haunts. “You are my last hope, Freddie. Have you seen him today?” Freddie shook his head. He had a fair idea of Val’s exact location. He went into his bedroom where Murdo was fiddling in the cupboards, doing his best to conceal his rudimentary efforts at listening in on the conversation. “Get you to Number 9 immediately and see if you can find out whether Wemyss is there or not. Try not to be too obvious. You’ll have a message for him, from me, a message which can only be given verbally. Be careful, Miss Sutcliff’s men are toughs.” Murdo nodded, delighted that his rather dull existence was to be enlivened by a clandestine adventure. As he left, Freddie said, “Take care, Murdo and don’t dawdle. Meet me at Mr. Wemyss’ official lodgings, if you please.” This his manservant undertook to do before scurrying into the deepening afternoon shadows. Freddie returned to his visitors. “Ladies, I’ve sent Murdo to look about the town. But can you tell me any more of his movements yesterday?” All three of them did their best to piece together Val’s movements on the previous day, but none of them had seen him socially apart from his brief appearance at a Twelfth Night rehearsal in the late morning. He had said nothing to any of them about leaving town. Lizzie wished to visit his lodgings, but Freddie knowing that Val’s lodgings were in a disreputable neighborhood, tried to discourage this impulse. He was a little overset when Miss Veasey spoke in support of her friend.

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“Of course it is a sensible idea, Mr. Charteris, the only one that any of us has come up with. We should go to his lodgings at once and see if he is not taken sick or has not left some note to inform us of his whereabouts. He can be careless, but he would not wish to cause Lizzie any undue distress and this failure to appear when he said he would is most unlike him. I believe we should go to his rooms as soon as possible.” Despite a valiant filibuster, the women outflanked their hapless quarry and had soon forced Freddie into agreeing to accompany them to Val’s place. Lizzie knew the address, and Miss Veasey had commandeered a Macdonald coach and pair which had been lurking in a mews behind Freddie’s lodgings. Val’s rooms were not so very distant from the tavern where Freddie had failed to overhear the plans of the smuggling men involved in Miss Sutcliff’s Phoenix plot. The carriage pulled up before a rather rickety looking building, extremely grimy, with crumbling windowsills and a cracked pediment over the door. The hallway was narrow, noisome and damp. The walls did not quite ooze, but then it had been dry for some days. Freddie noted the delicate shudders that neither Lizzie nor Miss Veasey could entirely suppress as they made their way up the staircase, endeavoring as best they might to keep their cloaks from brushing against the walls. Valentine’s rooms were on the second floor. The door was not locked. In fact, it was not even shut. Freddie prodded it and it creaked open. The room was fetid, reminiscent of cabbages and turnips boiled to extinction and unwashed linens. Miss Veasey had a handkerchief up to her nose, above which he could see her eyes, the pupils huge and unnerved in the gloom. He made his way into the room and over to the curtained windows. He swept the curtains open, but since the room was north-facing, it made little difference. The Stygian atmosphere had been sufficiently leavened that he could see a tinder-box and a tallow light. Once he’d created one spot of light, he was able to raise it and make out candle stubs glued to various surfaces by their own wax. It was a squalid place. The bed was unmade, shirts and smallclothes were draped over most available surfaces and as he neared darkened corners with his light, he heard the unmistakable scuttle of beetles fleeing from the light. Lizzie was transfixed by the nastiness of the place, stiff and immobile in the doorway, but Miss Veasey was more sanguine. She went over and opened the window that Freddie had uncovered and the cold December air was most welcome. Then she turned and wrestled with one of the candles on the mantelpiece before picking her way across the floor towards a bureau, closed but from which numerous papers bristled like badgers emerging from a burrow. She opened up the wooden flap and the papers cascaded forth. She started collecting them and ordering them. “They are chiefly bills.” She shuffled through the sheaves a little further. “Mostly for wine. And snuff. And weapons.” “Weapons?” enquired Freddie. “Guns. Of different varieties. Muskets, pistols, rifles. And bayonets.” She swiftly made a pile of the relevant scraps of paper, discarding the others as she did so. Freddie came over and looked through the sheaves of paper. Seeing her two friends absorbed, Lizzie was finally able to move. She had never expected to find her brother lodging in so pitiful a place. Her stomach lurched and her skin rose in goosebumps at the realization of how very close to ruin he and the rest of the family were. She went to the centre of the room and looked round in something like

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wonder. As she turned, something caught her eye. She crossed to the far corner and pulled at it. Freddie looked up at the sound. “Let me help you with that. Although I don’t think Val is small enough to fit into a cello case, Lizzie.” “That’s just it, Freddie. You know Val. He’s never played a cello in his life. He couldn’t.” They exchanged glances, remembering all too clearly the terrible caterwauling that Val had inflicted on them over the years under the mistaken impression that he was singing tunefully. In two swift strides, Freddie was helping Lizzie maneuver the bulky case out of the corner. They laid it down and he bent to undo the catches. Hero came over to see. He lifted the lid. The cello case was empty apart from a gun and a leather document case. Freddie handed the brown cylinder to Lizzie who fumbled with the buckles. He drew out the gun, a Purdey 12 bore side by side gun. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship, exquisitely engraved. Freddie could not imagine where Val had laid his hands on it, still less what it was doing in a cello case. Hero was helping Lizzie draw out from the document case a slim map. The girls unrolled it and held their candles up. It was a tidal chart for the coast running between North Berwick and Berwick. There was nothing else in the slim leather cylinder. One of the candles sputtered and extinguished itself. “I don’t believe there’s anything further we can learn from this place. It’s beginning to get dark and I believe you ladies should return home before Mrs. Macdonald is alarmed and sets up a hue and cry for you.” Of course, it was Freddie’s intention to return to Val’s chamber once he’d disposed of the ladies but there was no need to tell them that. Hero looked at Lizzie, who nodded. Miss Veasey then rolled up the map and replaced it in its holder. “You look very ferocious with that gun. Are you going to bring it, or should we leave it here?” “I am reluctant to leave so fine a piece in such a location. I’ll take it, for Val can always have it back once he reappears.” Neither of the girls made any comment, but their unspoken words hung in the air as plainly as if they had spoken: “If he comes back.” Hero gathered up as many of the bills as she could stuff into her reticule and they made to leave. But Lizzie hushed them and they stood, frozen as they heard the unmistakable tread of booted feet making their way up the stairs.

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Chapter Eight: In which a foreigner makes himself known The tread of the person mounting the stairs sounded solid, heavy, more that of a man than a woman. The stranger stopped on the landing outside Valentine’s door. There was a knock. A pause. Another knock, less tentative this time. Then there was a rattling of the doorknob, which since it was not locked, produced the expected result. The door swung open to reveal a heavily cloaked figure wearing a hat with a shallow crown and wide brim. He stood in the doorway for some seconds before shutting the door behind him. “I’m looking for Valentine Wemyss.” He had a strong German accent and pronounced Wemyss as Vimss. “You are not he, I take it?” Realizing that the stranger was addressing him, Freddie started and said, “No, no, I’m not Val. I’m his cousin. And you are?” “I am General Roehenstart at your service.” He bowed and doffed his hat. The way he said his name made it clear that he expected it would be recognized, but Lizzie, Hero, and Freddie exchanged blank stares. The general stepped into the room, bowing at the ladies but addressing himself to Freddie. “This is most inconvenient. He was meant to have met me. He is meant to be providing me with shelter and transport. Where can he be? When he was not there to meet me off the boat, I thought it strange enough, but this is really most unacceptable.” The man did sound most affronted, and one could well believe from his clipped tones and stiff bearing that he was a military man. “What on earth am I meant to do?” “You may come and stay with us, General Roehenstart.” Hero took both Lizzie and Freddie by surprise. “I am sure that my uncle and aunt will be honored to offer you a roof until Mr. Wemyss can be found. Miss Wemyss is staying with us, and he is sure to seek us out once he has concluded whatever business is keeping him from us all.” “You are most generous, Miss…?” “Miss Veasey, of Yorkshire. My uncle has long been acquainted with Mr. Wemyss and his family. There can be no difficulty in your visiting the Macdonalds.” Freddie could think of numerous difficulties, chief amongst which was that if this man was a Stuart pretender, it might very well implicate Mr. Macdonald. On the other hand, Miss Veasey’s intervention ensured that Roehenstart would be safely stowed until Ivo Dunbar and his Home Department colleagues could be contacted. Meanwhile, he wondered how Murdo was getting on at Number 9. There was no reason to linger on at the lodgings other than to wait for Murdo, but now that Roehenstart had materialized so inconveniently, Freddie wanted all three of his charges safely deposited back in the New Town. Murdo would, he hoped, have the wit to make for home once he realized he had missed his rendezvous. It was something of a squeeze to fit them all in the carriage, particularly since the General was most insistent that his box could not be strapped to the back but must travel inside with him. Both Freddie and the coachman were wrestling it into the body of the

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coach, the General overseeing operations from a safe distance when Murdo finally materialized, tilted the box and slid it easily into the carriage, only slightly incommoding the ladies. The manservant then climbed up behind the carriage, leaving Freddie to dispose himself within. As soon as Roehenstart entered the brilliantly lit hall of the Macdonald’s house, he doffed his hat and cloak with an air and revealed to all the red trousers, dark jacket and abundant gold braid of a Hussar. He was also sporting his ceremonial sword in a heavily gilded scabbard. His calf-high boots had golden tassels and bore the signs of being buffed to a high sheen which travel had clearly worn somewhat. He was a tall man in his thirties, with curled chestnut hair and arched eyebrows which gave him a perpetually supercilious look. A long nose and narrow face would have given him distinction if his mouth had not been full and curved in a perpetual cherubic pout. It was an incongruous face and to Miss Wemyss, a peculiarly familiar one. But she said nothing of this as she handed her pelisse and bonnet to the footman and followed Hero up to the first floor salon to tell Mrs. Macdonald about their unexpected guest. Both Freddie and Roehenstart were left to kick their heels in the elegant hallway of Mr. Macdonald’s house. “What sort of people are these Macdonalds?” “I don’t follow you?” “What is their rank?” - Roehenstart flicked an invisible piece of fluff from his sleeve and gave a supercilious glance about the hallway. “Not sure what you mean by that, but it seems to me that it would be best to accept the Macdonald’s hospitality without worrying unduly about their rank.” Roehenstart fell silent. A footman came down, bowed, and begged that the gentlemen would ascend to Mrs. Macdonald’s parlor. Mrs. Macdonald welcomed Freddie with some warmth. “I hear you have been trying to help these silly girls chase round Edinburgh after the elusive Mr. Wemyss.” “Without success, though I must protest, ma’am, I find neither Lizzie nor Miss Veasey particularly silly.” “It seems like the most ridiculous panic. You know what you gentlemen are, forever racing off on a whim. Why, I daresay Mr. Wemyss will appear in a week or two, and we will discover that he absent-mindedly accepted an invitation to shoot when he should have remained here in Edinburgh. Your sister will be very cross, I am sure, Mr. Charteris, but we must simply make the best of it.” Then she turned to the General and welcomed him. He took her hand and clicked his heels and bent to kiss the air above her wrist with commendable address. She invited him to take a seat. “So, General Roehenstart, were you acquainted with Mr. Wemyss when he was in the army?” It came out that General Roehenstart had never previously met Mr. Wemyss. He himself had fought in the Austrian army, serving at Austerlitz and Jena and other battles in the epic struggle against the monstrous Bonaparte. However, he had not been at Waterloo, although he had been in Vienna throughout the Congress. He had met other Macdonalds there, perhaps some were relatives to Mr. Macdonald? Possibly, but there were so many Macdonalds, inevitably they found themselves everywhere and some were family while others were not. But how was the general acquainted with Mr. Wemyss if it were not through soldierly pursuits?

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It turned out that Roehenstart had letters of introduction and had been told that Mr. Wemyss would be meeting him at Eyemouth. Freddie exchanged glances with Mrs. Macdonald. The lady was no fool. She knew as well as Freddie that Eyemouth was not a regular port of call for continental boats unless they were carrying contraband. But what could this man be doing, travelling on a smuggler’s ketch? “He is meant to be escorting me to London. That was the arrangement, and I see no reason to change it. I must see my cousin on business,” continued Roehenstart. “He has been most understanding in the past, and I anticipate that he will be understanding once again. I have a mind to marry, you see, but as a poor soldier, I have need of some support from my family.” “Your family? You have family in London?” “Why yes, the Prince Regent is my cousin. I will be applying to him for assistance. My friends in Brussels advised me that this Wemyss fellow would be my aide-de-camp during my visit, so I should come via Edinburgh. I must say, the crossing was most discomfortable and I have had to leave my valet at Eyemouth so low laid was he with mal-de-mer.” “Dear General, make your home with us until Mr. Wemyss returns. We can send to Eyemouth for your manservant or you may wish to leave him to mend in peace and make a brief detour on your way to London to collect him, for it is not terribly out of the way. The main road to London passes very near the coast.” Mrs. Macdonald was as prompt as her niece had been. “In the meantime, remain with us in Edinburgh at least until Christmas is past, for whatever your business with the Prince may be, I am sure that it will keep a little. I think it unlikely that our beloved Regent will be brought to exert himself much before the New Year in any case.” “I have heard that he is a man of indolent inclinations.” Mrs. Macdonald skated happily over this insult to her ruler and summoned a footman. “James will see you to your room, General. We will be dining shortly, for we do not keep London hours here in Edinburgh.” Once he had left, Mrs. Macdonald turned to her young companions with raised eyebrows. “Now, what on earth is going on? Whose notion was it to bring this frightfully rude foreigner into my home?” “Me, aunt Lydia,” admitted Hero. “I am afraid he is rather puffed up with his own consequence. But I feel sure that we should keep a close eye on him, he seems a most odd fish to me. I am not at all convinced that he is a general.” Freddie coughed. “I would have offered him shelter, ma’am, but my rooms are rudimentary. There is simply no space, and you know at this time of year how difficult it is to find anywhere. If his visit appears to be prolonged, I can undertake to remove to David and Mary’s home and he may have my lodging.” “It is no great matter, Mr. Charteris. Mr. Wemyss will no doubt reappear in due course, and in the interim, an extra body hardly makes a difference at this time of year. We are all busy as anything.” She frowned. “Should we take him about with us?” At which point, Lizzie Wemyss gasped and the other three looked at her.

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“I’ve remembered. He resembles Prince Charles Stuart. He’s the spitting image of that portrait that Mama persists in keeping up in the dining room. He’s some sort of descendant.” She looked at Freddie pleadingly. “Tell me Val wouldn’t be tangled up in some silly restoration attempt, Freddie.” Freddie swallowed. The silence deepened. Freddie spluttered a little. “What nonsense, Lizzie. Depend upon it, they are nothing more than fellow officers with some mutual interest.” Hero sounded astonishingly confident on this point. She swept over to her aunt and said firmly, “It is very good of you to shelter this man, aunt Lydia. I am sure that once Mr. Wemyss reappears, he will explain how he came to lose the General.” “I shall ask Mary if a part can be found for him in Twelfth Night. That will keep him busy and out of your way, Mrs. Macdonald.” Naturally Mrs. Charteris was easily persuaded to add to her cast a figure of some address and dash. The general did not persist in wearing his uniform, particularly once he realized that it looked simply foreign to the uncouth Scots, leading him into a brush with some veteran who took the unalterable view that some damnable Frenchy had come to swagger amidst the populace of Edinburgh. It was only with a good deal of tact and the dispensation of guineas that Freddie managed to extract the somewhat hot-headed Roehenstart from a full-scale bout of fisticuffs with the irate infantryman. While it was clear to Freddie that somehow, the Phoenix had managed to drop directly in his lap, it was equally clear that the general had no idea that he was the figurehead for a potential rebellion. It did not take Mr. Charteris long to winkle out of the General his true purpose in coming to Britain. It turned out that Roehenstart was indeed the son of the Duchess of Albany, as Charles Stuart’s unfortunate daughter had been known. On his birth, his mother had immediately given him up to her lover’s family, a most influential set of people, French nobility who had provided him with every material benefit fitting the descendent of kings on both sides. All that had changed with the Revolution in France which had forced the de Rohan family to remove swiftly to Bohemia. There, young Charles Roehenstart was raised and eventually a commission purchased for him in a cavalry regiment with the Austrian army. He had met with good fortune, managing to survive numerous encounters with French troops, including Austerlitz and Leipzig, after which he had been elevated to the rank of general. Now that peace had finally triumphed over the imperialist designs of the upstart Bonaparte, Roehenstart wished to visit his Hanoverian cousins to resuscitate the pension which had been paid to the Duchess of Albany by George III, and which by rights, should be paid to her descendents. There was also the question of some jewels, a necklace of diamonds and emeralds, a tiara, and several pairs of earrings, which Roehenstart hoped would be restored to him so that he might pass these onto a bride, should he be so fortunate as to find a soulmate now that his soldiering days were done. Once Freddie had established Roehenstart’s true purpose in coming to England, he wrote immediately to his friend Ivo Dunbar in London. By this time, Valentine had been missing for three days. Roehenstart showed himself adept at charming most of the ladies, although the gentlemen involved in the enterprise were less ready to take him to their bosoms. Mary Charteris in exasperation had asked him to act as Valentine Wemyss’

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understudy, which Roehenstart readily agreed to, despite her misgivings, but when he appeared at his second rehearsal with all his lines secure and a willingness to caper about the stage whenever the opportunity arose, she was delighted. He had views on the management of the spectacle and before they all knew it, he was giving Mrs. Charteris the benefit of his considerable experience, pointing out that his family had had a private theatre in their castle in Bohemia and his uncles and grandfather had been devotees of Shakespeare. She took up his every suggestion with alacrity, which caused a good deal of extra work, particularly for Hero who was sent scuttling off to the music-sellers for extra songs and then must learn them and teach them to the others only for the new songs to be discarded when it was found they made the whole performance last for more than two hours. It was on the fourth morning after the visit to Valentine’s lodgings that Freddie sat beside Hero, now wearing a jacket of motley while retaining his trousers, which were dark pantaloons, very elegantly cut. “Have you heard nothing from Valentine at all?” she asked. “Not a word. Lizzie seems to be bearing it well.” He watched as his cousin took to the stage as Viola, discussing with Count Orsino the nature of love. “I must be ready, they will summon me on to sing my dreadful ditty in a minute.” “It is not so very dreadful.” “It is the way I sing it,” said Freddie. “Now you are fishing. You have a very sweet voice. It is not strong, but it is true and honesty counts for more in singing than strength, you know, especially when you are singing amongst friends. It would be different if you were a professional singer, but as it is, you have one of the better voices in the cast.” “You are very good to say so, Miss Veasey.” Somehow, Miss Veasey’s words cast Freddie down. He did not feel honest or true in his dealings with her. Knowing full well that Valentine’s interest in her was feigned, that Wemyss was fonder by far of his dangerous mistress was deeply uncomfortable. Yet it would not be the act of a gentleman to disclose Valentine’s true inclinations. The more he saw of Miss Veasey, the more inclined he was to attempt to cut Valentine out, yet that too was impossible. It was not simply that her mouth was kissable and her eyes enchanting and her skin so pale and smooth, nor that her figure was neat and her hands elegant and her neck begged to be kissed. She was also a wise and loyal friend. She thought of others before she thought of herself. She hated to hurt anyone. She seemed a little melancholy, but that was to be expected when her chief swain had vanished without a word. Certainly it was a lapse in judgment to have admitted Valentine to the ranks of her admirers, but from what he had gathered, the attachment was of very long standing and she had not wavered. Lizzie had revealed that it had been more than four years since Valentine and Miss Veasey had met, and in all that time, until Valentine’s blunder during the summer, Miss Veasey’s affections had never appeared to alter. It was also somewhat irritating that this Roehenstart should have taken up residence with the Macdonalds, for it meant that really, there was no need for him to accompany Lizzie or Miss Veasey back home once rehearsals were done with. Freddie’s final cross to bear was the fate of Edgar Dewpin. It was only a matter of days before Mary Charteris discovered the boy could sing and she was intent on using him as one of the musicians in the cast, a role which Freddie feared would expose the

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child to a deal too much attention during which no doubt some member of the audience who had frequented Number 9 would recognize the boy and promptly denounce him or worse still, hasten to Miss Sutcliff and reveal his whereabouts. The boy also did not trouble to disguise his distaste for Roehenstart. “Who is this foreign fellow who bosses everyone about so? He knows very little about spectacles and theatrical presentations, whatever he claims. He has a nose like a horse and big jowls. I wonder that everyone allows him to direct matters for he only does what will show him to best advantage.” While Freddie saw the truth in this, he did not feel there was very much he could do about Roehenstart. He hoped that his letter would have reached Ivo before his friend left London for the Christmas recess, but he did not hold out great hopes. This did not prevent him from remaining on tenterhooks in case he should receive a letter from London, which gave David the opportunity to tease his younger brother about the existence of some mythical beauty whose letter Freddie must be awaiting. All in all, it had been an exasperating few days. Irritated, agitated, and impatient, Freddie decided to go gambling at Number 9 that evening. Murdo’s enquiries there had been fruitless, as Freddie had expected. Perhaps now Miss Sutcliff’s guard would have relaxed somewhat. He reached the house just after eleven that night. He made his way to a room where all were engaged in watching or playing at dice. He was in no mood for any form of cardplay, which generally, he knew required some skill as well as luck. His wits weren’t about him, so he might as well rely wholly on the luck of the throw. He was soon invited to participate at a table where several of his brother’s associates were starting a round. The bones were with him, and he left the game nearly an hour later none the worse off than when he had started. As he withdrew from the table, he looked up and caught a glimpse of Miss Sutcliff watching the room from a doorway. He ambled over. “A most comfortable set-up, ma’am.” “I’m glad you find it so. I confess, I am surprised to see you here, sir. I thought we were too tame for your London tastes.” “That’s Val talking, I daresay. He has a bee in his bonnet about London, seems to think it’s the haunt of the devil. You haven’t seen him about this evening, have you?” “No. He has not graced us with his presence for some nights now. I thought you had lured him away to more salubrious surroundings.” “What could be more pleasant than this little place of yours, ma’am? A regular home away from home for a man used to London.” Both Freddie and Miss Sutcliff lost interest in the conversation once it was clear it would not establish Valentine’s whereabouts. It took a little longer for them each to extricate themselves from it without offering insult to the other, but they parted apparently on the friendliest of terms and Freddie made his way back to his lodgings in some confusion. He had been so sure that Miss Sutcliff held the key to Val’s disappearance and yet she seemed as baffled as he by the fellow’s absence. As Murdo helped him out of his clothes, Freddie mulled over what to do next. It did not appeal to him, but he could not dismiss the notion that it would pay to return to Val’s rooms and search them once again. And now, surely, it was time to notify the watch or some other authority to keep an eye out for the missing man. It occurred to Freddie that he might put up bills for the missing man. How much more effective these

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would be if Lizzie had a likeness of Val which could be printed and distributed throughout the city. The next morning, he rose earlier than was his custom and went directly to the Macdonald’s house. He was fortunate to find only Lizzie and Miss Veasey up and receiving guests. Lizzie came immediately towards him, hands outstretched. He bowed ad then took her hands, leading her back to the loveseat where Hero sat. “You have news?” “None. He has not been seen at any of his usual haunts, even the disreputable ones. I don’t wish to alarm you unduly, but I am uneasy.” Freddie relinquished Lizzie’s chilly hands and sat in the fauteuil opposite the girls. “I had an idea last night, but I don’t know whether you’ll approve.” “Tell us,” said Lizzie. “If either of you has a likeness of Valentine, we could get it printed it up, and I could organize for bills to go up around the city enquiring as to his whereabouts. It may make him seem a little like a criminal, but I think if we could offer a reward, we may learn something.” “How will we be able to tell if it is the truth?” “Murdo will be the first line of defense. He is a shrewd judge of character and if he feels that anyone has anything truly worth a reward, he will let me know.” It did not sound particularly convincing to Freddie, but the notion was better than doing nothing. “I think it is an excellent idea. I have my portfolio in my room. Let me fetch it, for I am sure I have several sketches of Mr. Wemyss. Rosamond was forever complaining that he was my only subject. But I knew the pictures would come in useful one day.” Hero darted away, leaving Freddie alone with his cousin. “What about you, Lizzie? No pencil drawings of your dear brother?” She snorted. “You know I have no gift for that kind of thing. Hero is a very pretty draughtswoman, though. Perhaps her pictures of Valentine are a little idealized, but they will serve better than anything I might devise.” Lizzie was accurate enough in her judgment of both Hero’s skill and her tendency to smooth over the flaws in her sitters. Her portfolio was bursting, and Freddie noticed that she had several fresh sketches from the rehearsals for Twelfth Night. “Miss Veasey has not flattered you, Lizzie, not one bit. She has captured your spirit very well.” Freddie held up a pen and ink drawing of Lizzie as Viola, and Lizzie blushed, for it was a very pretty girl who gazed dreamily from the page. His hand stilled as he came to a picture of himself as Feste, a mischievous fawn-like look to him as he strummed at a lute. Lizzie plucked it from his fingers. “Freddie, this is you to the life, just as you are planning some wicked prank. Hero, you have been watching us all very closely, I must say. Has Mary seen these? She will want to make prints of them all. You are a clever girl.” Lizzie leafed through the latest batch of sketches before pausing and pulling out one of Valentine. Hero had captured him in three-quarter profile, his eyes shadowed, his blond hair curling about his temples, his necktie a little disordered, a half-smile playing about his lips. Lizzie swallowed back the lump that had come to her throat. “This is the one, I think. Don’t you, Freddie?”

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He agreed but he wanted to see more of Hero’s pictures. He wasn’t sure what he expected from seeing her drawings, but as he flicked through the portfolio, he knew he was looking for some sign that she was not completely devoted to Valentine Wemyss.

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Chapter Nine: In which a locket reveals too much Despite his best efforts, Freddie was not able to delay choosing a likeness of Valentine for very long. Once the appropriate drawing had been chosen, he was dispatched to a printing shop. He would see the ladies again at rehearsals that afternoon, but it was not the same. It was ridiculous, this longing to see Miss Veasey, to be near her, the awkwardness of being in her company which made him feel perpetually slightly out of breath. He could quite easily see himself hanging about Queen Street simply to catch a glimpse of her, gazing up at the windows on the second and third floors of the house in the hope that he might catch sight of her face or her hand, like some nonsensical Johnny in a play dangling about balconies in the hope of seeing his beloved. As he walked through the streets towards the Old Town, he noticed stalls selling ribands and laces, shops selling hats and reticules, a jeweler’s, a stationer’s, and passing every place, he thought immediately of what might please Miss Veasey, what colors might suit her, what sort pen-holder she might favor, if she had a pair of diamond-drop earrings, whether she had visited this place or that. Never had another person so consumed his thoughts. He could scarcely string two ideas together without Miss Veasey intruding into his mind. It was disturbing and somewhat inconvenient. He had known other men succumb to infatuations before, but he had never entirely believed that he would succumb himself. It was humiliating. Particularly because he could not make out whether his feelings were reciprocated in the least. And even if they were, there was Valentine Wemyss and his prior claim on her attention and affection. At the printer’s, a large, gruff man took the drawing and sized it up. “Fine lines. It’ll come out a bit cruder that this, but it will still be a good likeness. How many do you want?” “I’m not sure. I’ve seen bills posted up elsewhere. How do I arrange for these to be displayed about the city?” “I can send a team about the place. You’ll be wanting one hundred or more then, I should think.” After haggling over the final cost of the printer’s services, Freddie left, not entirely sure whether he had been defrauded or had managed to secure an excellent bargain. The posters would be on display by Christmas Eve, which seemed a miraculously swift outcome, but there had been all sorts of additional costs that had crept onto the bill. Not wishing to waste time, Freddie had simply agreed to most of the printer’s terms without haggling, but the final bill did not seem so very excessive. He now had several hours before he needed to present himself at the Charteris house for the next round of rehearsals. There was no reason to return home, he knew that if he simply wandered about he would find himself lurking outside the Macdonalds’ house, and he was in no mood for further shopping. It was a brilliant day, the first such in many days. The winter sun was unusually strong, the sky cloud-free and the air sharp but not painfully chilly. In a matter of ten

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minutes, Freddie found himself outside Valentine’s dingy lodgings once again. He knocked hard. Eventually, he heard the gradual shuffle of the landlady, a hawk-nosed, claw-handed individual with a face creased by pain and poverty. She opened the door a crack, then when she saw the shining coin in Freddie’s fingers, a further width, sufficient to let him in. Upstairs, nothing had changed. But this time, free of the constraints placed on him by the presence of females, Freddie opened the shutters, opened the windows and began to sort the room out thoroughly. He was swift, efficient, and thorough. He stripped the mattress and started a pile for items which required laundering. Then he went round the room and cleared it of extraneous clothes. After that, he turned his attention to the various plates and glasses littering the room, some clean, some dirty. He stacked them and put the clean things away. He then sat at the bureau to complete what Hero had started, sorting through Valentine’s papers. He made various piles then stacked them all into one larger pile. He picked up the cello case, laid it open and felt around it. He soon found what he was looking for, a loose edge of felt which he peeled away from the hardened leather exterior. Beneath, he found what he had expected: over £100 in notes, laid neatly between the lining of the case and its exterior. He closed up the cello case and repositioned it neatly in the corner of the room. He then went through all the drawers of the chest opposite the bureau, then tackled the wardrobe. The last thing left was Valentine’s trunk. It was locked. Freddie reached into a pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small silver object which looked like a toothpick. He inserted it into first the padlock and then the two catches of the trunk, wiggling it slightly until he heard the unmistakable click which revealed that his little gizmo had succeeded once again. The top layer of the trunk contained a dress sword and scabbard. He removed the tray on which they lay and swiftly examined the uniforms that lay within the depths of the chest. He shook out the three jackets and the breeches and finally, something rattled to the floor and a packet of letters fell out. He folded everything up again, packed the trunk up, and locked it shut. Then he picked up the locket and letters he had found and fastened them into an interior pocket of his overcoat along with the money he had found earlier. He walked over to the doorway and summoned the old woman. “Mrs. McCardle, can you come up?” She arrived some minutes later. He was paring his nails with a small, silver pick. He indicated the laundry and dirty dishes. “Here’s an extra guinea for your trouble. If you would arrange for a thorough cleaning of the room as well. I’ll pay you for another month’s rent. Same terms as before.” “You know she came herself this time.” “I can well believe it. Did you let her in?” “Not I, sir. I won’t have painted women over my doorstep and so I told her.” “She did not try to threaten you?” “She had that great ox with her again, the one she calls Loomis, but my boys were here. He couldna take them on, not single-handed.” “If I find you’ve let the room even for a night, there’ll be no bonus.” “Aye. I understand.” She turned away and yelled, her voice like a foghorn cutting through the dank of the inner stairwell. “Izzy, haul your carcass up here.” Freddie bade good day to Mrs. McCardle. He crossed paths with Izzy as she hurtled up the stairs like one fired from a cannon. It did occur to him that Valentine might

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have made up to the girl, but he did not wish to question her in front of her employer. He listened as Mrs. McCardle fired orders at the girl, chivvied her for her idleness and then landed unmistakably, a heavy hand on the child’s cheek. He almost started up the stairs, but he knew that the old besom was suspicious enough of him. He could quite see that he’d be rescuing Izzy and presenting her to Mary Charteris as yet another waif and stray at some point. Sorry though he was for poor battered Izzy, he did not feel able yet to foist another charity case on his sister-in-law. Racing back to Charlotte Square, Freddie only just reached the Charteris’ house as rehearsals were due to start. He extracted the locket and letters from his greatcoat pocket and secreted them about his person. Since the cast had now reached the point where they might attempt a complete run-through of their piece, Freddie had little time to consider his finds. Although his was a small part in terms of lines, he found that he was often on stage simply watching the action unfold. He had a brief respite which he customarily used to sit with Miss Veasey and assist in the turning of pages and the management of the numerous pieces of music that must accompany the piece. He slipped from the stage and went to stand by the pianoforte. Miss Veasey was busy playing away, her hands rippling up and down the keyboard, her head nodding as though she were willing the rather shaky Curio to sing in time and in tune. When the piece ended, she closed her eyes and sighed. “Terrible, isn’t he?” enquired Freddie, causing her to jump. Her hand fluttered and she knocked a neatly arranged stack of music from the stand to the floor. Freddie bent immediately to pick it up and the locket fell from the inner lining of his waistcoat. Hero gathered it up at once. “That’s Val’s mother’s locket. He had my picture in it. He painted it and put it there the year we first met. Where did you find it?” As she spoke, she flicked open the locket and froze. There was a picture of a blonde woman in the locket, but it was not the warm golden locks, heart-shaped face and cerulean eyes of Miss Hero Veasey that gazed from the oval display frame. Freddie closed his eyes. When he opened them, he found that nothing had changed. Miss Veasey was still gazing on the miniature of her rival. “She’s very lovely.” “The picture flatters her.” “You’ve met her.” “That was very stupid of me.” Miss Veasey smiled, closed the locket and restored it to Freddie. She looked a little wistful but not heartbroken. “I knew. At least, I have suspected for some time. He met her in Brussels, I think. She is probably the sort of woman for whom men fight. I’m not. I’ve always known that. I can be relied on for excellent preserves, a decent table, a comfortable home, but I’m not a romantic figure. I’m not the sort of woman to set the world alight.” Freddie wanted to say a hundred different things: that Miss Veasey was in a fair way to setting his world alight, that a man must be a fool if he chases after a troublesome harlot who causes a rumpus rather than a virtuous lady with abundant commonsense who would act as a helpmeet rather than a hindrance, that Miss Veasey entirely outshone that steely ice maiden that Valentine had taken up with, that men were fools and Valentine

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was the most foolish of his kind. But he did not say anything. He looked down and failed to utter a word. He looked at the locket lying in the palm of his hand and wanted to wallop Valentine Wemyss. A duel would be too dignified. All that oaf merited was a thorough thrashing. Freddie inconveniently remembered that in all their previous encounters, it had generally been Valentine who bested Freddie, usually through bulk rather than science. Miss Veasey reached over and patted his hand. She looked amused. “Your sisterin-law has called for you three times. You should be on stage, Mr. Charteris.” There was no further opportunity to speak to Miss Veasey that afternoon. When he was not acting, she was playing, but chiefly, they were both hard at work throughout the rehearsal. There was a moment when he stood in the wings with Lizzie. But as he began whispering to her, Mary Charteris swept past and scolded them for talking. At the end of rehearsal, Mrs. Charteris reminded them that they all had three days off. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were designated as rest days, and several key cast members were to visit the Jeffrey’s castle at Craigcrook on Boxing Day. But they must all be present and ready on the 27th, lines completely learnt for they would have only ten days before the performance at that stage, and there was a great deal of work still to be done. Although it was plain that Roehenstart saw no need for Freddie to accompany Miss Veasey and Miss Wemyss to Queen Street, the young man was not to be deterred. As they stepped into the dusk, Freddie offered his arm to Lizzie and set off at a considerable lick. “Freddie, what on earth is it?” “I have committed a blunder that I believe is bound to cause Miss Veasey some grief. Inadvertently, she has discovered that Val had replaced her picture in a locket with a portrait of another woman.” “Freddie, how could this happen?” Freddie explained that he had returned to Val’s lodgings and searched them once again. He did not mention the letters or the money, but Lizzie interrogated him fiercely about the locket and the possible identity of her brother’s inamorata. Freddie found himself explaining that he had met the woman. “She is not the sort of individual whom one could introduce to one’s family or friends. Her situation is dishonorable in every way that you can imagine. She is an adventuress running a gambling den, and I have no doubt that even if Val wished to escape her schemes, she would make it exceedingly difficult to do so.” “Freddie, how could you?” “How could I? What have I to do with your brother’s indiscretions? I would not be telling you this if Miss Veasey had not discovered the existence of this woman. I should not be mentioning this at all. It is a damnable situation I find myself in, and it’s all your brother’s fault.” “What is this woman called? Where did you meet her?” “She’s called Alethea Sutcliffe and she runs a house here in Edinburgh. I know no more about her than that.” “Can I have the locket, Freddie?” “For what purpose?”

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“I believe it belonged to Mama. She gave it to Val. It came down from my grandmamma, and she kept in it a picture of that wretch Charles Stuart. She gave it to Valentine to remind him of us all. Much good it has done him.” Freddie felt compelled to hand the locket over. He was sure that Lizzie would put it to some nefarious purpose: he could see her charging some unfortunate servant to comb the streets of Edinburgh in search of Miss Sutcliff, but she had a right to the trinket. “Will we see you before Boxing Day?” asked Lizzie as she slipped the locket into her reticule. “I doubt it. My parents arrive this evening. Perhaps we’ll meet up at Church, but you know what that’s like: a thorough scrum. But let’s contrive to share a carriage out to Craigcrook.” As soon as they had bade farewell to Mr. Charteris in the hall of the Queen Street house, Lizzie swept Hero upstairs. The candles were burning bright in Miss Wemyss’s room, ready for her toilette before dinner that evening. The two girls sat down at the banquette before the dressing table and Lizzie shook out the contents of her reticule. The locket rattled onto the rosewood surface and she snatched it up. “It is our family locket. That scoundrelly brother of mine. I hope wherever he is someone is making him suffer a little for the worry he has caused.” Hero held back, unwilling to gaze again on the face that had supplanted her. Lizzie flicked open the catch and looked at the picture inside. “It’s hard to tell anything much about her. She seems beautiful, but that’s probably because she’s the sort of female who wouldn’t pay the artist if he didn’t represent her as such.” Lizzie peered at the picture and then took a delicate pair of scissors from a little basket of embroidery sitting on the dressing table. She prized at the picture of Alethea. Out it popped. Beneath was a picture of a long-nosed young man, his powdered hair swept back from a high forehead, his eyes bright and his cheeks pink. “That looks very familiar. Who is it?” asked Hero. “Who do you think it could be? Think of our acquaintance in Edinburgh. Don’t you recognize him?” “Could it be? Is it the general?” Lizzie laughed. “Bless you, Hero. I had quite convinced myself that I was mad, but you have reassured me. I think it looks exactly like Roehenstart too, but it isn’t he. I believe it’s his grandfather.” “But he claims that your Bonnie Prince Charlie is his grandfather.” “Exactly so, sweet one. There’s nothing to choose between them, is there. The same eyes, the same nose and that same mouth that would grace a girl far better than a man.” Lizzie fiddled a little with the locket, replacing Alethea Sutcliff’s picture before snapping the whole thing shut. “Roehenstart makes no secret of his antecedents, so one must wonder why Val and Miss Sutcliff are acting in so clandestine a fashion. I feel sure that Val’s disappearance is connected with this whole imbroglio of smuggling Roehenstart into Scotland.” “This all makes my head ache, Lizzie. I cannot work it all out. All I know is that whatever the outcome, you must continue to regard this as your home.” “What if he is never found?” “What can you mean?” Hero was truly perplexed. “Has it not occurred to you that he will not be found?”

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“Of course he will be found. Mr. Charteris will have his bills posted all over the city by this time tomorrow, and I daresay he will be inundated with people applying to him with information about Val’s whereabouts.” But that night, Hero found herself restless and uncomfortable in her bed, conscious that she had lied to her good friend, for she no more believed that Valentine would return than she believed in any monsters dwelling in Loch Ness. She thought of that beautiful face that had gazed serenely from Val’s locket in her stead and she knew that the most she felt was a mild irritation. If she had truly loved Mr. Wemyss she would be raging and grieving in equal measure, but confronted by her own honesty, she was forced to admit that solid proof of Val’s defection came as something of a relief. The next two days passed in a flash. Full of family engagements, jollity and dancing, both Lizzie and Hero were conscious that they must present to the Macdonalds and the visitors the most cheerful and vivacious of faces. They sang and made merry and played foolish games and avoided being kissed under mistletoe and exclaimed over delightful presents and held their breaths as others opened the presents they had made or chosen. It would have been a properly merry Christmas if only Valentine had reappeared, but he did not. However hard they tried, the Macdonald household was correspondingly somewhat subdued. Throughout the two first days of Christmas, if the knocker went, someone would turn towards the sound like a pointer seeking out a fallen bird, expectant until the footman came in to whisper that Mrs. Arbuthnot or Mrs. Killigrew or Mr. Elliott or Sir Francis Crawford was waiting to pay their compliments to the assembled company. It was a relief when Boxing Day arrived and the whole house prepared for the outing to Craigcrook Castle. It had been fixed that the Macdonald party would meet the Jeffreys and Charteris’ at the castle at midday, whereupon, weather permitting, an al fresco luncheon would be served. Fortunately, Boxing Day was fair--not sunny, but the cloud was high and it did not look as though rain would come on. As they left the house, Lydia Macdonald made sure that her two girls had handwarmers in their muffs and checked that warming bricks had been placed in her open-topped barouche. Mr. Macdonald had decided to ride on ahead with Roehenstart, so they would be warm and no doubt sipping at brandy toddy by the time the ladies reached the castle. It was a very romantic spot, for most of the castle was in ruins as Mrs. Jeffreys had said. A peel tower stood solid, but around it lay great blocks of stone in mounds, neatly organized prior to a grand building project due to begin the following spring. Mr. Jeffreys, usually a sharp-tongued and skeptical individual, was hopping about the ruins with uncommon energy, leading interested parties about the foundations of the castle which still lingered, describing his plans for reconstruction with such enthusiasm and vigor that one could almost imagine the walls rising up before one, and it was quite a shock to come back to earth to realize that at least three years of rebuilding were needed before the castle was in even a rudimentary state. It was a very great project. The Charteris family were present when the Macdonald’s party arrived. Freddie immediately came over to help the ladies descend from the carriage. Mrs. Macdonald was greeted by the Jeffreys and once her two young guests had been presented properly to their hosts, Freddie was swift to offer an arm to each and to escort them round the remarkable remains of the castle. Once they were safely out of earshot of their elders, Freddie said lightly, “I have had several individuals approach me about Val’s whereabouts.”

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The girls lifted eager faces and spoke in tandem. “Tell all!” said Lizzie. “Murdo has whittled down the applicants to three he thinks genuinely have information to impart. I imagine that you would both wish to be present at the interviews, so I thought perhaps a little stratagem might be in order.” “Yes,” invited Hero. “What if you said you were coming to help me with my lines? It would surprise no one that I need extra coaching, and both of you need to be there because Hero must accompany us in our duet, my Viola, besides which it would not be quite respectable if one of you were to come on your own to a bachelor’s quarters. What do you say?” The young ladies were in complete agreement: they must be there for Freddie’s interviews, and he had come up with a plausible explanation that would suit them all admirably. “You are growing quite clever in your old age, Freddie. I suspect you know all your words thoroughly, and if we have time to go over that beastly song once more, so much the better. Do you have a piano at your lodgings?” “I didn’t, but Murdo has cozened one of the lodgers living above me into allowing us the use of his instrument. I hope it will serve.” “I’m sure it will, Mr. Charteris. You are really most inventive.” Although this intelligence naturally did not wholly set at ease either Miss Wemyss’s or Miss Veasey’s mind, they did feel that they were making progress in unravelling the curious mystery of Val’s whereabouts, certainly sufficient progress for both ladies to throw themselves into enjoying their unusual surroundings. Roehenstart was extremely attentive to both young ladies, so much so that Freddie could not help wondering if the general were attempting to fix his interest with either of them. The older man’s gallantry was somewhat old-fashioned, and mixed with a good deal of boastfulness about his own relatives and their magnificent castles in the heart of Bohemia. He promised to show the assembled company miraculous wonders should they ever find themselves in what he had come to think of as his homeland. It took some maneuvering, but finally, Freddie managed to prise Hero from the bosom of the Macdonald party and take her for a stroll away from the rest of the company. “I hope you don’t hold out too much hope for these interviews tomorrow. Murdo has warned me that he thinks that most of the individuals who have applied to us are inventive rather than reliable.” “I must speak frankly, Mr. Charteris. I hold out no hope at all for Mr. Wemyss. I believe that he has either met with a fearful accident or has gone abroad to avoid his creditors. I have said nothing of any kind to Lizzie, naturally, but I hope it is the latter rather than the former. If any of these informants can provide us with proof that he is living, I shall be content.” “Is that all, Miss Veasey?” “Yes, that is all. I can have no further interest in Mr. Wemyss as anything more than the brother of my very dear friend. It is some time since he has meant anything more. I hope you do not think I am indelicate when I talk so.” Freddie could do no more than shake his head. They stopped walking and turned to look at each other. Hero looked up at him and he could not look away. It was as if she was seeking out some answer in his face, but to what question he could not tell. Her

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eyelids dropped and veiled her eyes, she gave a brave smile and tucked her hand back in the crook of his arm so that they could return to the rest of the company.

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Chapter Ten: In which plans are laid and plots unraveled Tucked into a drawer of the heavy dressing table in his bedroom, Freddie kept the letters he had discovered in Valentine’s trunk. He was not free to do more than glance at them until the evening of Boxing Day, so taken up had he been with family pursuits. He had untied the navy ribbons keeping the packet together, and noticed that there were several distinct hands addressing Mr. Wemyss. The letters dated back over a year. Freddie’s first task, over a bottle of claret, was to sort all the papers he had liberated from Val’s lodgings. Once he’d identified the bills, he summoned Murdo and instructed his man to pay off all of Val’s debts, which were not so very momentous in the great scheme of things, a matter of perhaps three hundred guineas, no more. Clearly Val was not so dedicated a gambler as his presence at Number 9 suggested. This left the orders and invoices for weapons, and the bundle of letters. At a rough calculation, Val had purchased or ordered enough weapons to arm five infantry companies as well as three howitzers and the necessary horses to transport these pieces of artillery. The big guns appeared to come from Prussia. One had been paid for in full, the other two were on account. The other accounts were fully settled: Val might have no money to speak of, but someone with deep pockets was clearly funding this extraordinary expenditure. It was not entirely clear where the guns were: there was no indication on any of the bills of sale or receipts to show where they should be delivered or how, but Freddie suspected that just as Roehenstart had arrived in the country through a smuggling port, the guns also would be imported as quietly as possible. It seemed incredible that Val and his mistress could have placed so much reliance on the general, who had struck Freddie as nothing more than a money-grubbing popinjay with extremely limited ambition. As far as Freddie could make out, Roehenstart wanted nothing more than a pension of similar worth as that paid out to his late mother, and perhaps some baubles to leave any descendents he might produce as proof that he once had come of royal birth. The Austrian had made unsubtle enquiries of his fellow thespians about the prospects of both Miss Wemyss and Miss Veasey, but when it was made clear that Miss Wemyss had no money and Miss Veasey was already more or less spoken for, he ceased paying either lady any court beyond the barest of civilities. He behaved in an exemplary fashion to his host and hostess, tipped the servants promptly but not excessively. He demonstrated no obvious desire to charm or to sway anyone he met in his favor. His sole focus was his impending visit to London, and the question of how and when he should apply for an audience with his cousin, the Prince Regent. Perhaps the answer lay in the letters which Freddie had laid out before him. He sorted them into piles according to their handwriting. He had two particular correspondents, both hands showing signs of femininity. One stack of letters bore a frank which seemed familiar to Freddie and the hand was a polished version of the writing he had seen all over Miss Veasey’s music during rehearsals. Tempted though he was to read

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her correspondence, he stacked the letters once again and tied the bundle up with ribbon, ready to return the letters to her. This left numerous letters from unknown correspondents and another pile of letters from a sole female hand, which he took to be Miss Sutcliff’s. He opened one letter and found that he was correct in this surmise. No scruples detained him. He unfolded the letters, shuffled them into date order and sat down to read the tale of Miss Sutcliff’s relations with her inamorato. The letters were not gushing in the slightest. There were relatively few passionate protestations of adoration and fidelity, which rather relieved Freddie. But there were many instructions and exhortations, first to push for promotion within the regiment, to prevent any of his fellow officers from advancing further or faster than he had done, then to look about him for opportunities now that it seemed the war against Napoleon was in its final stages, not to mention pointed requests to cease all correspondence with a certain young lady in Yorkshire. There were also demands for money, for jewels, for carriages and the payment of bills for lodging, for clothing, for candles, for mounts. The string of commands placed on Val by the Sutcliff woman seemed endless, far too great to sustain the interest he clearly had in her. More than ever, it struck Freddie that La Sutcliff was playing May-games with his cousin. No man in his right mind would put up with her nagging and her whims and her extravagance. But clearly Val had lost his right mind somewhere between Toulouse and Waterloo. At last, Freddie found some meat. Gradually, he pieced together the sequence of events between April 1814 and June 1816 when Val had finally returned to Scotland. He had first met Miss Sutcliff in Paris in 1814, after the battle of Toulouse. They had not formed a connection immediately, for Miss Sutcliff’s initial letters were refusals of his attentions, carefully worded to demonstrate an interest but an intention to withstand his blandishments. Freddie surmised that she was at that time in another’s keeping. Val had travelled regularly between Brussels and Paris throughout the second half of 1814 and it was in Brussels that he renewed his acquaintance with Miss Sutcliff, whose unknown protector appeared to have abandoned her in the Low Countries. They had managed to consummate their relationship during November 1814, about the time that Hero had noticed a falling off of Valentine’s letters. He also managed to get himself posted to Brussels on a more permanent basis, probably much to his relief as more than one letter from Miss Sutcliff protested that she was exclusively his and his alone, suggesting that he had had suspicions that she was sharing her favors. Freddie had no difficulty in believing that Miss Sutcliff would seek to ensnare as many men as possible with her charms, however chilly he himself had found her. Although they were both in Brussels thereafter, they clearly did not share their accommodation, for Miss Sutcliff continued to write to Valentine at his lodgings. He presumably had been billeted on a household and she had settled elsewhere. It was some six weeks into their stay in Brussels that Miss Sutcliff’s letters began to refer to some great prospect that was arising before them. Only imagine my delight when this gentleman chose to confide in me his hopes, his desires, his claims. Surely here we have found the way to make our fortunes, my dearest love, to secure our future and to ensure that both our families are restored to their rightful position in society.

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Miss Sutcliff continued to appeal to Val’s most vulnerable points, his wallet and his family’s name. She played him with an expertise that made Freddie long to take her to the trout stream at Mountquhidder to try her skill with a decent fly and some wilier fish. It was the work of an expert equivocator that ran through the arguments for reviving the flagging correspondence with Miss Veasey. Freddie saw through the flagrant maneuvering quite easily, but Valentine had never had a particularly acute ability to read the workings of his fellow humans. Whatever scheme she had in mind required considerable sums of money, and Miss Veasey’s fortune, it was believed, would be adequate to fund it. But of course, it must be secured, and the only way to do that was to encourage Valentine to go to Yorkshire with his superior officers and renew the acquaintance. Miss Sutcliff believed their cause was worth any sacrifice and it was not as if, in any case, she herself would make a suitable wife for such a gentleman as Valentine Wemyss would become. No, selflessly, she would remain a power behind the throne, and her own love for Valentine, which must never be doubted for it ran deep and strong and true as the lines of his cavalry saber, a sword with which she would pierce herself to the hilt if she had ever given him cause to believe that her affections wavered, would rest submerged in her heart for all eternity. The tone of the rest of Miss Sutcliff’s letters was much the same--a blend of practical arrangements, such as where to collect a certain sum and where then to deliver it, interspersed with highly dramatic protestations of eternal devotion. Although Roehenstart’s name was not explicitly mentioned, Freddie assumed that the frequent references to “our Austrian friend”, “our aspiring general” and “our own pretender” must be connected with him. Through her able pen, Miss Sutcliff constructed elaborate courts and rituals to fill the castles in the air that between them, she and Val wished in due course to inhabit. Then the whole elaborate edifice crumbled during the summer. While Val had made his way to Yorkshire, Miss Sutcliff had been establishing herself as the première hostess of the Edinburgh demi-monde. It was not entirely clear to Freddie where the money for this latest venture had come, but it was clear that it was not Valentine’s and that he had disliked the plan extremely, finding the whole notion of a venue such as Number 9 entirely repugnant. Miss Sutcliff had protested against his objections in the most strenuous terms, complained about the difficulties in recruiting suitable girls for the enterprise and described in rapturous terms the décor and clientele of her new abode. There was an incandescent letter in response to what had presumably been Valentine’s shamefaced admission of the collapse of the plan to marry Hero Veasey without further delay. Steam and venom seemed almost to rise from the letter in equal measure, in which Val’s harsh taskmistress delivered a diatribe on his stupidity, his ineptitude and his general inability to manage anything more than to point a horse in a particular direction. But she also gave contradictory instructions, telling Valentine that she wished never to speak to him again, then summoning him to Edinburgh without delay. And clearly, Valentine had submitted to her demands once again. Having finished reading the letters, Freddie’s already diminished respect for his cousin had dwindled. As far as he could see, Val was nothing more than Miss Sutcliff’s creature. He was so far in her thrall that he could not perceive the danger she embodied, or even if he could, he no longer cared that she was the most lethal of companions. In

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fact, she had so destroyed his self-respect and sense of right or wrong that he could no longer distinguish reality from illusion. But there were no clues regarding the resuscitation of their hopes for the Phoenix, if that indeed was Roehenstart. Freddie was sure that Miss Sutcliff was playing a deeper game than it appeared. He would not have put it past her to tell Val that Roehenstart was the Phoenix while actually backing a different horse entirely. Although where she might have laid hands on another Stuart pretender, Freddie could not tell. He knew that Charles Stuart had married, but he had treated his wife abominably and she had run off with her Italian cicisbeo who had been a poet or composer or some other artistic individual. There had been no offspring, so far as Freddie was aware, from that match. Besides which, if there had been another bastard child, surely Napoleon would have uncovered it during his ascendancy over Italy, for it was just the sort of thing that he would have hoped to use to destabilize Britain as it fought against him. The most frustrating aspect of having waded through this correspondence was that he had discovered no more than he knew already, apart from uncovering the rather gruesome details of his cousin’s relations with this rapacious and ruthless woman. At least he was well prepared in any future dealings he might have with her. This was not comfortable knowledge with which to retire to his bed. He folded up the letters, tied them up again and summoned Murdo. “Hide them for me. Don’t tell me where they are, and don’t talk to anyone else about them. If for any reason Miss Sutcliff comes to suspect that I have seen these letters, she will do her utmost to recover them. So hide them well, Murdo, then forget all about them. That way I need not lie to her should she ever ask for them.” Murdo rolled his eyes and took the letters. “You should burn them. Especially if they tell you nothing you didn’t already know.” “I daresay I should, but until I know Val’s fate, I am reluctant to destroy documents that he might cherish.” “Documents that will send him to the gallows.” Freddie wavered, but could not bring himself to tell Murdo to destroy the letters. The next day brought Miss Veasey and Miss Wemyss to his rooms in good time to meet the first of the individuals who had responded to the pictures of Valentine that had been posted all round Edinburgh the previous week. After extracting two additional chairs from the landlord, Murdo ushered a small woman into the room. Her bright, beady eyes were those of a mouse, pert and alert and she was neatly turned out, full of pride although she was clearly a laborer’s wife. “Ah’m Mrs. Ferguson. Ah saw yon fellow last week.” “Could you tell me the circumstances, Mrs. Ferguson?” said Freddie, showing her to one of his uncomfortable seats. She settled herself like a schoolgirl preparing to recite her catechism then delivered her tale almost in one long breath. Mrs. Ferguson was a washerwoman who took in laundry from numerous Leith hostelries, including the Cat and Fiddle. She was a respectable woman, even though she was from Leith, not that one could say the same of all the women who worked at the Cat and Fiddle, by no means. She’d taken on her mother’s list of customers after the old lady had passed on, even though Davy had said there was no need for her to carry on working, for her Davy was a good provider. Be that as it may, only Thursday last she had been making her final deliveries before Christmas to all her regulars, and there in the Cat and

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Fiddle, muffled in a greatcoat was the man in the picture. It was definitely him, no question about it, he had that same drawn look, fey and distant, and he wasn’t a regular, old Roy Macdonald would swear to that. They’d all noticed him because his coat had a military cut and they hadn’t seen a coat like that since the Scots Greys disembarked from France, besides which he was a gentleman of the sort who didn’t normally frequent a low dive like the Cat and Fiddle for all old Roy’s talk of a select clientele. Select, she snorted eloquently, if you call sixpenny a throw trollops select! Unfortunately, Mrs. Ferguson could provide no further intelligence as to Val’s subsequent actions because she of course had gone through to see Mrs. Macdonald, with whom she liked to share a sup of gin, only a sup mind, while the linens were checked. By the time she had finished that errand, the stranger had left and she had no idea where he had gone. Freddie paid her half a crown for her trouble. She looked like she wanted to demand more, but she was well aware that her information was not so very useful. Old Jonas the carrier had agreed to bring her in and out of the city for free in exchange for a week’s washing, so the two shillings and sixpence was pure profit and she wasn’t missing anything by it since she’d put that shiftless Dora to work in the laundry this morning. So she titupped off, neat, her tidy nose held high. It came as no surprise when his next visitor was the landlord of the Cat and Fiddle. Roy Macdonald was a slim fellow in his fifties, with a high bald forehead, thin, bloodless lips and grey, red-rimmed eyes. He had the unnatural pallor of a man who spent most of his time staying up too late in smoky rooms. He nodded quickly towards the ladies before relating his information directly to Freddie without a further glance at the womenfolk. “Sarah Ferguson has been here already, I daresay, although what more she thinks she knows than anyone else I cannot imagine. She’s ever sticking her nose in a’body’s business.” Freddie smiled as Murdo offered a chair to Macdonald. The publican sat stiffly, his bones clearly aching, his hands on his knees. He wore plain brown clothes with a very white set of stockings, shirt and necktie. Mrs. Ferguson may have been a busybody but she was also, it was clear, an expert washerwoman. Macdonald was a laconic fellow who managed to add rather more to the story than Mrs. Ferguson. “He came in about two in the afternoon. He ordered mulled ale, but he didn’t drink it, sat there brooding and putting off the customers. It was a bad day for trade in any case. It’s always quiet in the run up to Christmas, then once Boxing Day is done, they’re all back at their wicked ways. That’s why I noticed him. That and his coat, quite the finest bit of cloth I’d seen in the inn for many a week. Not so much travel now as there used to be. It’s all those excise men, they frighten folk away. All the trade comes in at Cockenzie and St. Abb’s Head. It’s a damn shame.” Murdo offered the man a glass of wine. Macdonald paused to sniff the claret, held the glass up to the light and sipped, his little finger cocked as fine as any tea-drinking lady. He gave a grim smile before continuing. “Fine wine, I must say, Mr. Charteris, and if your man told you he’d paid the full duty for it, he’d be cozening you.”

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“I’m sure Murdo would never try to cheat me, Mr. Macdonald. You were saying?” It transpired that Valentine Wemyss had sat in the corner of the inn for several hours. He had ignored the blandishments of the girls, he had failed to replenish his tankard and he had cast a gloom over the whole establishment even as the last of the sun’s rays diminished and the wintry dusk had deepened into full night. Freddie commented that Mrs. Ferguson’s testimony had suggested that Mr. Wemyss had moved on before dusk. “Ach, what would she know? She was moroculous, her and my wife, the two barkit hogbeasts. Blethering away in the back of the house, too busy bumping their gums and drinking my gin to notice if Satan himself had come in and downed a cask of finest French brandy. That Sarah Ferguson may be all high and mighty, but I’ve seen her Davy have to carry her back to theirs like a sack of the laundry she charges so much to wash.” Steering Mr. Macdonald back on course took some diplomatic maneuvering, but finally Freddie discovered that eventually, just as the tide was turning, an old salt had stood in the doorway and signaled to Valentine, who had leapt up like a mastiff scenting a significant bone. No, he had no idea who the old sailor was, but one thing Mr. Macdonald could say and that was that only one vessel had docked at Leith that afternoon as far as he was aware, and that was the Silver Darling, a smuggler’s ketch run by a crew out of St. Abb’s head, a more rascally bunch he’d yet to see. He’d assumed that his unsatisfactory guest had taken passage with the Silver Darling. And no, before you ask, Mr. Macdonald hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the vessel since last Thursday. While this was more promising, Freddie was left with the lowering expectation that he would have to make his way to Leith and then probably to Coldingham Bay to track down the boat on which Valentine had disappeared. He vaguely recalled there was some talk of tracking down Roehenstart’s ailing servant from that neck of the woods. He said nothing of this morose conclusion to the young ladies, but drew their attention to the time. “I know we’re expecting a third informant, but Mrs. Macdonald will become suspicious if you are out any longer.” The ladies gasped when they took note of the hour and disappeared in a flurry. Although late, Freddie’s final visitor did materialize eventually. After the ladies’ departure, he had sat and read for some time before getting ready for his next social engagement. It was while he was engaged in changing from his comfortable moleskins and slippers into dancing pumps and formal breeches that the knocker went once again. Murdo slipped out to answer the door. He was back some minutes later, speaking in hushed but urgent tones. “I think you should speak to this one, sir. I wasn’t expecting him, but he’s got something I think you should see.” “Thank you Murdo. If you will help me on with my coat, I shall go out to him immediately.” Murdo went over to the wardrobe and withdrew a new coat, black and very elegant, he thought. Freddie held his cuffs and eased himself into the jacket. When he went into the main room, he saw standing by the fire an anonymous looking fellow with open features, sandy hair, hazel eyes and fine, fair skin lined and reddened by wind and water. He wore canvas trousers, a heavy linen shirt, a leather waistcoat and over that a big coat. He carried a substantial burlap sack.

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“Magnus Coalburn, sir, at your service,” said the visitor. His voice held only a trace of Scots, for all that he was dressed like a fisherman. “How can I help you, Mr. Coalburn?” “I have something here that I think may assist you in your search for this man.” Coalburn drew from a pocket a folded copy of the poster that bore Valentine’s portrait. “I have not seen him myself, but I believe that I have something that belongs to him.” He reached into the burlap sack and pulled out a heavy military greatcoat in prussian blue serge with one cape and a substantial fur trim. He shook it out and held it up for Freddie to see. The coat had been pierced twice just below the left breast and the material around the two slashes was darkened and stiff with some dried substance. Freddie went over and examined the coat minutely. Embroidered on the right hand inner pocket of the silk lining was Valentine’s name, below which, in far smaller script, Freddie could just make out the name and address of the tailor. Eventually, he put the coat aside. “Where did you get this?” “I found it, sir, lying in the street outside Number 9. You know, the new brothel that all the fine gentlemen go to. I found it behind the house, in the alley where we deliver stuff.” “What sort of stuff?” “Just the sort that a place like that requires, sir. Pipes of port and casks of brandy.” “You’re a free trader?” “I’m a merchant in a small way. I sell what comes my way, no questions asked. But the man who owned this coat travelled on my brother’s boat only last week. I don’t want him traced to that boat any more than I want you putting up your bills and making your enquiries.” “When did you find this coat?” “Yesterday evening. I knew this fellow was missing before then--the posters have been up since before Christmas, haven’t they? But I found this when I was making my regular delivery for the house.” “Why didn’t you hand it into the house?” “They owe me, and half the Edinburgh merchants. That place has been set up all fancy, but I don’t believe we’ll see half the money we’re owed by the bitch who runs the place. She’s a tight-fisted cow.” “Have you seen anything more?” Coalburn shook his head and folded his arms. Freddie went into his bedroom to seek out payment. He returned with a sovereign. “You’ve taken some pains to come with this information. Would your tongue loosen if I offered you more money?” “Depends on what you want to know.” Freddie was not sure why he felt he could rely on this man’s evidence, but there was something about his bluff, casual air that invited confidence. “Mr. Coalburn, I need to know where my cousin is, whether he is alive or dead, what he was doing on your brother’s boat and who his associates are. If you can help me with any or all of these questions, I will pay handsomely. If you can guide me to my cousin, who from the look of this coat is either grievously wounded or dead, I will give you a substantial sum.”

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“I’ve no idea whether your cousin is alive or dead. He went on the Darling to Eyemouth. He left the boat and that, I believe, is the last my brother or his crew saw of Mr. Wemyss. He paid his fare before boarding, so there was no reason to take note of his destination. I do know that he was meant to be meeting a foreign gentleman off a vessel from the continent, but he was late, for the gentleman arrived early and went directly to Edinburgh. This I know because the foreign gentleman was not careful or quiet but came into the inn and kicked up a great fuss, asking after Mr. Wemyss and setting to with a bellowing and a swearing when he found he was not met, and his man was fearful sick and lies still at the Bull. When Mr. Wemyss came to Eyemouth, he tried to see the valet, but the poor beggar was too sick.” “How do you think the coat reached Number 9?” Coalburn shook his head and tutted. “Couldn’t say, sir. I don’t believe he’s in the house, but I can’t think where else he might be. Maybe in the ground if the blood on that coat is his. Or chopped up by medical students. That madam would turn anything to a penny if she could get it.” Freddie thanked Mr. Coalburn and gave him another sovereign, of which the man was appreciative but not unduly groveling. Then he sat, gazing by turns at the coat draped over the chair where Coalburn and Mrs. Ferguson and Mr. Macdonald had sat and at the fire, as though the flames held the solution to the mystery of Valentine’s disappearance.

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Chapter Eleven: In which Mr. Charteris displays initiative In between rehearsals, Miss Veasey wanted very much to meet her rival, although how she was to manage this was not immediately obvious to her. There had to be some way of arranging an encounter with a woman who, it was clear, was beginning to cause something of a stir amongst Edinburgh’s matrons who wished to a woman that Miss Sutcliff had chosen some other city in which to establish her latest business venture. The gentlemen were spending much too much time and money at Miss Sutcliff’s establishment and this must stop. Of course, very little was said in front of maidens such as Miss Wemyss and Miss Veasey, but enough was said to ensure that the two young ladies were well aware of the location and reputation of the infamous Number 9. Hero’s opportunity arose over the Hogmanay celebrations. While Christmas was a private affair, reserved for families and church-going, with very little holiday atmosphere to it, the New Year’s celebrations were much more public, with a torch-light procession, bonfires in numerous districts of the city and more exciting still, fireworks. People were planning to go to the newly-drained Nor’Loch, where gardens were being made from which all would be able to see the fireworks set off from the Castle towering above. Hero felt that it would surely be possible to slip away with Beattie into the crowds of revelers and make her way to Number 9 which she knew was in the Old Town. Once there, she was not sure what she would do or what she hoped to achieve. But she wanted to see the woman who had captured Val’s affections. The picture in the locket was not enough: what sort of woman was it who could alter a man so? In the event, Hero did not need to scheme or plot. Miss Sutcliff had plans of her own. Before going up to the Mound, the Macdonalds had thrown open their house to their friends and had arranged carriages and wagons to transport their guests up the Royal Mile to the Castle where they would be admitted by ticket to the courtyard where the fireworks would take place. Hero had hoped to insert Beattie into the party, but no opportunity to do so arose: the servants would have their own festivities below stairs. Hero resigned herself to enjoying the evening with no thought of seeking out any ladies of dubious reputation. The Macdonald party did not leave Queen Street until after eleven, for it took some time to assemble all the guests and ensure that they were all sufficiently warmly wrapped, that blankets and foot warmers had been distributed to all the coaches which would convey them up to the castle, to organize who would sit with whom and where they would all meet if they should chance to separate. At last, the horses clattered over the cobbles, down past Charlotte Square, along the Nor’Loch, across the North Bridge and onto the High Street. There were crowds of people in the streets, impeding any progress as they spilled from the taverns and shoved their way along Lawnmarket and forced their way past the Tollbooth Kirk onto Castle Hill. Once within the Castle gates, the ladies descended from their carriages, the gentlemen from the wagon onto which they

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had crammed themselves. Although admission to the Castle was limited to those who had applied for tickets from the Provost, it was still packed with bodies, and it took some time for the Macdonald party to worm themselves through the mass of bodies to the position on the Argyle Battery which had been reserved for the most privileged of guests. Talk was impossible what with the shouts of the crowds out in the town and the blare of the bagpipes, fife and drums, accompanying the general merriment with rousing marches. It was not long before the countdown to the New Year began, and when the bells of the churches tolled the midnight hour, a great cheer went up as if the very stones of the city were proclaiming their joy at the prospect of another year, followed by the whistles of the flares and rockets, the gasps of delight as the fiery sparklings dazzled and shimmered in the night sky. It was then that Hero realized she was flanked by strangers on either side, two substantial men who gently but firmly pushed her towards an open doorway leading into St. Margaret’s Chapel. Torches and candles lit the chapel. Standing by the altar was a heavily veiled woman. She turned as one of the men shut the door behind Hero, then she threw back her veil and came forward. Her pale hair gleamed beneath the lace and her face above her black cloak seemed to hover like a white petal in the gloom. “My apologies for this clandestine arrangement. I hope you are not frightened.” “Is there any reason I should be frightened?” asked Hero. “None in the world. You will not know me. My name is Alethea Sutcliff. We have an acquaintance in common.” “Do we?” Hero strove to sound insouciant. “I believe we do. Mr. Valentine Wemyss.” “Yes, I do know Mr. Wemyss.” “Have you seen him recently?” asked Miss Sutcliff. “No.” Hero decided against asking her any questions: every instinct warned her against revealing too much to this woman. “Was it you who arranged for the posters to be put up?” “No.” “The likeness is very good.” “Yes.” Miss Sutcliff sighed. “You really aren’t very forthcoming, Miss Veasey.” “How do you know my name?” “Mr. Wemyss has spoken of you. He said you were a pretty little thing, and he was right.” Miss Sutcliff’s creamy voice was rather scornful. Hero’s fingers clenched around her reticule, but hidden in her gloves, she hoped the involuntary movement had been hidden. “Mr. Wemyss never spoke of you to me, Miss Sutcliff.” “Do you know where he is, Miss Veasey?” “I am not sure that it is any of your concern, Miss Sutcliff. I have only your word, the word of a stranger, that you know him. Presumably if he wished you to know of his whereabouts, he would not have concealed them from you.” “So I can expect for no assistance from you, Miss Veasey?” “No. I cannot think of anything further we might have to say to each other, can you, Miss Sutcliff?”

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“You might warn that cousin of Valentine’s not to be quite so assiduous in his enquiries.” “Why, Miss Sutcliff, should you think that I have any influence on the actions of Mr. Wemyss’s cousin? To be frank, I am not entirely sure to whom you refer, since he has a whole tribe of Charteris and Wemyss cousins present in Edinburgh.” “Don’t play the ingénue with me, Miss Veasey. You know perfectly well that I mean Mr. Frederick Charteris. He is often seen in Queen Street and you are seen often in Charlotte Square.” A prickle of discomfort ran down Hero’s spine at this evidence of Miss Sutcliff’s intelligence network. Presumably she either had the houses watched or she actually had informants within each of the houses, either of which was an uncomfortable realization. In the silence that then fell, they could hear the muffled voices of the assembled company singing the familiar words of Burns. Hero wondered if Miss Sutcliff had any old acquaintance that she would not forget. “My party will be missing me.” Miss Sutcliff inclined her head as a queen might dismiss a subject. Hero slipped out of the door and back into the crowd. She struggled through the mass of bodies until she once again found her party. Lizzie Wemyss turned and shouted in her ear, “Where have you been? Mr. Macdonald and some of the other gentlemen went in search of you, we feared some mishap. Are you well?” “I am quite well, Lizzie. I was separated briefly from you, and before I knew it, the crowd had carried me away. It’s like being in a river in full spate. I made my way to the chapel and I caught my breath there.” When Hero’s uncle returned, he greeted her with relief and swiftly gathered up his flock to restore them to the New Town. The crowds were becoming wilder and wilder and having seemed to lose one of their number, he was reluctant to remain longer so that any other member of the party might waft away. The next day, there were constant rehearsals for Twelfth Night. Hero watched for Mr. Charteris. He was irritatingly elusive, so much so that she had eventually to hiss at him in the wings and signal for him to come over to her piano. “Miss Veasey,” he said and bowed before leaning over the pianoforte. “How may I help you?” “I must speak with you privately. Now is not the time. But I must tell you that yesterday I encountered Miss Sutcliff, and she is most suspicious.” “Pretend to be taken ill. I can take you out. Then we will be uninterrupted.” Hero wilted visibly, and Freddie was able then to escort her from the rehearsal room. As soon as they had left, she straightened up and he led her to his brother’s study. “David is out with his fellow-merchants, plotting their way to further riches and success in the forthcoming year, I daresay. We will be left in peace here.” The room was light and bright, although every surface seemed to be covered in papers. Freddie drew Miss Veasey across to a pair of fauteuils by the window overlooking Charlotte Square itself. It had been raining, but now the sun had emerged from the clouds and the city glistened. Swiftly, Hero described her encounter with Miss Sutcliff the previous evening. Freddie was outraged. “She is the most forward creature I have ever come across. How dare she abduct you like that! You did very well, Miss Veasey, very well. You seem

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to have kept your head and given as little as possible away to her. I cannot help but think that she means to do Val the most grievous mischief. I am relieved indeed that she is in as great ignorance as we as to his whereabouts.” “She was very angry with me, I fear.” “You should have no fear whatsoever. She may be angry, but she cannot harm you. I am very sorry that you should have had so unpleasant an experience. She is trying to force our hand, but I at least, will not be forced.” “How long has he been in love with Miss Sutcliff, have you any idea, Mr. Charteris?” Freddie could not lie. “About two years, I believe. I think they have been very discreet. I am not sure that even his fellow officers had any idea of how close they had become. I am sorry that you have had to discover this.” “It is better by far that I discover it now. Imagine if we had married and I found myself tied to a man who cared so much for someone else.” Hero swallowed at the thought, holding back tears. “He can never truly have loved me. I must have been a terrible nuisance to him.” Freddie kneeled by Hero’s chair and took both her hands in his. “Miss Veasey, you must not think that. Valentine has behaved disgracefully towards you. I have no right to give you advice, but if you were my sister, I would advise you to forget him if you are able.” She smiled, but she still looked a little wan. “I will try. I think loving him was more of a habit than anything else, which is nearly as bad as chasing after an heiress. I should have given him his congé, but there is Lizzie to think of.” Freddie was looking up at her. He reached his hand and lifted her chin a little. It was not voluntary, but he found himself tracing the outline of her lips with his thumb. Her lips parted a little and her breath shortened. She did not recoil. “You think so much of others, so rarely of yourself.” His voice was almost a whisper. His fingers travelled across the fine skin of her cheek and along her jaw line. He moved so his face was level with hers. She was still. His fingers trailed down the line of her neck and then up to touch the tender skin behind her ear. He leaned forward and pressed his lips gently against hers. The kiss was long and gentle and sweet. It was Freddie who pulled away. He stood. “Forgive me.” He looked down into her huge, dazed eyes. She smiled as she collected herself. “What is there to forgive? It was kind of you to try to comfort me.” “It wasn’t comfort for you. I ask forgiveness for forgetting myself. I find you....” Freddie felt ill at ease. Miss Veasey’s smile deepened and she looked up at him, eyebrows raised expectantly. “You find me how?” “Irresistible.” “That is a vast improvement on pitiful.” She stood and shook out her skirts. “You aren’t remotely pitiful, Miss Veasey.” She lowered her eyes. “But I’m not the sort of girl who drives men into a passionate frenzy. Not like Miss Sutcliff. She’s driven Val to the edge of insanity, poor fellow.” “What rot!” Freddie stepped over to Hero and slipped an arm about her waist and the other behind her neck before kissing her hard this time, bringing her body close

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against his. He felt her arms come up and her hands on his cheeks, and he checked himself a little, allowing her space to push him away, but she pressed tighter against him and opened her mouth and he felt her tongue and then he was lost and so was she. Finally, they had to catch their breath. Somehow, they pulled themselves apart, each one stepping back until only their hands were touching and then only their fingertips and then only their eyes met and they both registered how hard they each were breathing. Hero sank back into one of the fauteuils and looked down, pleating the burgundy of her woolen dress between her fingers. Freddie went and stood at the window, collecting himself. Finally he turned back to her. “You certainly drive me into a passionate frenzy, Miss Veasey.” She had her hand over her mouth and was softly fingering her lower lip. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” She shook her head. “I don’t know what to say.” “Nor do I. I should probably be making protestations of my honorable intent and so forth, but it seems inappropriate when we are busy hunting down the man you were meant to be marrying.” “You couldn’t possibly anyway. You hardly know me. It’s scarcely a fortnight since we first met.” Freddie thought that he very possibly could. But it did not seem to him that Miss Veasey was ready for another proposal. Besides which, she was quite right really, they scarcely knew each other. It came to him that he was absolutely, utterly sure that she was the girl he wished to marry and that he would never meet anyone else that he wished to marry, but he suspected that to reveal this would terrify her. So, against his will, he moderated his speech. “I know it is only a very short time, but we have managed to meet each other a good deal thanks to Mary’s play and Valentine’s misdemeanors. I feel as though I am beginning to know you very well, better by far than if we’d simply met at an assembly and danced the odd dance.” He wanted to say more, but he did not quite dare. Then he thought of the bloodstained coat that was in his possession, and he frowned. She noticed immediately. “What’s wrong?” “I have some news that I have been concealing from you. I did it for the best--at least, that’s how one always rationalizes actions which may not have been wise.” “Tell me.” Freddie explained about the coat. Hero sat there, her fingers clasped tight together, her knuckles white. “No wonder you did not wish to say anything. Lizzie would be combing the city herself if she knew this. What are we to do?” Freddie’s face lightened. “You don’t know how much it relieves me to hear you speak so. I have no idea what to do next. I was thinking of going in search of this vessel, the Silver Darling. I am trapped though by this infernal theatrical. I cannot let Mary down, but as soon as we are done with it, I propose to take myself off first to Leith and then to Coldingham and Eyemouth. But what are we to do with Roehenstart if Val doesn’t turn up? We can’t leave him sponging off your aunt and uncle forever.” Hero had lowered her eyes and was gazing down into her lap, her fingers knotted and tense. She looked up tentatively. “I believe I have thought of a plan, but I do not know if it will suit.”

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“Fire away. I have no notion what to do. I’m not usually so stumped.” “I believe that I should arrange to take Lizzie to Yorkshire. Then Roehenstart can come with us on his way to London, and you could offer to accompany him, since you must return there eventually. If we are all heading south, it would be the most natural thing in the world to arrange to stop at Eyemouth, for we must then collect Roehenstart’s poor, sick man. Do you think that would serve?” Freddie said, “How neat a plan! Now we simply need to get through our beastly rehearsals and we may set off as soon as the play is done.” While it was flattering to hear Freddie speak so highly of her brains, Hero took his comments lightly, for while she was prepared to admit to sound common sense, she had never been led to believe that she was anything other than rather dim. Her cousin Rosamond had always been formidably intelligent and widely read, but Hero had never been able to get to grips with the dense philosophical tracts that Rosamond had regularly pondered upon, preferring a lively novel or romantic poem. She was good at arranging things and believed she had learnt something from watching ladies like Aunt Lydia and Mary Charteris who always seemed to be organized and competent to deal with any crisis. But she could not regard herself as clever and was rather wary of the term, particularly having recently brushed shoulders with a woman who wore her cleverness like a shining guerdon in the person of Miss Alethea Sutcliffe. Now there had been a scheming, dastardly woman with far too much cleverness. Never having been a violent soul, Hero found herself a little frightened by the depth of her own dislike for Miss Sutcliffe. Frightened, but also invigorated. She felt sorry for Lizzie, of course, but when faced with the truth, she had to admit that the mystery of Val’s disappearance was actually a relief and a fascination. “It’s time for us to return, I am sure. You go first, report that I am much improved, it was only a slight faintness brought on by the heat of the room. Then I can come back in another few minutes, right as rain.” Freddie followed Miss Veasey’s instructions, but returned to the rehearsal to discover that no one appeared to have noticed their disappearance due to some disagreement between Lizzie and the general who had rubbed Valentine’s sister up the wrong way more than once with his rather brusque manner and obvious scorn for her brother’s failure to materialize. This had caused the scene they were enacting to grind to a dismal halt. Meanwhile, Mary Charteris, considerably aggrieved, was doing her best to chivvy the parties into making up their differences, but had succeeded only in aggravating them further. When he opened a window, Freddie roused the ire of the assembled company, but when he mentioned Miss Veasey’s frailty, they were all suitably chastened and this somehow brought them all to the point where they could continue their rehearsal without further disturbances. Hero slipped into the room and before they all knew it, the rehearsal was finished. That evening, Hero dismissed Beattie once she was in her nightrail. Then she slipped across the landing to Lizzie’s room. Miss Wemyss had completed her change into an unromantic flannel nightgown, over which she wore a rather lovelier brocade dressing gown, a Christmas gift from the Macdonalds. The two girls curled up on the chaise longue, watching as the coals in the fireplace dimmed. Hero sat behind Lizzie, idly brushing her friend’s hair. Dreamily, she broached to Lizzie the possibility of using a trip

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to Yorkshire as a pretext to travel to the place where the last person to see Val might be found. Miss Wemyss fell upon this suggestion with enthusiasm. “Hero, you are a dear to think this all up. I have been wondering and wondering how I might investigate further. I thought I might rely on Freddie, but he is so cagey, even though I don’t give tuppence about Val’s indiscretions. Those are nothing to me. For you it is different. I would entirely understand if you said you never wanted anything more to do with any of us beastly Wemysses.” She turned a wary gaze on Hero, unsure if she had overstepped the bounds of friendship. Hero comforted her friend and did her best to reassure Lizzie. “You are a dear companion to me, Lizzie, and I do not wish to lose a friend who has become so very precious to me. But I must be honest with you. I doubt I shall ever marry Val.” She paused and then looked straight at Lizzie. “You see, I have met Valentine’s mistress and I couldn’t possibly marry him now that I’ve understood that he does not have the slightest feeling for me. I am sorry, for I know how much it meant to your family that Val should be established and be able to provide for you all.” Lizzie, not unnaturally, demanded to hear all about Hero’s encounter with Miss Sutcliff. On hearing of the events of the previous night, she longed to hunt down the redoubtable mistress of Number 9 and administer to her a box on the ears for attempting to browbeat Hero. “But you weren’t browbeaten at all, were you?” Hero grinned, and Lizzie was struck by the mischievous liveliness that lit her friend’s face, quite unlike the serene mask she usually presented to the world. “Do you know, Lizzie, I find I wasn’t, and I liked it. I liked standing up to her, the cat, and I liked maddening her with my refusal to tell her anything more than I wished. It was most gratifying.” She pushed her friend round again and applied her nimble fingers to arranging Lizzie’s hair in a neat plait ready for sleeping. “You, Hero Veasey, are becoming the most complete minx.” “Do you know, Lizzie, I think I am, for I find I enjoy it.” She kissed Miss Wemyss on the cheek, stood and stretched. “I have been a little blind and a little dumb, but I don’t think it suits me. Good night, my dear.” As she climbed into bed, Lizzie Wemyss reflected that her brother had been a fool, for Hero Veasey seemed to be metamorphosing before her eyes from a shy, retiring girl into a young woman with allure and a definite mind of her own.

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Chapter Twelve: In which Miss Sutcliff is surprised As Hero had surmised, Miss Sutcliff had people watching both the Charteris and the Macdonald households. She had done her best to suborn servants in both homes. Unfortunately for her plans, both Mrs. Macdonald and Mrs. Charteris ran strict but fair regimes which precluded the sort of dissatisfaction that led to the easy bribery of their people. She was not sure where her missing swain might materialize first. Of course, it was likely that he would simply return to his lodgings and then make his way as quickly as possible to her side, but she had observed a distinct cooling of his ardor as their plans (more accurately, she supposed, her plans) for the reinstatement of a Stuart monarch on the British throne became increasingly involved. He did not like a complicated life, her Valentine. Not that she was sure that she wished him to be her Valentine for much longer. Perhaps he was already no one’s Valentine except for the cold earth’s. She couldn’t say that she’d be terribly sorry if he were dead, but it would be a nuisance to have to find another lapdog to run errands and rally the wavering fragments of her followers. It had been a miscalculation to speak with the Veasey child. The girl had been so fresh and so young. Alethea tried to remember herself at twenty. It was already ten years since, and she had been whose mistress? In 1806, she had been in Rome still. There had been a cardinal, who had put her up in a villa in Trastevere, quite inconvenient for the Vatican, but equally, rather safer from the Vatican’s prying eyes than a lodging closer to the Castel San Angelo. And d’Alquier, the French ambassador, of course, until his eye had been taken by that Duvauçay slut. Alethea had not been fresh or young even then, not like Miss Veasey, so sheltered and so naïve. Still, she had stolen Valentine Wemyss from the chit, and kept him on a tight rein. The girl had known nothing about the coat--that was clear. She wondered what had happened to it. It had been unsettling, the discovery of the coat. It had turned up in one of the whore’s rooms. The girl had sworn blind she didn’t know who’d left it there, even after Alethea had Loomis hurt her a little and threaten her with his knife. She’d been too busy, she said, and it was only when she woke up the following morning that she’d noticed it hanging over a chair. She’d held it up, looking for the tailor’s mark, sure that whichever punter had left it behind would want it back. That was when she’d noticed the gashes and the blood and set up a screeching that had roused the whole house. Silly bitch. Alethea had recognized it at once. It was the only decent coat Val had left. Yes, perhaps it was as well that he’d disappeared, for she wouldn’t allow him to hang on her. Let him pay his own way. Let him pay for making a mess of things time after time. He was a useless lump, a poor lover, an incompetent provider. Miss Hero Veasey might not realize it, but she had done the child a favor in distracting Mr. Wemyss. Some fool had taken the coat and thrown it out, and by the time Miss Sutcliff had realized it and sent someone out to fetch it back, it had disappeared. It was maddening to be surrounded by dolts and incompetents. At least for the first time since she had become entangled with Valentine Wemyss, there was enough money coming in and for once she

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did not have to lie on her own back to make it. And Roehenstart was safely in the country, although it was inconvenient that he should have ensconced himself in the Macdonald’s home. She had been careful to share few details of her strategy with anyone, but now she paid for that care, since she had lost control of her knight and her potential king, provided she could get her pawn to the last row of her chessboard. The Macdonalds and Miss Veasey were an obstacle, certainly, but they were by no means insuperable. She bustled about her own house, chivvying the maids, inspecting the wares on offer to her gentlemen callers, checking the dice and the cards, the felt covering the tables, the state of the candles, the wine that her steward had brought up from the cellar, the maquillage of the whores, the state of their underclothes and bed linens. There was nothing gentlemen liked less than grimy women. It was comforting to conduct the usual rituals of preparation before Number 9 opened its doors, an event which took place like clockwork at half past seven every evening, Christmas and Hogmanay included. The girls had been given an extra guinea for working throughout the festive season, but that was nothing compared to the riches that she had accrued as men, enervated and harassed by over-exposure to their families had flocked to her house, where they might come by entertainment, diversion and the opportunity to spend a good deal of money. There had been times over the past eight months since she had set up Number 9 when she had longed to forget entirely about the secret purpose that had brought her to Scotland. It was so easy, running a gambling den and bawdy house. She knew well enough what men craved and she had proved to be an exemplary manager, more than competent at the cunning tricks necessary to keep such a house popular and solvent. The bills were manageable, the takings substantial and the claret was delicately but never excessively watered. She did not pay much attention when the knocker rattled. Tradesmen came and went at all times of the day, although usually, they did not approach the imposing front of Number 9. Then Loomis appeared in the doorway of her private parlor and cleared his throat. “There’s a visitor, ma’am.” “I’m not expecting anyone.” “She said as that might be the case.” Alethea looked up. Female callers were unusual. “She?” “Elderly lady. Countess Stuarton.” At which information, Miss Sutcliff, pale already, seemed to whiten further. She stood abruptly, the chair behind her rattling backwards to the floor. “Show her in immediately. Don’t dawdle.” Loomis lumbered away. When he returned, he made way for a woman of some sixty summers in a dark travelling cloak, the hood thrown back to reveal a bony face as through the flesh were shrinking around her skull. Her mouth was small, her lips thin, her short iron-grey hair tightly curled, her eyes large and dark and penetrating as a buzzard’s. Her nose was also small and curved. She looked about her with a measured gaze, taking in Alethea Sutcliff’s deep curtsey with a derisory sniff. “You are doing very well, Miss Sutcliff. You have landed on your feet, one might say, and in just the sort of establishment I always predicted for you.” The woman’s English was flawless although her accent was a muddle of Irish and Italian, thinly

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overlaid with French. “Get up. You look ridiculous abasing yourself like that and you no more believe that I am royalty than that damned British Ambassador in Rome did.” Alethea stood and waited until the woman had untied her cloak and handed it to her. Then Countess Stuarton, resplendent in heavy maroon satin, settled in the most comfortable chair in the room, which required Alethea to bring a more upright one round to face it. As she sat, she felt like a child preparing for a telling off. “Where is my grandson? I hope he is not here in this house of ill repute.” The Countess looked about herself once again, relishing the words which relegated Alethea to the periphery of society. “No ma’am, he is safely bestowed elsewhere.” “So I should hope. Of course, I bring news of Stuarton.” The Countess fell silent, waiting for Alethea’s reaction. “I was expecting him.” “And not me.” The thin lips thinned further as the old woman maneuver d her lips into a smile. It did not reach her eyes. “I am well aware of the fact. I did not feel it was the right time for Henry to come here. If he saw you again, I daresay he’d once again fall into your bed. Marguerite may be a ninny with the wit of a flustered hen but she is my daughter-in-law and I will not allow you to usurp her place. Stuarton is not needed for another month or more. We had agreed that spring was the time to initiate our action.” “There are complications. The Austrian gentleman has arrived here. It is an unfortunate coincidence but it is one that must be dealt with. His claim is not negligible.” “He’s the bastard child of a bastard child. How can that compare with the legitimate son of the true king of Britain?” The Countess gave her hostess a steady look. “Are you wavering, Miss Sutcliff? That would be a very foolish idea. You should remember on which side your bread is buttered. That is, I believe the English expression for showing true appreciation and loyalty to those who have first call on them.” Miss Sutcliff did not voice the dispiriting thought that her bread had once again landed butter-side down. The Countess continued. “I am staying at the Royal. I wish you to bring Benedict to me tomorrow morning, and he will stay with me. I do not think he needs any further exposure to your pernicious influence.” “I am afraid that will not be possible. Benedict is in a safe place, but it is some distance out of Edinburgh. It will take at least two days to fetch the boy.” “Very well. Two days.” “When is Henry coming?” The question was wrenched out of Alethea. The Countess stood. “That does not concern you in the slightest. All you need do is ensure that our supporters are ready for him when he arrives. It would be dangerous if too many people knew when he was expected.” It was clear that the woman had no intention of revealing anything further to Miss Sutcliff, but the young woman could not contain herself. “I am discreet, you know I am. Everything I have done, I have done for Henry and now you seek to keep him from me.” “Of course I do. And it is just as well for you both. You should remember that he is married and a Catholic. There is no future for you, Miss Sutcliff, as anything more than his loyal servant.” The Countess picked up her cloak from the back of the chair where Miss Sutcliff had folded it and threw it around herself, the green satin lining glowing

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from the firelight. “I look forward to seeing my grandson in two days time, Miss Sutcliff. If there is any delay, believe me, you will pay.” The woman swept out and Miss Sutcliff stood by the fire, her arms folded across her stomach as though she had been dealt a punishing blow. She had always known that she was nothing to the Stuartons unless she demonstrated her willingness and worth. First it had been in Henry’s bed and then in other men’s beds. He would have married her, she knew it, if her mother had not died and the countess had decided that an unprotected girl with no name and no money was ineligible for the son of a prince of the house of Stuart. It was the Countess who had introduced Alethea to Talleyrand and told her to please the Frenchman in any way that might be necessary for Henry’s advancement. Talleyrand had passed her on to the complaisant cardinal and Henry had vanished from Rome, only to return several months later married to his insipid but noble little principessa. But the important thing now was to collect Benedict Stuarton from his hiding place and return the child to the bony bosom of his grandmother. Miss Sutcliff breathed in, released the breath, raised her chin, composed her features into their customary mask and rang for Loomis. “You must find the Dewpin boy immediately. I must have him here by tomorrow evening.” “But we don’t know where he is, the blighter.” “Loomis, you weary me. Somehow, he escaped detection, but he went to Charteris, who will have hidden him either here in Edinburgh or on the family lands at Mountquhidder. You’ve had men watching the Charlotte Square house this past ten days. Extract some information from them. Call your spies in and I will speak with them.” Loomis followed his instructions and summoned the three men who had kept a watch on the movements of Freddie Charteris, then called his mistress to come down to the inner courtyard where he’d told them to wait. She inspected them minutely and then turned to him in disgust. “No wonder you haven’t been able to discover a damned thing. These oafs are drunk. Go and get three buckets of cold water. Go quickly, we haven’t much time before our guests will start arriving.” Loomis returned minutes later with two other men and three buckets of cold water. First the three drunkards had their heads plunged into the buckets. Then they threw the water over the sots and they stood in the cold, their breath steaming into the night air. She signaled to Loomis, who pinned the arms of one man and wrenched his head round. “How many servants do the Charteris’ have?” “Fifteen, ma’am. Cook, butler, housekeeper, four footmen, one lady’s maid, three skivvies, a gardener, coachman, groom and page.” Alethea Sutcliff smiled coldly. “You are prompt. How old is the page?” “There was one roundabout eleven or twelve years, miss, but he’s been replaced by a boy of ten, maybe less, ma’am.” “Replaced? When?” rapped out Miss Sutcliff. “Must have been a fortnight ago, maybe less.” “This page, what does he look like?” “Like all boys, ma’am, except that he’s kept cleaner than most. He wears a wig and a bright blue coat with silver frogging, like the other footmen, but cut down to size.” “And it has taken you days to tell me this, Loomis.” She had been standing with her hands behind her back, but now she brought her right arm round and slashed her

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henchman with the riding crop she’d been concealing in the folds of her skirt. He released his prisoner and cradled his cheek from which drops of blood sprang. “You are an incompetent fool. I’ll wager the house bank that the page is Edgar Dewpin who has been walking the streets of Edinburgh in the service of the Charteris family. Next time he emerges, you must abduct him. Tomorrow, without delay. You will pay dearly if you fail. You will, of course, be amply rewarded for your success.” Miss Sutcliff walked back inside and swept upstairs to change before the guests arrive. The five men all looked to Loomis, but he was still clutching at the side of his face and swearing softly. “That bloody bitch will pay. We’ll get the boy for her, but we won’t let her have him. We won’t let anyone have him.” “What do you mean, Loomis?” “I’m not getting that urchin back so he can crow over me and turn his nose up at me like he did before. And I’ve done the last service I owe to that woman. We’ll get the boy back and we’ll give her his hide and nothing else.” The men exchanged glances. Where the mistress had found Loomis they didn’t know, since it was he who had hired them, but none of them wanted any part of murdering a child, still less flaying it and presenting the skin to one of the most frightening women they’d ever encountered. Loomis and the woman were as mad as badgers and far more unpredictable. It would be best to disappear now even if it did mean forgoing a week’s wages. The men melted away. They did not intend to return to Number 9. Both Alethea and Loomis were too busy for the rest of that evening to realize that half of the male staff of the house had vanished. But when Loomis discovered that the malcontents had left complete with their livery, he gave no visible sign of caring one way or the other. He had risen early and intended to go to Charlotte Square in any case. But when he arrived there, he was also thwarted. He made his way to the mews behind the house where the carriages and horses were kept. He had invented a spurious mission, an inspection visit on behalf of his master who had seen a high-stepper owned by Charteris and wished to put in an offer. But it was unnecessary, for the groom was quite forthcoming enough once Loomis had offered him some tobacco for his pipe. They started talking about their masters, as is the natural bent of conversation between servants. The groom liked his people, but thought them indulgent, especially with mouthy little beggars who came from who knew where only to lord it over the other servants because the mistress and the housekeeper had taken a liking to the little reptile. Loomis ruefully commented that he had known a child like that, but it had come to a sticky end, which was only just, and perhaps the groom ought to tell the child what fate would befall him if the cheek was not curbed. Too late, revealed the groom, for the monster had been removed from the household the previous afternoon. Loomis frowned but checked his impulse to demand to know where the boy had been taken. The groom obligingly filled the silence that had fallen by explaining that the child had been taken off by the brother of Mr. Charteris who had left for London the previous afternoon. “London! What they want to go there for? Nasty place.” It seemed that Mister Frederick Charteris had had enough of Edinburgh. The only thing that had kept young Mr. Charteris in the city had been the performance of a play, organized by the mistress of the house. But that had gone off two nights before, very well

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by all accounts, though in the groom’s humble opinion the only reason a gentleman ever had for messing around in a play was to cozy up to some young lady or other. Loomis did not waste any more time on the groom, but returned to Number 9 and found his mistress. “The boy’s gone, and so has Charteris.” This intelligence drove Miss Sutcliff into a frenzy. She called Loomis a dolt and a dunderhead and demanded that he chase after Charteris at once. The boy must be fetched back to Edinburgh without delay. Then one of Loomis’s informants was admitted to the house and revealed that Charteris was not the only bird to have flown the city. It seemed that Roehenstart and the young ladies from Queen Street were also on their way to London with Charteris and the boy. Miss Sutcliff spat and fizzed like a Catherine wheel, winding herself up into ever greater wrath. Then she summoned her coachman and demanded to be taken to the Royal Hotel forthwith, Although Miss Sutcliff did fear to hear further insults (all the more effective because they were by and large true) from Countess Stuarton, she was not craven. She did not see the point in waiting until the deadline imposed by the countess to reveal that the child known as Edgar Dewpin was missing. Miss Sutcliff descended from her carriage in a cloud of navy velvet, swept into the Royal and stood waiting as serving staff buffeted her from all sides. Eventually a harassed looking fellow in an apron and shirtsleeves came up to her. After some persuasion, he sent a girl up to the countess to see if she was receiving. By now it was nearly a half hour that Miss Sutcliff had been standing in the inn hallway. Another ten minutes passed before she was finally shown to the countess in her private parlor. This time she did not curtsey. She stood in the doorway and threw back the hood of her cloak. The old woman was sitting in a chair facing the door. She was alone. Some of Alethea’s bravado dwindled, for she had half hoped that the old witch had been accompanied by Henry Stuarton and that he would be there. Although perhaps it was better that he did not hear her stumbling explanation that his son was on his way to London with some complete strangers. “Well?” “Your grandson has left Edinburgh. He ran away from me and joined a household as a page. It is a respectable household.” “Then it must be an improvement on your own. Have you any idea where my grandson is being taken?” “London. He is accompanying two young ladies who will stop in Yorkshire and two gentlemen who are continuing to London. I can arrange for him to be followed and retrieved, but it will not be possible to bring him to you tomorrow.” “At least you had the common sense to tell me. Don’t leave it to lackeys to get the boy back. Go yourself. I don’t understand how he came to run away, although I can quite see why he might have wished to do so. How old is the child now? Nine?” “He is not quite twelve. Henry sent him away five years ago.” “We may not agree on very much, Miss Sutcliff, but on that we were in complete accord, it was a ridiculous thing to do to send a six year old away and the mother has never been the same since. She doesn’t have your backbone, I’ll give you that. It was a shame you weren’t better born.”

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Miss Sutcliff did not reveal that in her own view, it would have been better if she had not been born at all. The countess continued. “If you go today, there’s a chance you may catch them up on the road. Especially if you take a light carriage. You don’t need a maid, after all.” Perhaps she did not, but Miss Sutcliff had no intention of setting off on a journey of four hundred miles with only Loomis to accompany her. She did not wish, however, to reveal her own plans to the countess. She merely inclined her head, sketched a curtsey and withdrew from the parlor. She moved swiftly thereafter, for there was a good deal to arrange before she could get away in search of the tiresome brat. He would certainly pay once she had caught up with him. In the meantime, she would let Loomis loose on Alice Dewpin, for the brat had taken an unaccountable liking for the trollop, deceived as he had been into believing that she was his long-lost sister.

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Chapter Thirteen: In which explorations are made It had been no mean logistical feat to arrange the prompt departure of two ladies and a rather self-centered general immediately after Mrs. Charteris’ Twelfth Night festivities. The play had gone off very well, everyone very impressed by Roehenstart’s excellent command of Shakespeare’s treacherous language and quite in raptures over Lizzie Wemyss’ Viola. By this time, Freddie had invited Roehenstart to share his carriage down to London, much to the delight of the Macdonalds. They were less enchanted when Hero broached the notion that she and Lizzie might go to Cheveley, her home in Yorkshire, although both her aunt and uncle were understanding when she explained that Lizzie was so very overset by her brother’s disappearance. “You see, Aunt Lydia, I am sure that if I can simply take her away she will be so busy that she will have no time to brood on his absence, whereas here, everyone is always asking where he is and how he is and why he hasn’t answered their invitations. At every turn, she is reminded that he is not here. In Yorkshire, no one knows her, so no one will plague her with questions.” “I do understand, my dear, but what about the weather. January is a terrible time to travel and we have had such abominable weather all last year, it is sure to continue and there will be heavy snowfalls and drifting and you will be stuck on the road which would be frightfully uncomfortable, not to say inconvenient.” “Mr. Charteris has bespoken rooms at the best inns and is determined to take the journey gently. I feel sure that we will be safer by far escorted by him. Why, he has two fast carriages, each with four horses and I believe that we will be very well provided for.” Mr. Macdonald said in his bluff way that Hero was quite right, and if she must go traipsing about the countryside at this time of year, it would be better to do it in the company of a reliable pair of hands. Young Freddie Charteris might be a bit of a bumbler, but there was more to him than one might suppose from his clumsy ways in company. Mind, Hero must write as soon as she reached Yorkshire, and she shouldn’t stay above a fortnight for she would want to be safely back in time for Burns’ night, which was always a lively affair and no doubt that scoundrel Wemyss would have turned up safe and sound by then. Hero agreed that this was very likely so and ran off to pen a swift note to be carried round to Mr. Charteris confirming that he must make space for two ladies and their maid in his entourage. And entourage it clearly was going to be, for in addition to Beattie, Murdo and Roehenstart’s ailing manservant would need transport. Freddie decided to take Edgar Dewpin also, for then he could install the boy in some safe location in London, quite distant from Miss Sutcliff. He was a little surprised by the boy’s reluctance to leave the city despite the dangers of remaining where someone from Number 9 was sooner or later bound to spot him.

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“Must I go? I like it here, the work is much more pleasant than I’ve ever done before and your brother and his wife are very kind to me. It’s comfortable. Coaches are horrid and it will be cold and wet and bumpy. What if we are caught in snowdrifts?” “Then Murdo and General Roehenstart and the coachman and I will all dig us out. It won’t be nearly as bad as you fear. It only takes a few days, even in inclement weather. If you don’t like the idea of going all the way to London, you could always remain in Yorkshire with Miss Veasey. You’ll be much safer than you are here.” With ill grace, Edgar gave way, although he insisted on retaining the Charteris livery, for it was much warmer than any clothing he’d had before. The party assembled at Charlotte Square just before nine in the morning. The day was one of those drab winter days when the sky is grey but not lowering. It was not dismally cold either. Two spanking coaches awaited them, black bodies gleaming, the wheels picked out in yellow and black and the interiors lined with dark leather. Murdo supervised the loading of both vehicles and the party was speeding off almost before Lydia Macdonald and Mary Charteris had time to draw out their handkerchief to wave off their loved ones. It did not take long to leave Edinburgh, but the longest stage of their journey was the sixteen miles to Haddington, which took more than two hours. Freddie was hoping to go just over forty miles to Coldingham this first day, although he was prepared for the ladies to ask if they might stop at Dunbar. But Lizzie and Hero were hardier than he had expected and they made good time to Dunbar. They did stop there, although only briefly for they would only have another two hours of light at most and all of the party were of a mind to wait for their dinner until they arrived at the inn where they would put up for the night. The road from Dunbar was slower going, and the pace dragged even further after three in the afternoon as the dusk deepened. At last, they arrived at the Anchor Inn in Coldingham, stiff and weary. Lizzie and Hero went up to their rooms to set themselves to rights, accompanied by a still thrilled Beattie who had never been further than the Trossachs and that in a carrier’s wagon which went slower than any snail. The ladies did not take long to wash and shake out their skirts, for they were by this time quite ravenous. Dinner was a quiet affair, indeed the inn itself was sparse of company that night. However, it was tasty and accompanied by very fine wine. Roehenstart considered himself something of a connoisseur and spent some time smelling the wine and holding it up to the light and warming his glass and swilling the contents round his mouth before pronouncing the burgundy tolerable. Neither Hero nor Lizzie could manage more than a glass of the rich wine, but that glass they each found sustaining and most pleasant. Freddie was rather more curious about the provenance of the wine than its quality, but thought better of discussing this openly. They did discuss the order of events for the following morning. It was decided that the ladies would remain resting at the inn while Roehenstart and Freddie hired hacks to ride over to Eyemouth and inspect the condition of Roehenstart’s man. If the poor fellow had fully recovered, they would bring him back with them and then leave Coldingham to rejoin the main London road at Reston. If he was on the mend, they would remain at the Anchor and in a day or two, go to Eyemouth to collect him. But if he was still seriously indisposed, they would leave the area without him.

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Lizzie was about to ask about Freddie’s investigation into Valentine’s disappearance, but Hero slipped her arm about her friend’s waist, drew her over to the pianoforte to examine the music left behind by previous travelers and took the opportunity to remind Lizzie that Roehenstart was not aware of their intention to track down the people upon whose boat Val had last been seen. On discovering that the Anchor had also stocked up on excellent port, Roehenstart was quite happy to make an evening of it once the ladies had retired, but Freddie wanted a chance to speak the two girls unattended by the bibulous general. He used a heavy hand when pouring out port for Roehenstart, but scarcely sipped at his own glass and soon enough had the pleasure of hearing Roehenstart’s sterterous snores as the general slumped in his chair by the fire. Freddie slipped out of the front room and into the parlor where Hero and Lizzie still sat, practicing a duet at the piano. “Let me carry on playing,” said Hero. “It will sound odd if I come to too abrupt a stop.” She continued playing a Field sonata, but damped the sound with the pedals. “I have ordered horses for you two and Murdo. I’ve charged him to make enquiries about this boat, but it will help if he has a genuine reason for being abroad, and I believe that your desire to sketch St. Abb’s Head will provide such an excuse. I know it is hardly sketching weather, but I would be much obliged if you could bear to spend the morning out and about in such an endeavor.” “Of course,” said Hero and Lizzie with one voice. “Would you sing for me, ladies? Sing something cheerful.” Freddie went over to prod the fire with the poker, but it was clear to both Lizzie and Hero that he was far from being his customary exuberant self. The girls exchanged glances. Lizzie shuffled some of the music and the girls decided to sing the ballad of Tam Lin, which had a cheerful enough tune despite its grim subject matter. Freddie found himself beating out the rhythm on the arm of his chair before standing and joining the ladies at the piano, his tenor harmonizing pleasantly with their altos. The three of them ran through the music at their disposal, scarcely noting the hours which passed. It was only when they heard the grandfather clock at the bottom of the inn’s stairs tolling ten o’clock that they ceased their singing and decided to retire. Hero’s eyes were sparkling and lively as Freddie took her hand and bowed over it. He dropped his lips a little so that they met her soft flesh and she squeezed his hand gently as he rose up. He found himself gazing in to her eyes, which were warm and dancing. It would have been so easy to lean forward, to drop a kiss on those gently curving lips, to pull her closer, into the circle of his arms. But just over Hero’s shoulder stood Lizzie, her brown eyes a little perplexed, a slight, skeptical frown on her face. Freddie dropped Hero’s hand, and she withdrew. Freddie reached for Lizzie’s hand then, but she drew it away and said, “Don’t be silly, Freddie.” Then she linked arms with Hero and led her friend away upstairs. He watched them go feeling like a dog that has been firmly returned to its kennel. Lizzie did not go straight to her room, following Hero instead. “What is it, Lizzie?” Lizzie took the candle she was carrying over to the mantelpiece and lit the four stubs in the candelabra there. She turned back to Hero and looked gravely at her. “What is there between you and Freddie?” “Nothing, Lizzie. What should there be?”

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“Hero, there was something in the way he looked at you. And in the way you looked at him. As though something more was between you. You both looked....” Lizzie paused while she sought the right word. “You both looked hungry.” She spoke almost wonderingly. Hero breathed unevenly. “I’m not quite sure I understand, Lizzie.” “I think you do. Please, don’t try to hide from it.” “I am not entirely sure what I am hiding from.” Hero wandered over to the dressing table under the window and unclasped the gold chain about her neck, then removed the bracelet she had been wearing before unpinning her hair. Lizzie came over and helped her with the heavy mass of gold ringlets. “You care for Freddie. And he cares for you. I’ve never seen him look so at any woman. Of course, I haven’t seen him for many years, not since we were in the schoolroom, but I’ve never heard of him caring for any lady.” Hero was fiddling with her bracelet, easing it back into its velvet pouch, tying the ribbons so she managed to avoid Lizzie’s gaze. “We scarcely know each other, Lizzie. We first met three weeks ago. He cannot care for me any more than I could care for him.” “The thing is, Hero, you do care for him. I’m sure of it.” “How can you be sure of such a thing if I know nothing about it myself.” Hero looked up and met Lizzie’s eyes in the mirror. “You may try to deny it, but I am sure you think of him warmly. And there is nothing wrong in thinking of him so, Hero, nothing at all.” “What about Valentine?” Lizzie sat down on the cushioned bench beside Hero. “My dear, Valentine has done absolutely nothing to deserve you. You have been true to him for years and he has repaid you with vicious accusations while he was keeping a mistress all the while. He is the most terrible hypocrite and even if he is safe and well and returns to us, you have no reason to have anything more to do with him.” A tear tipped off one of Lizzie’s eyelashes, and down her cheek, silvery in the faint beam from the candle. Hero leaned forward and brushed it away before hugging her friend. “Lizzie, dearest. You put it very baldly.” “I don’t see how to put it any other way, do you?” Another tear fell and then another until Lizzie was sobbing. Hero rocked her and held her close until the worst of the storm had passed. Lizzie looked up and her face was blotched and swollen. “Forgive me?” “What is there to forgive? Lizzie, you must be so worried about Val, and you are being so brave about it. There is nothing to forgive. I’m sorry that I cannot love him anymore.” “I’m not. He’s behaved like a dolt. I’d wonder at you if you said you could still love him. It makes me sick at heart that my brother should have become such a villain. For that’s what he is, Hero, nothing more than a foolish villain. He’s betrayed you and all of us and his country and everything he ever fought for, all for a woman who is rotten to the core.” Hero paused before she spoke again. Lizzie sat beside her, furious with a chill rage that admitted no contradiction. “What do you hope to do in tracing him, Lizzie?” “If I were a man, I’d thrash him.”

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“My sweet, you never will be a man.” Hero took Lizzie’s hands in hers and looked at her. “Will it do us any good to track him down, or should we simply leave him to his devices?” “We could do, but I think if he is alive, he will be after us and so will this Miss Sutcliff, because we have Roehenstart with us. Val was meant to be meeting him, remember. I don’t understand what they think are they are going to do with him since his only interest is lining his own pocket. He has no wish to lead a Jacobite rebellion.” “Now, there I believe you are right. I think though, they are up to some deeper plot. Or at least, Miss Sutcliff is. I don’t know how far she has taken Val into her confidence, but I must confess, Lizzie, if I were plotting treasonable doings, I am not sure I would trust Val entirely. You are very angry with him, and rightly so, but even you must admit that he probably still has some scruples, however badly compromised.” “What are you thinking, Hero?” “I am thinking that we should try to suborn him from his current course, if we can find him. I have no idea how far he is in the thrall of Miss Sutcliff, but perhaps if you and I can speak to him, we might persuade him of the dangers of his actions.” “We must find him first. Perhaps we have a chance.” “I believe we do, but only if we find him soon. But now, let us go to bed. We will need plenty of rest if we are to spend most of the day in the saddle.” Lizzie grinned and hugged Hero. “Not so fast. You have carefully evaded my question about Freddie.” It was Hero’s turn to smile wryly. “I must confess to a fondness for your cousin. He has been very kind to me.” “You do know that he is the despair of his family. He seems purposeless and they cannot abide that. They wish to see him established and busy and safely concerned with caring for a family. If you were to make a match of it, I am sure they would be delighted.” “It is much too early for any such talk. There can be nothing between us until we have discovered what should be done with your brother. Apart from the fact that I do not know Mr. Charteris at all well.” “How long did it take for you to fall in love with Valentine? A few dances at the assembly rooms and perhaps a trip up to Arthur’s Seat.” “And look how unfortunately it has all turned out. I have spent four years of my life pining for a man who found me a tiresome distraction from his true passion.” “Don’t be bitter, Hero. He did love you, truly, his letters were full of you and how pretty you were and how kind and how sweet and what a charming dancer and everything a girl could wish for.” “That must have been years ago. Freddie told me he first met Miss Sutcliff in 1814. Two and a half years and he has been playing a game throughout. He had persuaded me that he loved me once again when he came into Yorkshire this summer. But it was a lie. I cannot trust myself, Lizzie, let alone anyone else, for where Val was guilty of misleading me, I too was guilty of gross misjudgment.” “I suppose you might see it that way, but remember he pulled the wool over not only your eyes but the eyes of his fellow officers. After all, surely if Colonel Fitzgerald and Captain Buchanan had known anything of Miss Sutcliff, they would have warned

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your father away from the engagement. They were as taken in as you. So perhaps you may rely on your judgment after all.” The girls bade each other good night and Miss Wemyss retired to her own room. Hero did not expect to sleep at all well, for she had discovered through frequent visits to Edinburgh that she did not sleep well in strange beds, but that night, she thought of Mr. Charteris and his kisses and the warm look in his eyes and she found herself comfortably drowsy, then knew nothing more until Beattie came into her room at half past seven with a cup of tea and a fresh-baked roll. An hour later, Hero found herself mounted on a fine bay mare, trotting between Murdo and Lizzie as they headed for St. Abb’s Head. They left the village in the grey light of the dawn, but by the time they were on Coldingham Moor and nearing Fast Castle, the sun was out. To their right, the North Sea, which Hero had so often seen grey and pitching beneath leaden skies, was a glimmering blue, the calm surface undulating as the swells neared the cliffs and foaming, unfurled themselves below. At the ruins of the castle, all three dismounted and the girls tried their hand at sketching the views and the ruins, to ensure that should anyone query their activities, there would be an innocent explanation for their ride. Although the sun shone, it was not warm and after an hour, all three were ready to mount their horses again and head along the top of the cliffs into Coldingham Shore, a small settlement of six or seven cottages for fishermen and their families. They went slowly and carefully along the cliff edge, Hero and Lizzie remarking on the variety and number of seabirds wheeling in the sky and around the cliffs. All three of the party were ravenous by the time they reached the Shore, but the hamlet was too small to support any form of inn, so they resigned themselves to riding the distance to Coldingham itself. The main thing was to find any sign that the Silver Darling had berthed at the Shore. They were not in luck. The doors of the cottages remained resolutely shut and although there was a small fishing boat drawn up on the sand in a small cove, there was no other sign of a boat. It was an ideal day for fishing, they could see, so it was hardly surprising that all the boats were out. But it was a little strange to ride into a village which was so very quiet. There were not even any signs of smoke emerging from the cottages. The mystery was explained, however, when the party returned to Coldingham. As they sat in their private parlor and were served by a chatty steward at the Anchor Inn, they discovered there was a fair in Berwick, fifteen miles to the south, and many families in the area would have gone there for several days to sell whatever wares they might have made through the autumn. The idea of attending the Berwick fair appealed to both the ladies, and they resolved to press Mr. Charteris to stay an extra night in the town. It was not long before he returned from Eyemouth with General Roehenstart. They joined the ladies at their luncheon. Mr. Charteris ate with relish, but the general was tetchy and seemed unable to do anything more than pick at his herrings and oatcakes. It transpired that his man, far from being too unwell to travel, appeared to have absconded with the better part of the general’s belongings. According to the inn-keeper in Eyemouth, he had bounded from his bed only hours after Roehenstart had left for Edinburgh, packed his bags and paid a carrier a shilling to remove him to Burnmouth where he might join the London stage. It was not known whether he had actually gone to London, for the carrier was not a curious

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man, and satisfied with his shilling had been happy to leave the man on the London road without ascertaining whether he had actually mounted the stage. But the stage had been quiet, it being a time when few wished to travel unless necessity demanded it, so presumably it had been easy enough for the fellow to secure a place on the coach. It was soon clear that it was more the loss of his possessions than his servant which troubled Roehenstart. However, the net effect on the general was for him to urge Mr. Charteris to press on rather than lingering on the road. They would spend this second night at the Anchor and then proceed southwards. It was with good grace that the ladies gave up their plan to stay in Berwick, for it was abundantly clear that Roehenstart was uncomfortable relying on Freddie’s generosity. As the afternoon was still fine, Freddie and the ladies decided to explore the ruins of Coldingham Priory, leaving Roehenstart to fester at the Anchor. There were traces of the fine Norman buildings still standing, with some fine masonry and isolated flying buttresses now supporting nothing more than the air. As they were examining the ruins, amidst which the local parishioners had decided to restore for themselves a parish church, a middle-aged gentleman came up to them and introduced himself. “Good afternoon. I am George Lawrie, surgeon in this parish.” Freddie shook hands with the man and introduced the ladies. “We are travelling south, but we had heard that Coldingham Priory was one of the finest of the old monasteries in Scotland and Miss Veasey, being interested in such things, wished to see it.” “Ah, I daresay you think to find some remnant of an evil monk straight out of a novel. But we have nothing like that here.” Since Dr. Lawrie was the first native of the area any of them had met, they pressed him on the local history. “We saw Fast Castle this morning and found it most beguiling. I should have liked to climbed closer to the actual ruins, but it seems to be very difficult.” Dr. Lawrie agreed that it was a very dangerous endeavor to try to explore the castle at close quarters, but told them a good deal about the history of the castle and the priory. He seemed a most well-educated man. He voiced his regret that he had had to leave Edinburgh, where so much exciting research was underway, but his aged mother lived in Eyemouth, so when the opportunity to go into practice at Coldingham had been offered, he had not felt able to refuse. Hero and Lizzie watched with interest as Mr. Charteris pumped the doctor for information and made veiled reference to the activities of free-traders in the area. But the doctor revealed very little. It was only at the end of their tour of the priory that Freddie happened to mention Roehenstart’s missing man. The doctor was expounding on the evils of living and working in so small a community. “It is rewarding to be sure to know one’s patients so well, but heavens, there are times when one feels one cannot sneeze without half the populace seeking to know if it is simply a cold or something more serious. One needs a particular temperament to live so much in the pocket of one’s neighbors, and alas, at times I fear I have it not.” “It is curious then, that so few people seemed to notice the disappearance of our friend’s manservant.” “What disappearance is this?” enquired the doctor.

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Freddie mentioned that they had stopped at Coldingham and Eyemouth in an attempt to collect up a foreign valet, who surely, from the unusual cut of his raiment and his strong German accent must have invited comment, yet no one seemed to know what had become of the fellow. He had gone to Burnmouth and there appeared to have vanished into thin air. Dr. Lawrie, who until this point had seemed an imperturbable kind of fellow, visibly started and said hurriedly, “One can never rely too closely on servants. They are forever taking a pet and deciding they cannot continue in one’s service.” “The difficulty lies in the inconvenience to our friend, General Roehenstart. The scoundrel appears to have stolen the bulk of the General’s possessions. He stayed in Edinburgh for some days last week, expecting to see his baggage transferred to the city but there was no trace of it and now we come in search of the fellow and the luggage and neither are to be found. We went to speak with the people at the Whale in Eyemouth where he was put up, but they seem scarcely to have noticed him.” Freddie waited expectantly for Lawrie to offer to assist in their enquiries, but he blustered and then swiftly made his bow and disappeared. As they made their way back up the hill to the Anchor Inn, Hero said, “He seemed pleasant enough, but a little restive, wouldn’t you say?” Lizzie agreed, but Freddie seemed distracted and unconcerned. He was in a reverie as he escorted the ladies back to the hotel and nothing they could say seemed to call him back to the present. If they had known that he was planning to renew his acquaintance with Dr. Lawrie, they would have been quite confounded.

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Chapter Fourteen: In which Mr. Charteris is wooed and large men triumph By the time the Charteris party had eaten dinner and retired to their parlor, it was quite dark. Roehenstart was agitating about his lost belongings, worrying at the question of what he should do like a child fidgeting with a scab on its knee. Lizzie was disappointed that they had been able to find no sign of Valentine, but she was resigned. Hero was subdued, unreachable as though a thicket of thorny bushes had grown up around her. The girls soon retired, going up to their rooms on the first floor. Freddie offered Roehenstart port, but the general was in no mind to drink deep this night and soon went upstairs. Freddie summoned the Anchor’s sole waiter, asked for some tea to be sent to him then settled in by the fire with a book, secure in the knowledge that he would not be interrupted until he chose to retire. His mother had given him a book new to him for Christmas, by an anonymous author, but one that had invited much comment for its swift, sharp pen portraits of recognizable figures from society and the world of the intellect. It was with some anticipation that Freddie opened Headlong Hall. Its lively pace and witty style soon enthralled him even though he did not recognize all the personalities who peopled its pages. Occasionally Freddie was distracted from his reading by the shifting of the logs in the fireplace, whereupon he’d help himself to more tea before returning to the book, which he found full of jokes and ridiculous events, just the sort of novel that must please him. He had nearly finished the book when he reached for his watch and checked the time. It was nearly midnight. He stood and stretched then turned to leave the room. Sitting there, on a huge carved settle by the door, was Miss Alethea Sutcliff. Sketching a rudimentary bow, Freddie watched as she rose and drew near to the fire. She shook out her skirts and then stowed herself in the armchair he had just vacated. “How pleasant to meet you here, Mr. Charteris.” “Quite so.” She looked up at him and he realized that her eyes which he had always thought of as blue and steely, were perhaps a greyer, softer hue than he remembered. Her smile too was gentle. “Draw up a chair and join me, Mr. Charteris. I know it is late, but I find I really cannot sleep very easily.” Freddie flicked his tails out of the way, hitched up his pantaloons and sat. He held his book in his right hand, but he rested his left elbow on the arm of the chair, his hand supporting his chin as he waited for Miss Sutcliff to explain herself. “You are returning to London, I take it?” He inclined his head but remained silent. She sat quietly, her fingers drumming on the leather upholstery. “It is a perilous journey at this time of year.”

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“No season is ever entirely comfortable where travel is concerned.” “Are we to sit here exchanging pleasantries about the weather? I would have thought that we had passed beyond such commonplaces.” She could hardly conceal her exasperation. “So would I, Miss Sutcliff. What is it you wish to discuss with me?” “I was hoping for your assistance. The assistance that a gentleman can offer a lady in difficult straits.” The drumming stopped and she held her breath. “What is your difficulty, Miss Sutcliff.” “You have not yet offered your assistance, Mr. Charteris.” “I find it difficult to make such an offer when I do not know what act I shall be called on to perform. I am afraid I am not at liberty to lay myself wholly at your convenience. Unfortunately for you, Miss Sutcliff, I am not travelling alone.” “Which brings me neatly to the matter at hand. I am well aware that you are not travelling alone. In your party is a young associate of mine. I do not know whether you are aware of the fact but you have been carrying a stowaway with you, a young man who has spurned my hospitality and I may say generosity in favor of your protection.” “Really? I am not aware of any such individual travelling with me. I am accompanied by two ladies and a foreign gentleman who has business with the Prince Regent.” “Perhaps I should have phrased myself more carefully. There is a child in your entourage, I believe. A boy of eleven or thereabouts, commonly known as Edgar Dewpin.” “Really? I have left the staffing of this excursion to my man Murdo. If you wish, I will rouse him and enquire as to the existence of this child. But I should warn you, Miss Sutcliff, that Murdo is excessively bad-tempered when hauled untimely from his bed.” “There’s no need for that. The morning will be time enough for you to return the child to my care.” “I fear, ma’am, that we will be making a very early start. I do not believe I can assist you in this matter at all, for as far as I am aware, we have brought with us only the bare minimum for the swiftest possible journey southwards. If there is any child in our party, I feel sure that I would know about it, for I should have had to secure the permission of my brother for the removal of any of his staff. I am not aware that I have such approval, nor am I minded to delay my departure in the morning to ascertain the truth of so trivial a matter. If it is discovered once I am in London that I have mistakenly conveyed thither any child owing any office to you, I shall of course return him to you with the proper apologies.” Freddie stood and turned on his heel, the memory of the welts on Edgar Dewpin’s back still fresh, although time had passed sufficient for the physical wounds to have healed. He was stayed by the light touch of Miss Sutcliff’s hand on his sleeve. “Mr. Charteris, I did not mean to offend you. I hope you will forgive me. I am most concerned for this child. I have been nominated his guardian and I am extremely concerned for his welfare.” Freddie turned back and looked into Miss Sutcliff’s face. She appeared most beseeching and the flickering light of the fire was very advantageous to her features. Freddie’s brows drew together in a slight frown.

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“Of course you are concerned. But pray, Miss Sutcliff, do not concern yourself with my affairs. I think it highly unlikely that I can assist you in this matter.” “Can you not? How disappointing. I am so very worried about the child.” She continued gazing into his eyes as a tear welled and hovered in her left eye before gently falling from her eyelashes onto her silken cheek. Freddie wondered how old she had been when she learnt this trick, and waited for her next move. “You see, Mr. Charteris, he is not actually who he thinks he is. I have been caring for him some months now, but I am doing so on behalf of his true family. He was lost to them, they have tracked him down, they have placed the boy in my care and now I have failed them and him. Are you sure you cannot help me?” Another delicate tear travelled down the same soft cheek. “Miss Sutcliff, I find it unlikely that I will be able to help you in this or in any other matter.” Her question came in a breathy whisper. “Really?” Freddie spoke out in quite normal tones. “Really.” His eyes hardened. “Miss Sutcliff, you may attempt to deploy every wile you have mastered, but I think it best to inform you that I am immune to a certain kind of feminine charm, the kind which is a little too practiced, a little too calculated.” Miss Sutcliff dropped her hand and backed away from Mr. Charteris. “Gloves off, then.” Freddie remained impassive. She sighed in exasperation. “You give me very little leeway. I don’t wish to have to harm you, but I am quite capable of doing so.” “I don’t imagine you will directly have to do any harming. You will leave it to some foolish man who has been sufficiently beguiled by either your person or your money into behaving very badly. I am sure it troubles you very little when you coerce others into such behavior.” “What is it about you that makes you so impervious, Mr. Charteris?” “I am not sure. Perhaps it is that I have a brain, but so many people think that I don’t, so it can’t be that. Possibly I am too much of a dolt to appreciate you sufficiently. I daresay if your man--or is it men--are outside waiting for us, you will wish to summon him. Or do you prefer me to go out into the night to receive my beating? Where I can oblige you, Miss Sutcliff, I will do so without hesitation.” “They are in the hallway. If you try to leave this room, they will carry you off to the stables and do their work there.” “How refreshing you are when you have given up all pretence. You should be honest more often, Miss Sutcliff, it suits you better.” “Being a woman struggling to make her way in the world, I do not have the luxury of honesty. Would you be so good as to close the door after you?” “Of course. I would not wish you to catch a chill from my carelessness. Before I go, do you mind telling me how many fellows you have waiting for me?” “I do not suppose it can matter. There are four of them. I wish you all the best, Mr. Charteris. I am not sure I shall see you again, but I hope that your journey to London is not too uncomfortable.” Freddie bowed and took the candelabra with him into the hallway. Miss Sutcliff heard him say, “Really, gentlemen, there is no need to look so threatening. I will come of my own accord.” Then the door closed and she heard a thud and a little scuffling. There was another muffled slam of a door after which she looked out into the hallway which

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was by then quite deserted. She made her way upstairs, satisfied that her men would force Freddie to give the boy up to her within a very few hours time. She would have been surprised and a little angry to discover that not only had her men failed to inflict more than a little suffering on their victim, but also that he had managed to make them wince and retreat quite swiftly. For as Freddie went out into the hallway, he dropped the candelabra. All light was extinguished. The men groped for their quarry, but Freddie eluded them, making his way towards the main door of the inn and the receptacle available for guests to place umbrellas and walking sticks, just inside the door. He fumbled a little as he grasped for the implement he was seeking, but the men in the corridor were grunting and muttering so much that it concealed his careful movements. He opened the door and went into the courtyard where four torches were glowing still. He grasped one and looked about the courtyard, establishing that the main gate was closed, that all the doors to store-rooms were locked and that the household seemed by this time to be abed. He was extremely thankful that Miss Sutcliff’s men had not had the foresight to leave anyone in the courtyard waiting for him. He thought that at this point a torch might hamper him and alert the men to his whereabouts, so he replaced it and concealed himself beside the main door. The men tumbled out of the main house in a tangle. Freddie, positioned by the door, was able to fell the first one with a good solid thwack of the blackthorn walking stick he had taken from the stand. That left three to overcome. He did not wait for the next man to come out--they would have heard the noise of the first fellow tumbling down and he thought they might try to rush him. So he nipped across the yard and concealed himself between a pyramid of beer casks and a stack of hay bales covered in a huge oilcloth. There, he took out his pen knife and set to sawing at the twine which bound the tarpaulin down over the bales. It was fortunate that there was only a slight breeze, for otherwise the immense piece of material would have been too unwieldy to manage. As he had suspected, his attackers charged through the main door in unison, expecting to find their victim standing foolishly over his opponent. When they could not see him, they conferred. They then began making their way round the yard trying the doors. Freddie had hoped that they would split up, but they clearly assumed that if they did so, he would take them on one by one and so overcome them all. He resigned himself to making an almighty mess of the yard and the resulting bill of compensation that this would inevitably attract. He slipped into the space behind the great wooden casks of beer and the wall. It was fortunate that he was slight and neat in build. “Where can he have got to?” said one of the villains with a deep, rumbling voice. “I reckon he’s on the roof. We should get the torches and climb up.” This was spoken by a larger man who seemed as far as Freddie could tell in the gloom, to be wielding a cudgel. “We don’t want to set fire to the place and sure’s fire that’s what we’ll end up doing, sure’s as sure.” This was a scrawny fellow with a reedy, nasal voice, also carrying some sort of battering instrument. “It’d be one way to get this child out in the open so we can seize him,” grumbled the larger cudgel bearer. “What she wants him for, I can’t imagine. She treated him bad enough when he was in her care,” said the scraggy one.

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“Here’s a ladder,” said Basso Profundo. He lifted it and held it up against the roof near the main door. He indicated to Scraggy. “You’re the lightest, you go up.” “Why’s it always me who has to do the most dangerous things? I don’t want to go up there. I’m afraid of heights, and it’s dark as pitch. I’m cold and I want my bed.” “You’ll want your bed a lot more if you don’t climb up there and tell us whether this bugger is up there or not. At least you’ll be able to warm yourself against a chimney or two.” In addition to wondering at their failure to spy him tucked behind the barrels, Freddie was surprised by how much noise they made. Sooner or later, if he could simply evade them, they must rouse the household with their banging and clattering and loud voices. It did not seem a particularly reliable strategy to hope that Edgar would emerge sleepily from his hidey-hole on hearing the whole house getting up, especially since the main gateway out of the courtyard was firmly locked and there was as far as Freddie could make out, only the one key which the landlord kept. If the men tried to abduct Edgar, they would find it exceedingly difficult to leave the inn with him. But this seemed to be their plan. Unless they were quite happy to cause casualties, a thought which discomfited Freddie, whose understanding of military endeavors had always been based on the assumption that a good officer did his utmost to conserve the lives of his men where possible. Of course these men were neither officers, nor clearly, very good, either in terms of competence or morality. As Scraggy was safely bestowed on the roof, Freddie saw his chance. There were only two of them left on the ground, one of whom had been dispatched by Basso Profundo who was preparing to make his way up the ladder, to fetch a torch to pass up to Scraggy. Even more fortunately for Freddie, Large Cudgel was not sufficiently dexterous to remove a torch from its sconce and manage his cudgel. He dropped the latter and was hauling with both hands on the torch, too preoccupied to notice Freddie who came up from behind, collected up the cudgel and walloped his quarry on the side of the head. “Come on with that torch,” yelled Basso Profundo, just as Scraggy was striving to point out to his colleague that their companion had been attacked. Freddie obliged, taking up the torch he had previously used to scan the courtyard himself. He went up to the ladder. It seemed unsportsmanlike to set the man on fire, but there seemed little alternative. Accordingly, Freddie positioned the torch so that began to smolder at the hem of the man’s jacket. Basso Profundo turned and looked down at Freddie and roared in outrage at the cheek of his prey while Scraggy hopped about and squealed in panic, a panic which only worsened as he realized that he was slipping on the roof tiles. The scrawny one froze, scrabbling with his fingernails on the smooth slates. He lost his grip and plummeted the twelve or so feet to the ground, where he landed with an unfortunate crack which indicated quite clearly to both Basso Profundo and Freddie that the fellow had broken a bone. Meanwhile, the heat which Freddie had applied to the back of Basso Profundo’s jacket flared into a becoming orange glow, flames now licking up the fellow’s spine. He shed his jacket, hopped off the ladder and rolled himself on the ground in what seemed like very short order to Freddie. Then the fellow was coming for him, bellowing in a way that reminded Freddie of a frustrated bull suddenly removed from its mate. He sidestepped the onslaught and the man ran full tilt into the hay bales. The tarpaulin flapped and furled about him, confusing him further, and he pummeled at the hay and beat at the cloth which raised a gust of air round the hay. Freddie had quietly cut not only

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the guy ropes holding the tarpaulin down but also the cord that bound each of the hay bales. With every furious movement, Basso Profundo destabilized the hay further and it was just as with a howl of combined fear and rage that he disappeared into an avalanche of unstable hay that the landlord and his wife emerged from the house, shawls and blankets covering their night attire, each bearing a candle and wearing a shared look of confusion. “What on earth is going on here?” Freddie stepped forward and bowed. “My dear sir, I felt the need of a breath of fresh air before turning in. Imagine my astonishment when I found these four gentlemen in the courtyard, attempting to gain access to the house by means of that ladder. I grasped a torch and bade that fellow there,” pointing as he spoke to the struggling form of Basso Profundo still attempting to emerge from the collapsed mass of hay, “come down from the ladder. Somehow, he lost his balance as did his friend who was already on the ladder. I fear they are villains of the darkest dye, Mr. Ancram, and would bid you summon your local watch to remove them to a secure place without further ado.” “I am master of the local watch, sir, and I have a secure place where they may reside until morning when we will make out what we can of this infernal brouhaha.” Mr. Ancram, the innkeeper was quite incensed. “But how does this explain how my stock of hay comes to be lying about the ground, utterly unusable?” “As to that, I cannot say, sir, but when that fellow tried to attack me, I dodged him, he ran into the bales and they collapsed all over him.” Ancram snorted and turned to yell into the darkness, “Duncan, come out here now, you idle incompetent scrounging no-good gowk. And you, Sandy. You’re no better than useless, the pair of ye.” There was a thumping noise as the two ostlers were summoned and told to deposit as unceremoniously as they wished, the four idiots who had been attacking the house into the third cellar. As Ancram was preparing to search out the key for this ominous sounding locale, Freddie begged the favor of retiring. “I shall be happy to bear witness to what I saw and did tomorrow morning, Mr. Ancram, but I’d be very glad to get to my bed now.” “Of course, Mr. Charteris. I’ll wait your pleasure tomorrow morning.” The landlord turned back to Sandy, who had tossed a whimpering Scraggy over his shoulder and was preparing to haul one leg of the first fellow who Freddie had bested. Unsure as to whether Miss Sutcliff had kept a watch on his door, Freddie decided to delay his retreat to bed no longer. He was glad that he had thought to conceal Edgar Dewpin this night, and he certainly did not want that good work undone. Taking up his walking stick, for he was still a little nervous, he walked up the stairs. He opened his door and entered his room quietly, for despite the uproar, none of the other guests appeared to have woken--or if they had, wisely they had determined to remain in their beds. He turned, expecting to find Murdo hovering in his usual fashion. But the sight that met his eyes was not what he expected at all. Sitting in the window seat was Miss Sutcliff, very prettily disposed. In the armchair by the fire was Murdo, bound and gagged, and behind him stood two substantial bully boys, one with a wicked-looking knife at Murdo’s throat. “Dear, dear, Miss Sutcliff, how very wearying you are.”

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“I might say the same of you, Mr. Charteris. If you had only decided against noisy antics in the yard, we might all be safely stowed in our rooms. The child, please, or your man will suffer.” “I am very much afraid that you will have to make poor Murdo suffer, for I know nothing of this child of whom you persist in speaking. Really, Miss Sutcliff, I do think you might leave me and mine to go our way in peace, for we have nothing and no one of interest to you in our train.” Miss Sutcliff looked at the man with the knife and inclined her head. “Proceed as we discussed, Loomis.” Freddie did not hesitate. He drew the sword from his walking stick and immediately pinked the massive knife-wielder who dropped his knife and growled. The other fellow then rushed him, and he thrust at him too. He made his way to Murdo’s side and with a deft flick of the wrist, slashed the ties which bound the manservant. It was fortunate that Miss Sutcliff’s assistants appeared to have relied on the silken curtain cords to bind Murdo, for these parted easily. Once his hands were free, Murdo himself wrenched at the cloth binding his mouth and then made ready to assist Freddie in fighting off the two men. Unfortunately, the small size of the room militated against the two smaller, nimbler men, for however they hopped and ducked, the reach of their attackers was sufficient to grab them and hold them both. “For heaven’s sake, break their arms or something. Get them to tell us where the boy is and then we may leave them in peace.” The door opened once again. There had not been sufficient noise from this brief struggle for Mr. Ancram to come to his rescue, Freddie knew, and he could not imagine who else would turn up in his room unless it was still more associates of the tiresome Miss Sutcliff. But it was Edgar Dewpin, looking extremely spruce in his Charteris livery. “I am here, Alethea. You may as well calm down, these people have been able to discover nothing about Wemyss or the Phoenix. You are quite safe.” Miss Sutcliff gave a delighted smile and said, “Eddie, you have done a prime job. Finish them off, Loomis. No need to be too gentle.” Which was the last thing Freddie knew, for then Loomis’s substantial fist connected with his face and he fell unconscious to the floor.

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Chapter Fifteen: In which the attack is discovered It was half past seven when Beattie knocked on the door and then slipped into Hero’s room bearing a tray of hot chocolate and rolls. Hero luxuriated in the warmth of her bed, then sat up. “No sign of Murdo. He was up before I was yesterday.” Beattie had developed the unmistakable signs of a crush on the straw-haired manservant with his firm jaw, blue eyes and ready smile. Hero had reminded her that he would be on his way to London before long, but Beattie could not help sighing a little whenever she saw him. He was well able to deal with that cheeky little so and so that Mr. Charteris had brought along with him, that London urchin whose ways she didn’t much like at all. “I daresay he’ll be up and about by the time you’ve helped me dress. Have you had your breakfast, Beattie?” The girl nodded before going to fetch Hero some hot water. Morosely, she reported that there was still no sign of life from Mr. Charteris or his manservant. She helped Hero into her clothes and set about packing up her possessions, keeping up a steady commentary about the weather (sky lowering, snow imminent), the state of the inn (in uproar due to some kerfuffle in the yard in the middle of the night, although Beattie and the rest of the maids tucked up in the eaves of the house had heard nothing), and the time they might be departing for their next stage of the journey (hadn’t Mr. Charteris said they must be on their way by half past eight, nine at the latest if they were to make the most of the light). Before she brained Beattie, Hero sent her off to minister to Lizzie Wemyss. She wondered about the noise in the yard. Her room overlooked the old priory, on the opposite side of the house to both road and yard, so her night had been entirely undisturbed. She was quite curious to discover what had happened, but busied herself with penning a brief note of reassurance to her father awaiting her arrival at Cheveley and her Macdonald relations in Edinburgh. She had just sanded this last missive when Lizzie and Beattie came in together. “Hero, you are aware that there has been no sign of Mr. Charteris this morning? Or his manservant? I believe we should investigate.” So the three girls went downstairs to the inn’s main saloon, where they found an irate Ancram and his wife giving testimony to a yawning beadle who had clearly been roused from his bed much too early for his taste. “Aye, these four individuals are in my custody, but I don’t wish to be keeping them indefinitely. They need to be taken to Berwick with all possible haste. Now, you’re the person to arrange it, Mr. Liddell, and well you know it.” Mrs. Ancram noticed the ladies gathered in the doorway of the saloon and welcomed them into the room with her own account of the night’s doings. “Such a potheration we’ve had here this last night, men on the roof and men with cudgels and Mr.

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Ancram roused twice, one of the villains with a broken ankle, two others with sore heads and no sign of Mr. Charteris who must give evidence against the scoundrels before you all can leave.” “What about his manservant? Surely Murdo has been in to try and rouse him?” asked Hero. Mrs. Ancram’s response concerned her, for it turned out that Murdo’s bed had not been slept in, and the boy also appeared to have vanished from the inn. “What boy is that?” enquired Lizzie. “That child, Edgar Dewpin, though he did not act like any child I have ever met with, for he had an old soul,” said Mrs. Ancram, shaking her head and knotting her fingers. Into this confusion came Roehenstart, his hair heavily pomaded, his moustache waxed and his eyes bright. “Where is Mr. Charteris? When will we set off? You see, I can rise betimes, ladies.” The girls exchanged a look. They were not entirely sure what to do, but thought that the best thing would be to go up to Mr. Charteris’ room. Mrs. Ancram happily left her husband to continue rating the poor beadle to do something about the prisoners in the third cellar and went up with the young ladies to open the door to Mr. Charteris’ room. They pushed open the door, but it met with a solid object, which at first glance seemed to be a leg. “Lord save us, there is a body!” Mrs. Ancram clearly delighted in stating the obvious. Hero was the slightest of the ladies present, so she slipped through the space available to her and looked round the room. Then she came back to the doorway. “It is Murdo. He and Mr. Charteris both appear to have been the victims of an attack. I shall try to roll him out of the way so that we can open the door properly, but I fear, Mrs. Ancram, I must ask you to send for the doctor. I believe we met one yesterday afternoon while exploring the priory. A Dr. George Lawrie?” “Dr Lawrie? Why, we’ve sent for him already to see to the man in the cellar with the bad leg. He should be here shortly. Are they badly injured, Miss Veasey?” By this time, Hero was struggling with Murdo’s substantial frame, so all she was able to say in muffled tones was that she could not be sure until she had had a chance to look at them more closely. Admonished by Beattie to be careful and by Lizzie to hurry, Hero eventually managed to shift Murdo’s body sufficiently so that the other three ladies could enter the room. Mrs. Ancram went immediately to the windows to draw the curtains, allowing in what little winter light was available. It turned out that not only had both men been assaulted, they had also had some form of sticky liquid administered to them which had dribbled from their mouths and down their chins. “A sleeping draught,” said Lizzie. “Who would have done such a thing?” said Hero. “I can’t think it would have been the lady. She did leave here in a terrible hurry, but surely she can’t have been so wicked. She paid her shot,” said Mrs. Ancram, sure that such probity could not have been party to any assault. “What was she like?” asked Hero. “Very elegant. She travelled with two very large men as bodyguards, but no luggage to speak of. A widow. I can’t recall her name, but perhaps Mr. Ancram will. He

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was the one got up to let her out. She left early this morning, why near on five of the clock it was.” “Miss Sutcliff, I’ll wager,” hissed Lizzie. “But why would she go to such lengths to steal the boy? For that seems to be what she has done. And I’ll also put half a crown on the likelihood that those men in the cellar were hired by her also.” Hero nodded in agreement, putting her finger up to her lips, for she heard footsteps on the stairs. “I don’t think the general needs to know of our suspicions. But we must tell him about the attack. Mrs. Ancram, would there be any difficulty in our staying another night here? For I do not think either of these poor men will be fit to travel today.” “By no means. This is one of our quietest times, any visitor is welcome, you may believe me.” Dr. Lawrie came in then. Hero and Lizzie asked if he would come downstairs to report on his findings once his examination of both men was complete. He agreed, then asked for two more fellows to help move the unconscious men. “I’ll send Duncan and Sandy up to you at once, Dr. Lawrie,” said Mrs. Ancram and bustled off. Lizzie and Hero retreated downstairs and explained the situation to Roehenstart who was most put out, almost as if Mr. Charteris and Murdo had deliberately knocked themselves out expressly to delay his progress. He muttered and then tried to find an ostler to saddle up one of the hacks so that he might return to Eyemouth and make further enquiries about his own absconded manservant, but of course, the two stablemen were by this time assisting Dr. Lawrie in making Freddie and Murdo more comfortable. Dr. Lawrie came down about half an hour later. Hero asked him if he would care for some refreshment, and it was over a cup of tea that he spoke about the men’s condition. “They’ll be right enough once the drug has worn off, but I fear that that might take some time. It seems to me that they’ve each been dosed with enough to fell a horse, let alone a man. I’d be easier in my mind if someone sat with them. If either had been likely to come to worse harm from this experience, I think we’d have seen the signs of it by now, but they both bear watching. We put a truckle bed in the room, so at least they are in the same place.” “Were they simply drugged? They looked in some disarray.” “I’ve never seen such a thing, but it appears that they were both knocked about a bit before having the drug administered while they were unconscious. Very thorough. Their attackers were determined that no alarm should be raised.” Hero thanked the doctor and asked him to send his account to her at the inn later in the day if possible. He shrugged and said he had not expected payment in such a case, but she insisted and he smiled and said he would prefer it if she donated a guinea to the restoration fund for the priory. They parted on amicable terms, the doctor promising to return later that afternoon to see how the two men were progressing. It was decided that Lizzie should take the first watch, then Hero would relieve her around midday. But in the end, both girls ended up sitting together, for it was dull and unnerving work to watch two snoring forms, for the unconscious men did not simply lie still, but shifted and breathed irregularly, occasionally falling so silent that one might almost think that they had ceased to breathe altogether, then snorting back to life again in the most disconcerting fashion. The girls chatted and played at the games they had brought for their amusement in the carriage, first backgammon, then draughts and finally

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nursery card games. It was after their fifth rubber of rummy that Hero sent Lizzie down for some luncheon. She had her book with her, but could not concentrate on it, even though it was quite exciting: but somehow, not quite as exciting as her own life, which suddenly seemed over-full of incident. She went over to straighten the covers which had tumbled from Mr. Charteris’ form as he thrashed about. He was calm now, allowing her to see the bruises that had formed about his eye and his jaw. The doctor had clearly instructed the stablemen to remove Freddie’s jacket, necktie and waistcoat, and now he lay there looking surprisingly vulnerable in his open-necked shirt, his head thrown back revealing his neck and a hint of his chest, one arm slipping off the bed, the other thrown across his chest as if he were still fending off an assault on his stomach. He had long eyelashes, Hero noted, a high brow, elegantly arched eyebrows and a nose which was almost delicate for a man. She realized she had never seen him looking so stern, for usually, his mouth was curved in a smile, however faint, when he saw her. She laid a hand on his brow, checking to see that he was not starting a fever of any kind. Involuntarily, she found herself caressing the lines of his face and neck, remembering how it had felt when he had done the same to her, just before he had kissed her. She had denied to Lizzie the existence of any serious feeling in her heart for Mr. Charteris, but now she could no longer lie even to herself. She could scarcely imagine a world without Mr. Charteris, and this morning when she had pushed her way into the room, her first thought was that he had been killed and she would never be able to let him know that of all men, he was the one that she truly desired. It might not be maidenly to entertain such thoughts, but she could no longer conceal from herself that these were her thoughts. Her hand was resting on his chest when it was captured quite suddenly. She jumped and saw that Mr. Charteris’ eyes were open. “You are awake!” He attempted to nod, but it proved a mistake to move his head which thundered ominously. He winced. “You were drugged.” She reached to the bedside table and brought a glass of water to his lips. “Drink. The doctor said you would need a good deal of water to overcome any lingering effects of the draught they gave you.” Wordlessly, Freddie sipped as she held the glass to his lips. Then he lay back in his pillows and asked, “Murdo?” “He too was attacked and drugged, but he will come round soon too, or so said the doctor.” Freddie nodded again and winced again. Hero dipped a cloth into the basin on the washstand before dabbing at Mr. Charteris’ brow. She smelled very fragrant, he thought, of lavender and some pale white flower whose name he couldn’t remember. It was very pleasant to have her ministering to him, so close and so comforting. He could not clearly remember how what had happened after he had returned from the courtyard to his room. He did recall the four men in the yard and wondered what had been done with them, because if they had been released, he imagined it would go hard with him, for they would wish to avenge themselves. “I gather it was Miss Sutcliff who attacked you. Were you aware of that?” “Yes,” said Freddie, and Hero could see that he had reached the limit of his strength, so she said nothing further to him and he sank back into a slumber. She moved

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to sit near Murdo who she thought would come to soon enough. He proved her right by struggling from unconsciousness and almost catapulting himself from the low bed where he lay, until Hero forcibly held him back. “Murdo, calm down, Mr. Charteris is safe and so are you. You must not exert yourself, you have been hurt and drugged.” Murdo clearly wished to speak, but his tongue was muffled with the effects of the drug until Hero managed to force some water down him. Then he began to speak astonishingly swiftly, unchecked like a river in spate, babbling about Miss Sutcliff and her giants and how they had taken Dewpin, but the strange thing was that the boy had gone willingly. Then he too fell back into a restless sleep. Lizzie returned to the room with Beattie and Hero went down for a swift collation in their private parlor. She found Roehenstart there, a little less restless now that he had ridden to Eyemouth and back. It turned out that his manservant had been seen selling off items from Roehenstart’s trunks at the market in Berwick, and the locals, disliking a stranger taking advantage of their patch and strongly suspecting that the curious display of items for sale betokened criminal activity along the way, had arrested him and remanded him in the gaol there, so as soon as they were on the road again, they might pause at Berwick to collect his possessions, which had also been impounded. As for that villainous man he had employed as his valet for the past couple of years, long might he rot in a British prison as far as he, Roehenstart was concerned, although perhaps even better, he might be transported to that distant colony on the other side of the world which had strange animals that had long feet and massive tails and stored their offspring in pouches. “Kangaroos?” asked Hero, a little confused by this turn of the conversation. “Kangaroos, exactly. Don’t you think he should be sent to dwell with the kangaroos?” “Certainly, general. You did not happen to make any enquiries about Mr. Wemyss whilst in Eyemouth?” The general looked blank until he remembered that Wemyss was the man who had been meant to meet him at Coldingham on his arrival in Britain. “Nothing at all. Mind you, I did not ask, so I cannot tell whether this has any significance or not. Was he well-known in these parts?” Hero said not, mentioning that his family resided in Fife to the north of Edinburgh, but she had so clearly lost the interest of the general, who wished to discuss whether he should go and beard his scoundrelly man in his cell, that she did not pursue the matter. Dr. Lawrie appeared just before seven o’clock and insisted on examining his patients once again. This time, they were both fully awake and quite ravenous. Mrs. Ancram brought up soup with bread and cheese for the invalids, and both took pleasure in being fed by Miss Veasey and Beattie, while Lizzie fluttered between them, trying to piece together the events of the evening. “So, Mr. Charteris, you were downstairs when Miss Sutcliff sought to suborn you, and meanwhile, you, Murdo, were up here being assaulted by two other of her henchmen. I must say, equipped with six pairs of hands, you would have thought she would achieve a little more than she managed. You know, I suppose, Mr. Charteris, that all four men

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you attacked are now in custody and are simply awaiting your testimony before they are taken to Berwick to be charged.” “I did not know it. But now that you have told me, do you suppose there is any way we could summon Mr. Ancram and some witnesses so that I might give my testimony immediately. I do not wish to wait tomorrow morning, we are already late, and I would like to give chase to Edgar Dewpin and discover what the deuce he thought he was up to.” “I never trusted that miching mallecho myself.” “Don’t exaggerate, Murdo, you were as taken in by him as I was. From his words, I can deduce that he himself is not the Phoenix, but I make no doubt that his father is.” Hero frowned a little and put the bowl she was holding back down on its tray. “You know, I believe the child’s father is the key to it all. He’s clearly not Miss Sutcliff’s son, but I do believe that she is in some way attached to the child’s father who must be this Phoenix. Some other natural son of Bonnie Prince Charlie.” “I’ll bonnie him if I see him, traducing my brother and causing that she-hound to attack Mr. Charteris so viciously.” Lizzie stormed across the room like a cutter under full sail. “I don’t believe you’ll need to. I think Roehenstart will do a good deal of our work for us if we present this tale to him in the right way.” Hero smiled. “I believe that Val and Miss Sutcliff organized his arrival to distract attention from the true Phoenix. But now he is here and Val has gone missing and is unable to keep him busy. This allows us some room for maneuver. The general will not be at all happy to hear of any other claimants to his pension.” Miss Veasey in mischievous mode was quite enchanting to Freddie. As she spoke, her eyes twinkled and her pretty mouth curved and she was all animation. In addition to which charming spectacle, she was astonishingly perceptive. He could not help but draw the same conclusion, although the inclusion of Roehenstart in the rebels’ plans seemed like a complication too far. But then Freddie could not fathom the workings of Miss Sutcliff’s rather convoluted brain: nor did he wish to, having now experienced her methods so directly. When asked what she thought should be done next, Hero suggested that they give up their search for Valentine and the Silver Darling. They should instead inform Roehenstart of the plan to set up a Stuart rebellion using him as a smokescreen immediately and impress upon him the good it would do if he were to make for London post-haste so that he might alert the authorities and claim credit for foiling the plot. This would ensure his pension and might possibly increase it. Beattie went down to ask Roehenstart up to Freddie’s room, where Mr. Charteris then explained the situation. As Hero had expected, the Austrian was outraged and quite determined to prevent any plots against the rightful King from unfolding. “What wickedness is this! My grandfather had no other heirs. How could he, when he so frightened his wife that she eloped with some poet? No, my mother was the only issue of Charles Stuart. But she was not legitimate and I have no name either apart from the one given to me by my French family. This Stuart, he had a claim on the throne, but I have none. I simply wish to avail myself of the protection and good offices of my family and receive what was due to my mother in my own name.”

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The general was all for posting directly to London without pause or let, but Freddie persuaded him that his bags must be collected from Berwick, and that the ladies should be left safely at Cheveley, where they would avail themselves of a rest before the final leg to London, which could be accomplished in perhaps as little as four days. The following morning, the party assembled promptly at breakfast and set off shortly afterwards. Freddie, as he had expected, paid handsomely for the privilege of fending off four villains and succumbing to the attack of three more, but he put his money down with good grace and Mr. Ancram found himself very well pleased with his visitors, despite the mayhem that had followed in their wake. Inevitably, extracting the general’s possessions from the assiduous burghers of Berwick was a lengthier process than either Freddie or the general had anticipated. Both of them were required to present several forms of identification, repeat at length the circumstances which saw them travelling together to London and complete various pieces of documentation. Once they realized that this was going to take the better part of what remained of the afternoon, Hero and Lizzie decided to explore the town and its quayside. There were numerous vessels of all sizes moored there: squat coal tenders, a couple of larger schooners and numerous cutters and sloops. Then Lizzie saw it--a neat ketch, painted black with red railings. The Silver Darling. She ran towards it, Hero and Beattie clutching at their bonnets as they followed her billowing cloak. She had clambered aboard before they could stop her and was calling out for assistance. A man who reminded Hero unaccountably of a grasshopper clambered up from a hatch on the deck. He gave Lizzie a startled look and then involuntarily, reached out to help Hero and Beattie aboard. “What cause have three such fine ladies to board this ship?” His voice was deep and rich, somewhat at odds with his angular appearance. “Sir, I wonder if you can help me.” Lizzie’s stern tone did not really offer the fellow any alternative but to agree to help her if he could. “Some days ago, you were engaged to carry my brother from Leith to Coldingham or Eyemouth.” “Which would it have been, your ladyship?” asked the fellow with a satirical bow. “I don’t know. But I want to know if you saw him, if you gave him passage and where you deposited him, if he is not still aboard your ship.” “That’s a tall order. We don’t customarily go giving out the names of our passengers to any passer-by.” He watched Lizzie closely. She fired up. “I’m no passer-by. We are talking of my brother and I have been searching for your ship for the last three days.” “What is the name of the gentleman, then, milady?” “I am a plain Miss, and his name is Valentine Wemyss. He is rather taller than I am, with hair much the same color and a long nose with blue eyes. He looks more handsome than I do, if truth be told, which is galling to a sister. But he has been missing these ten days and I must find out what has happened to him.” Lizzie’s chin was out at an angle and she looked the man directly in the eye. He lowered his gaze. “I don’t rightly know, Miss Wemyss.” He took pity on Lizzie, as she stiffened. “We did give him a berth to Coldingham Shores. I left him there near on two weeks ago, and that was the last I saw of him. He paid handsomely, and that is all I care for. I ask no questions of passengers provided they pay up.” “Did anyone meet him?” asked Hero.

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“I couldn’t tell you. It was after dark when I landed him. I didn’t make for the harbor, just dropped the dinghy and had him rowed ashore. I could ask the men who rowed him, but I won’t do it with you on board. They’re a superstitious crowd and don’t like ladies on the vessel. But tell me your direction in town and I’ll come by later with any information I get from them.” “We’re staying at the Craw Inn. Your name, sir?” “You may call me Captain Vetch. Jack Vetch at your service.” The ladies bobbed at this intelligence, and Captain Vetch swiftly handed them off the boat. “My crew are all out and about in the town. I expect them back at four or thereabouts. I’ll call on you before six.” Lizzie looked up at the bony captain skeptically, and he said, “I will, you know. You may rely on me. I may be the captain of what seems to you a pretty scurvy vessel, but I am a man of my word.” With a swish of her cloak, Lizzie turned on her heel, leaving the inescapable impression that she placed no reliance on the captain’s word at all. Hero shrugged apologetically as she followed her friend, with Beattie scurrying behind.

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Chapter Sixteen: In which there is an incident in the snow Although she did not believe that Captain Jack Vetch would keep his appointment, Lizzie made sure that she would be able to meet him. Freddie did not like the idea of this Vetch individual seeing the ladies alone, so despite Lizzie protesting that it was quite unnecessary, he sat with them after their dinner and waited. It turned out that the captain was a man of his word, for on the final stroke of the six o’clock chime, one of the inn’s servants opened the door and announced him. Skeletal as before, he came into the room, standing before the fire, his body casting elongated shadows on the wall behind him. He bowed to the ladies and shook hands with Freddie before taking the seat offered to him. “To the point. The men who rowed your brother on shore say that he was met there by a pair of horsemen leading with them a third animal. We were also collecting certain goods for ourselves, so my men were really too preoccupied to notice very much about these individuals. The only sure thing to report is that from Coldingham Shore, one must necessarily pass through Coldingham.” “It was very good of you to come and tell us this much.” Lizzie clearly did not fully believe that the captain was good, but her manners prevailed. She could not wholly disguise her disgruntlement. Knowing that the Captain was concealing something, Freddie was swift to thank him warmly enough and then to engage him in conversation. His opening gambit was to declare a passion for sailing and a desire to buy himself a yacht, which prompted a stifled, but unmistakably derisive snort from his cousin. But Hero weighed in on his side, saying, “I too am greatly interested in the sea. I have never been on a long journey, but just three years ago, we went to Scarborough and took three most enjoyable cruises so that we might view the cliffs and coast from the sea. I found the experience quite delightful.” To keep the captain longer, Hero called for refreshment and over a glass of fino, Freddie amplified on his desire to become a seafarer. Although Captain Vetch might well have made a scathing remark in response to this effusion, he too displayed his manners and entered into the discussion with some enthusiasm, clearly choosing to believe that Mr. Charteris was serious in his desire to discover more of the mysteries of the ocean deep. At least Freddie had travelled in the wake of his illustrious masters to Europe, having once sailed into the Mediterranean and landed at Naples. Captain Vetch had travelled extremely widely: he had first taken ship as a boy of eleven. Service in the Navy had seen him travel to both east and west Indies, Cathay, and once, Australia. He had made some money as an officer in the Navy, not a spectacular amount, but sufficient for his needs, which encompassed the purchase of a boat which was his home and his heart’s desire. The Silver Darling had not been new, but he had remade her, and she now plied her trade along the eastern coast of Britain as a carrier.

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Gently, Freddie teased out of Vetch an itinerary for the past three years: in 1813, he had left the navy. It was during the spring of 1814 that he had purchased his own vessel, spending most of the summer of 1814 testing her and outfitting her. And thereafter, he had made regular forays to the continent, calling regularly at Atlantic ports on the edge of the Iberian Peninsula. He had spent the winter season of 1814 in the Mediterranean, enjoying the rewards of Napoleon’s abdication and exile in Elba before heading back to Britain in March 1815, just ahead of Bonaparte’s escape from his island prison and the hundred days of turmoil that had ended at Waterloo. Since then, he had been plying a regular trade in the North Sea, and sometimes, it was to be gathered, an irregular trade also. Captain Vetch was an entertaining talker, lively and full of picturesque anecdotes of his fellow tars and the ports that he had seen, so the evening passed pleasantly for all three of his auditors. Then there was a lull in the conversation and the tall clock in the hallway sounded a quarter past the hour, at which point Captain Vetch sprang from his seat and exclaimed that it was well past time that he returned to his ship. “There is no knowing what wickedness my crew may be about, but I have set a curfew of nine o’clock and I must be there.” He made a neat bow and bade the travelers goodnight and God speed for the rest of their journey. Before they could detain him further, he was out of the door, gathering up his heavy seacoat and striding from the Craw Inn as though fiends were at his heels. “Heavens!” exclaimed Hero. “What was there in all our conversation to frighten him so?” “You thought he was frightened too?” asked Lizzie. “Certainly. He seemed so very startled and emphatic where before he had been so calm. I found it very curious, though perhaps Mr. Charteris can shed some light on his behavior?” Freddie shook his head. “Unless he realized that he had revealed more than he had intended. He shot out of here faster than the pellets from my Purdey. Quite remarkable. I for one would never exert myself so. It can be so injurious to the health.” “Do you think he can tell us more?” asked Hero. Freddie considered carefully. “I couldn’t say. I doubt it, for I think he will clam up now and be unaccountably unavailable if any of us try to pin him down for a sensible conversation. Indeed, I wouldn’t be surprised if we went along to the quayside to discover that The Silver Darling was absent from her mooring already. I know nothing of tides, but it may be that he is trying to catch one so that he need not face us again.” “So what we do know is that he was in easy reach of Brussels and the Netherlands last year when this plan was cooked up. He could easily have given passage to any number of presumptive monarchs, for he strikes me as just the sort to make as much money as he can without too much regard for its provenance.” Hero stood and started pacing the room. Freddie and Lizzie watched her with some surprise. “He has admitted thus far to giving passage to Val, but there is no reason to believe his tale of horsemen, for surely we spent enough time in Coldingham to have got wind of strangers riding through the town just before Christmas Day. It would have been both remarkable and the cause of some resentment that these gentlemen did not choose to stop and share some of their bounty with the village.” Neither Lizzie nor Freddie thought it wise to interrupt Hero’s train of thought.

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“I believe he put in at Coldhingham, to make a delivery of goods that he did not wish to declare to any excise man, but I do not believe that he put Val down there. Indeed, I am not convinced that he has actually allowed Mr. Wemyss off his ship.” “Why are you so suspicious of him?” Lizzie was perplexed, but Freddie was looking at Hero with dawning admiration. “Well, Lizzie, you know as well as I do that there are three different routes which one may take to reach Coldingham Shore, and he was very plain that there was only one. He has not the slightest notion of the geography of that area, because he has never needed to set foot ashore. He made that ridiculous comment about having to pass through Coldingham: but the village can be easily circumvented.” Lizzie was instantly afire to raise an expedition to The Silver Darling without delay, but Freddie squashed this notion firmly. “I shall go, because I can see that it will agitate you terribly unless something is done at once to investigate the ship. But I believe that I shall not find the boat there.” So Freddie, still feeling somewhat battered and bruised, set out into the chill night for the quayside, accompanied by a sure-footed groom from the inn’s stables. The lad was talkative, but Freddie found it very difficult to make out his accent which was so rich as to be incomprehensible and quite unlike the Scots to which he was accustomed. They reached the mooring where the Silver Darling had lain, but the berth, as Freddie had predicted, was vacant. “Tha boot’s goan. Ye’ll be fair scunnered laik.” “I daresay.” But Freddie was not scunnered at all: it was a relief that the Darling had sailed and with it, his troublesome cousin. He had no difficulty in believing that Valentine was aboard the neat little cutter, recovering from a wound. What he did have difficulty with was establishing Vetch’s reasons for giving Val house--or perhaps boat-room when he was severely wounded and clearly mixed up in some shady business. Vetch might be a free-trader, but he had struck Freddie as a man who would go to considerable lengths to avoid attracting attention. Which went some way to explaining the fellow’s precipitate departure from the Craw Inn when he realized he had spoken too freely, but did not clarify what value Valentine might be to him. Of course, Vetch might be another of Miss Sutcliff’s creatures, but he had looked far too admiringly at both Lizzie and Miss Veasey to be credible as a love-sick swain ready to sacrifice all for a passion for that chilly lamia. It would be impossible to spend any more time chasing the Silver Darling up and down this stretch of the coast, but Ivo Dunbar might be able to expend some manpower on tracking the vessel down. Freddie felt that his priority was to get the ladies safely to Cheveley and then Roehenstart to London. He missed London. It was a straightforward place with none of the high intrigue and outright violence that had colored his stay in the north. Naturally, the ladies were waiting up for him as he came in from the cold. Hero had had the foresight to order him some mulled punch which warmed him considerably as he confessed that his errand had been fruitless. “Not even any tar who had been left behind to tell you anything about what had been happening on the Darling. How frustrating.” Lizzie sounded a little peevish, as though she quite expected Freddie to have hired his own boat to give chase to the missing

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ship. Hero stifled a smile, then said, “How long will it take us to reach Cheveley from here, do you think?” “If we push hard, we could do it in two nights, but I would prefer, if you don’t mind, to spend an extra night on the road, for I would prefer to make the attempt on the smaller roads between Northallerton and Thirsk in full daylight.” So it was agreed that they would stop at Alnwick, Durham and finally Northallerton, which was the market town closest to Cheveley. Over the next two days, even Beattie lost her enthusiasm for travel, for it was slow, dull work for the coaches. It had been hoped that it would be possible to visit Alnwick Castle, but with the hunting season in full swing, casual visitors to the demesne were discouraged, although it was possible to walk about the exterior walls and admire the grand works that had been put in train by the 1st Duke of Northumberland some sixty years before with the aim of restoring the castle thus rendering it a residence fit for his family and its new honors. It was a hard day’s work to reach Durham, but it was accomplished by the early evening with only minor stops, a cause of some complaint to Roehenstart who very much enjoyed his meals (especially since they were financed out of another’s pocket). The general made it clear that missing out on a decent luncheon and having to postpone dinner until they arrived in Durham past six in the evening was not an acceptable practice, but Freddie did point out that the ladies were making no complaint, which somewhat chastened the general. The party retired early, for the ladies wished to rise promptly for the opportunity to see the famous cathedral before mounting the carriage at ten o’clock the next morning. It was thought that if the weather favored them, they might reach Northallerton by four that afternoon. Unfortunately, despite heading south, it seemed to Hero and Lizzie that the temperature was dropping fast, and the day was grey and drear, the clouds low over the moors. There was unnervingly little traffic on the road, for all that it was the chief coaching route between London and the north. At noon, the sleet began to fall, at first just a dusting which did not stick, but as the afternoon progressed, it thickened into snow and the horses were no longer able even to trot. By this time, the two coaches had passed Darlington, where the change of horses had favored them: Murdo and Freddie had had to spend some time wrangling with the ostler at the Rose and Crown over the teams that the rather wizened old man wished to foist on them, but it had been worth the wait when the beasts showed considerable stamina as they paced up the steady incline between Dalton and Great Smeaton. Hero knew this road but could point out no landmarks for the spectacular views were obscured by the now continuous snow. After Great Smeaton, the road curved as it rose further, and it was round a tricky bend that Freddie’s party met with their mishap. For standing in the pathway was another coach. Moving forward as slowly as they were, there was no question of crashing into the obstacle, but it was difficult to bring the coaches to a halt, and despite applying their brakes with vigor, both Charteris coaches found themselves slithering in the mud. As the coachmen wrestled with the nervous horses, one of the boys trumpeted with all his might in the hope that this might lead to the carriage in front of them clearing a passage for them. Instead, as the ringing of the horn died away, three dark shadows slipped from the coach and came across the snow like wolves scenting prey. Freddie was leaning out of

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the coach and saw the predatory figures approaching in sufficient time to reach in and grab at the pistols he kept holstered by his seat. He leaned out again and called up to the groom sitting by the coachman on the box. “Get your musket ready, Elliott, I fear we are under attack.” There was very little to be done if this was indeed the case: it would be rash to fire too soon for the time it would take to reload would be ample for the attackers to reach the coach and capture them. Their aim was not clear enough yet, and Freddie wished to establish this before firing potshots into the gloom. He ducked his head inside again. “Sit tight, ladies. Roehenstart, guard the other door, if you would. You don’t happen to have a weapon about you, do you?” It turned out that the general had packed the spectacular sword he had worn on their first encounter, and since it was more for dress purposes and rather unwieldy in the confines of a coach, Freddie was unsure what use it would have been in any case. He did not trust the general not to loose off a shot prematurely, so he kept both his pistols and waited for the men to approach. Roehenstart, clearly concerned for his own skin, was clearly quite determined to keep the door on his side of the coach firmly shut, and that would have to do. One of the men loomed out of the snow. Freddie did not recognize him immediately, but as the bulky gentleman approached, his gait seemed familiar and Freddie could not help thinking that this man had been up on Miss Sutcliff’s box the day she had invited him to share her carriage back into Edinburgh. Additionally, he thought if very likely that he was one of the oafs who had knocked out either him or Murdo. “We just want the lady. We don’t want no trouble,” shouted the man-mountain. “I am afraid, sir, I cannot be surrendering ladies to you simply on your say-so. I cannot think what you have to do with either of the young ladies in my care, and I would ask you to move your coach without delay so that we all might pass.” “You don’t expect me to agree to that. I have demands.” “Let me hear your demands,” called Freddie. “Give us that girl known as Miss Veasey. We want her, and we shall have her. Then you may pass freely, with a letter for her father.” Freddie looked round and caught a glimpse of Miss Veasey’s face. She did not appear remotely perturbed, although she did look a little baffled at this development. “Do you think this is Miss Sutcliff making these demands?” she asked. “I suspect so, but I cannot fathom why.” “Money, I daresay. She wishes to ransom me. Perhaps she is running low in funds and this seemed like an opportune moment to extort some more.” Lizzie fired up. “She really is the most outrageous creature. Can’t you do anything, Freddie?” as though she expected him to overcome all three of the men who had positioned themselves around the coach in such a way as to prohibit any forward movement. Freddie sighed. There really was no time to explain anything to the ladies, or Roehenstart. He hoped that Murdo was ready to follow the plan that they had worked out when considering this eventuality before they had started the journey. It was all very well preparing plans, but Freddie was ruefully conscious of how easily such matters could go awry. He fumbled at the catch of the coach door, and Lizzie raised her voice. “What on earth do you think you are doing, Freddie?”

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Hero laid a restraining hand on her friend’s arm and said, “I think he has cooked something up, Lizzie. Let’s just wait and see. Be ready to do whatever Mr. Charteris tells you.” Freddie slowly climbed down from the carriage, as though he were extremely stiff from the cold and the cramped interior of the coach, not to mention the bruises he had collected in the previous days. “If I surrender up the lady to you, what guarantee do I have that you will do the rest of us no harm?” Freddie heard Lizzie’s horrified gasp and Hero’s fierce “Hush now!” but did not look away from the man who was by now nearly at the coach. “Tell that fellow of yours up on the box to put his shooter away and we’ll give you no trouble. All we want is the lady. We’ll hobble you a little so you ain’t on our tail, but otherwise no harm’ll come to you if you comply fully with my demands.” The fellow laboriously parroted the words he had conned and stood, square and stocky before the coach, which was inching backwards as its weight exhausted the horses. Freddie looked up at Elliott. The groom gave a quick shake of the head and Freddie pursued his conversation further. “I can’t imagine what possesses you to believe that I shall allow you to abduct a lady from my party without so much as a whimper.” “Speak clearly. Do you mean to say that you will allow the lady to come with us or do you refuse me?” Freddie once more glanced at Elliott who this time nodded as if in agreement with the kidnapper. Freddie emitted a theatrical sigh and said, “That settles it, I’m afraid. I simply couldn’t permit you to have the lady if you can’t understand simple English.” Then very calmly, he lifted the pistol in his right hand so that it rested on his left forearm, took aim and fired. It happened so smoothly and so swiftly that the kidnapper had no time to react, particularly since a second shot from Elliott and a third from presumably Murdo on the other side of the carriage flashed into the darkening air. Lizzie and Roehenstart cried out, but as soon as it was clear that there would be no more shooting, Hero eased her way out of the coach and went over to Freddie, who was inspecting the prone form of the man who had wished to remove her from her seat. He was groaning and cradling his shoulder. “What do you plan to do with him?” asked Hero. “I’m not sure. I thought we’d just pile the fellows up in their carriage before driving it down to Northallerton. Murdo will organize that. Can I help you back into the carriage?” He offered her his hand. She looked into his face for a long, silent moment, then took his outstretched hand in both of hers and pressed it tight. He helped her back into the carriage. Then Freddie went to inspect the damage caused by their neatly coordinated shooting. Elliott too had wounded his man, but it turned out that the third attacker had realized what was happening, and in lunging towards Murdo, had signed his own death warrant, for instead of hitting the malefactor in the shoulder, Murdo’s bullet had landed further south in the region of his heart and lungs. Elliott and the post-boy from the other carriage went forward to help Murdo carry the two wounded men to their carriage. They returned to where the dead man lay and lugged him over, but the wounded men set up a further ballyhoo, exclaiming that they wanted no dead man lying in the coach with them.

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“You’ve no choice,” said Murdo as he climbed up to the coachman’s seat. “There’s no room for him up here and it would be heathen to leave him lying in the snow. He’ll need a proper Christian burial and I shall make sure he receives one.” He whipped up the chilled pair that he must drive to Northallerton and moved the coach to the side of the road so that the two Charteris carriages, each equipped with a team of four, could get underway again. Safely back in the coach and under his fur rug, Freddie released the breath that he scarcely realized he had been holding. Lizzie began scolding immediately. “What possessed you, Freddie? First you enter into conversation with that blackguard and then you shoot him without so much as a warning! I never heard of such a thing.” “No, nor have any idea what to do in such a situation, I’ll wager.” “A very pretty piece of shooting, Mr. Charteris,” commented Roehenstart, his tone very languid now that the danger was clearly averted. “Do you anticipate any further delays?” “I certainly hope not. The road is very straight once we are past this corner, so there will be no suitable location for any ambush before Northallerton. Tomorrow, we may send for an escort from Cheveley to ensure that we are not assailed again.” “Thank you for your prompt action, Mr. Charteris. I daresay you will not admit it, but it seems to me that you anticipated some assault. Without such foresight, you might have been forced into relinquishing me to our attackers. I am very grateful.” “If there was foresight, Miss Veasey, it merely consisted in making the arrangements that any prudent traveller puts into place. Believe me when I say we should never have given you up, but I must admit to being relieved that I did not have to see any of my own men injured.” Their passage into Northallerton continued uninterrupted and they arrived there only an hour later than they had hoped. The inn there was one where the Veasey name was well known, and when Miss Veasey mentioned that a third carriage would be on its way bearing two injured villain and one dead highwayman, the proprietor was swift to summon the head of the local watch and a doctor. But first, he insisted on the party taking its rest and enjoying a most magnificent spread in a private dining room, a suggestion which met with warm approbation from all of the travelers. After dinner, it took some time to explain to the head of the watch the whole tale. The man insisted that the ladies, as witnesses to the incident, remain present. When he heard that an attempt had been made to spirit away Miss Veasey, he was very shocked and quite keen, when Murdo finally arrived another hour later, to remove the men immediately to the rarely-used gaol in Northallerton. But the doctor, on discovering that one of the men had a smashed shoulder and the other a broken arm, declared that the gaol would be too cold, not having been used since the last quarter day assizes, and that the men would be more likely to mend and less likely to take a fever if they were kept under lock and key in a warm, clean house. Neither was fit enough to make any attempt to escape. The dead man might be taken to the gaol, for it would certainly be just the place to store a corpse. Finally, the tangle was satisfactorily explained, statements were taken, the watchman confirmed that he would provide an additional escort to the party on their way to Cheveley and the weary travelers were allowed to retire.

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Lizzie remained indignant about Freddie’s cavalier approach to the whole business, but Hero shook her head and said that she was satisfied that Mr. Charteris had done everything necessary to preserve her person. “You are in no position to judge, for I believe that if Freddie stood on his head and sang Lavender’s Blue you’d declare him a marvel.” “I find him resourceful, and he has taken exceptional care of us, but that is all.” “Don’t try pulling any wool over my eyes, Hero Veasey, you think Freddie Charteris is the finest young man of your acquaintance. I don’t wish to encourage you, but I believe he thinks you to be the cream on his porridge as well.” “The cream on his porridge? Stop bamming me, Lizzie.” But Lizzie had spoken nothing but the truth: Hero could think of no other gentleman who was so unassuming and so resourceful, such fun and so careful of others. As she lay snug and safe in her bed, she thought of the myriad ways in which Mr. Charteris might be fine, and was soon asleep, a smile playing about her lips.

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Chapter Seventeen: In which snow stops play The next morning, flanked by four of the watch all of whom seemed very glad of a chance to forgo their usual morning pursuits for a swift ride in the freezing air, Freddie’s entourage set off. The welcome at Cheveley was all that a man confident of his own consequence such as Roehenstart might have wished. Hero’s father, Leonard Veasey, was a great admirer of any warrior who had fought against the wicked Frenchman who so interfered with proper concerns such as commerce and the right of an Englishman to free passage wheresoever he desired. As a local magistrate, he also must necessarily be informed of the new prisoners who had been brought to town at Mr. Charteris’s guidance. Besides all this, it was over two months since he had seen his beloved daughter, and he was mightily glad to see her in such health, albeit somewhat unexpectedly. Lizzie, as Miss Veasey’s special friend, was also made welcome, and both Murdo and Beattie in the servants’ quarters were well cared for. Beattie had feared there might be some jealousy if it was thought that she had deprived some local girl of a chance to act as Miss Veasey’s maid, but it turned out that the previous girl in such a position had gone with Miss Veasey’s cousin to Scotland. No noses were out of joint and all were very keen to hear how things were done in Edinburgh and if there had been any news of Miss Rosamond, or Mrs. Buchanan as they must all call her now. The visitors were all informed that tea would be waiting for them in the green drawing room, once they had settled in and refreshed themselves after their breakneck run from Northallerton. It was unusual to make the journey in less than an hour and a half in decent weather, let alone in the snow which had covered the countryside in a frosted coat that glinted in the pallid sunlight. Hero was down almost immediately, and sat quietly with her papa, very glad to be home. Although she had written regular letters, he pressed her for further details of Valentine Wemyss’ disappearance, of the eventful journey from Edinburgh and the nature of this Sutcliff woman who seemed so very determined to interfere in everyone’s lives and make things uncomfortable for them all. They were soon joined by Miss Wemyss and Mr. Charteris. Mr. Veasey shook his head over this business of Mr. Wemyss and commiserated with Lizzie over her brother’s conduct. Then he turned to Mr. Charteris. “Are you determined to press on at once to London, Mr. Charteris, or might we prevail upon you to stay with us for a little while? Hero has told me that the general has reasons for going there, but do you think he is quite aware that London will be empty at this time of year?” “Sir, if you provide him with a good table, some shooting and hunting and a comfortable bed, I daresay the General will be content to stop with you indefinitely.” Lizzie and Hero laughed, for while they might not have put it so bluntly, they too were well aware that the General was never so happy as when he might have his feet

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under another’s table. If he could be comfortable and did not have to lay out any great expenditure beyond servants’ vails, he would see no need to rush anywhere, particularly when travelling had proved to be so very stirring. “What about you, Mr. Charteris? Do you have urgent business or can you remain with us? I must confess, I would be easier if I knew we could count on a cool head, for from what I have gathered from Hero, this Miss Sutcliff is a formidable opponent. I cannot believe that we have heard the last of her.” “Neither can I, sir. This is my quandary: if I leave here as I planned to do, in a day or two, I rather thought I might draw her with me. Especially if we had some form of decoy.” “Decoy?” asked Mr. Veasey, considerably puzzled. “I was thinking about asking Miss Veasey and Miss Wemyss to lend their pelisses and bonnets to me. I could then take on two men, ideally slight, but handy, if you know what I mean, sir, who would be prepared to wear the ladies’ clothes and if we were attacked again, they might surprise our assailants. That was one possibility. But I do not like to leave you here with Miss Sutcliff still abroad. She is an extremely dangerous woman. I do not know whether Hero wrote to you of her actions in Coldingham, but I believe she would be quite cool even if her orders were to lead to someone’s death. She will be enraged by our outwitting of her men yesterday afternoon.” “Do you believe that she remains in the vicinity?” “I do, which I think is in our favor, for any stranger is remarkable hereabouts. You have only to ask your people to take particular note of any newcomers in the area and we should be able to discover her exact location.” “She seems to be able to find numerous ne’er-do-wells to assist her in her plans,” remarked Hero. “She has run through seven already, for there were the four that Mr. Charteris overcame at Coldingham, in addition to the three kidnappers. Are you sure that she has the resources to launch yet another attack?” “If I thought she were unsupported in her endeavors, my response would be no. However, I do not think she is acting alone. She still has the Dewpin boy with her, and he was clearly part of some greater plan that has been worked out by some external party.” It was agreed that Freddie would sleep on the matter, consult the general in the morning and then reach a decision the following day. In the meantime, Hero was eager to show both of her friends her home, so they spent the rest of the afternoon exploring first the gardens and then as dusk fell, the interior of the house. Cheveley was a very pretty red-brick house with white porticos, surrounded by a formal garden which extended into a carefully ordered landscape that had been the work of a follower of the great gardener Capability Brown. The only error in taste that had been made by Leonard Veasey’s grandfather, who had built the house in the years between 1740 and 1750, was a scaled down reproduction of Rome’s Pantheon made in a brash brick. This had been dismantled the previous autumn. The foundations were still visible, but Hero shuddered as she neared the place, for it had been the location of a murder and her dear cousin had been held hostage there by the murderer. “I think now that I shall always feel this place is cursed, or walked by the ghost of the poor lieutenant killed by that terrible Buchan man,” explained Hero to her guests. “What befell the villain?” enquired Lizzie.

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“He was tried and hanged. He tried to kill himself in gaol. They sent a servant to shave him every day during his trial, and one day he overcame the poor fellow, took the razor and attempted to slit his own throat. However, he failed. I did not attend the execution, although it was the talk of Yorkshire, but those who did go said that the man was terribly disfigured. I almost feel sorry for him, for my belief is that he was deranged in some way. Colonel Fitzgerald, our neighbor, told us that some men are terribly damaged by the combat they have seen, but submerge their afflictions and these seethe within them and then erupt with terrible consequences. He felt that this was the case with Captain Buchan. I cannot tell.” She did not say that perhaps Valentine’s passion for Miss Sutcliff had been caused by the same malady, but it occurred to both Lizzie and Mr. Charteris, although they studiedly avoided mentioning his name. “What plans have you for the site now?” asked Freddie. His attempt to turn the subject was successful. Hero brightened up and was full of the Veaseys’ plans for an arboretum, a collection of fine trees, elms, oak and ash and perhaps some limes, although there was already an abundance of those and she thought that beech might be a better choice for a woodland area. Freddie agreed with her and promised to put her case to Mr. Veasey and Hero’s uncle Anthony, who also held decided views on the projects that were underway at his boyhood home. “You will have the pleasure of my uncle’s company this evening at dinner, I am sure. Although he lives in Stokesley, he comes almost daily to visit us. He is our dearest friend in the area.” Freddie found that he liked both Mr. Leonard and Mr. Anthony Veasey very much. Hero’s father was quiet and a little slow. He had something of the valetudinarian about him, but his brother took it up on himself to josh his older brother out of any malingering, and though they teased at one another, it was clear that they held each other in great affection and certainly doted extremely on Hero. They spoke often also of their niece in tones of equal fondness, and both Lizzie and Freddie were left with an impression of a loving family in which all members strove to care for each other, occasionally a little smotheringly but always with an abiding affection for one another. Roehenstart clearly found the Veasey brothers amiable and interesting companions, for they all had in common an interest in their stomachs, a fascination for shooting, not to mention all the issues surrounding the rearing of game and a passion for riding after the hounds. The Veasey brothers were enthralled by Roehenstart’s tales of hunting in Bohemia, where one could still give chase to boar and aurochs, animals which had long since died out in Britain. After supper, Freddie soon left the gentlemen to their port and wandered into the ladies’ drawing room. Hero was at the piano, picking out a new sonata sent up in the latest batch of music her father had ordered from London, while Lizzie was busy at a complicated piece of stitching. Freddie drew a chair up beside her and sat there. “The other gentlemen are deep into a discussion of the merits of different gundogs, so I do not believe they will join us for another half-hour at the very least.” “That does not surprise me. Hero said how it would be. How comfortable it is here, to be sure. It feels as though a quiet life of calm is possible.” “Do you doubt that, Lizzie?”

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“The past week or so has definitely made me doubt it: I am becoming overaccustomed to alarums and excursions from my brother’s disappearance to these overfrequent attacks by Miss Sutcliff’s thugs.” Freddie chuckled. “We have had a dramatic few days.” “Do you really think that we shall be safe here if you can distract Miss Sutcliff?” “I no longer know what I think, Lizzie.” His glance strayed to the piano. “The truth is that I long for nothing more than the chance to remain here and serve Miss Veasey in whatever way possible.” Lizzie dropped her tapestry work in her lap and leaned forward, taking both his hands. Her voice was low and she spoke swiftly: “Dear Freddie, don’t hold back on Val’s account. If you love her, let her know it. I think she cares for you very deeply, but Val has hurt her so much that she is afraid to trust herself. It may be some time before she can bring herself to admit that she cares for you, but if you do not indicate that you hold her in more than mere affection, she will linger on in this terrible limbo, torn between her sense of duty towards Valentine and her interest in you.” “Do you suggest that I declare myself?” “Not an offer. I don’t believe she is ready for that. Just make it clear that you ask for nothing but that you are attached.” “I thought that I had done that, Lizzie. I wonder that you or she or Mary or some other female of my acquaintance has not already stepped in and told me to cease making an undignified spectacle of myself.” Lizzie grinned. “Freddie, you spend your life making an undignified spectacle of yourself. You are forever tripping or pouring ices down some décolletage or standing on someone’s hem. It is time for you now to make a declaration which is quite a different matter and should be a private one. Do not fail: your courage has impressed our dear Hero very greatly, she admires your ingenuity and your resilience and she holds you to be remarkable judge of human character. If that does not tell you that the girl is quite besotted with you, I do not know what will.” “Do you think I should stay here, Lizzie?” “Isn’t that what I have been telling you? Remain here, and show Hero once and for all that you hold her in the highest esteem and would do anything to protect her.” Freddie nodded and sat back in his chair, mulling over Lizzie’s words. He gazed at Hero, who was doggedly working at her sonata, at times achieving very creditable results until she grew weary of the task and practiced a piece she knew well, a delicate rondo by Mozart. She was very pretty, but it was not that which had captured him: he had seen enough pretty girls over the course of his years in London. She was gentle and loving, but it was not simply that. In Freddie’s experience, there were more people in the world who could be brought to be gentle and loving than there were bitter and miserable Alethea Sutcliffs who took pleasure not only in the misery of others but also in actively bringing misery on others. Hero was also more intelligent and sensible than she gave herself credit for, or indeed than anyone else acknowledged either. But it was more than that too. For when Freddie gazed on Hero’s face, he found himself reading her features, able to understand exactly what she was thinking, and he saw in her eyes and the curve of her brow and the wicked little twitch that her lips gave the sense that she understood him too, as no one else had ever done. Sitting back and watching her play, her fingers flitting over the keyboard, her head nodding to keep time, her body swaying at the keyboard, he

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knew a moment of such perfect joy that he could scarcely contain himself, and just then, her fingers and body stilled, her head came up, her eyes met his and they exchanged a glance of perfect unity. It was only Lizzie’s presence that prevented him from going over to the piano, taking Hero into his arms and kissing her, but he knew that she saw his desire as clearly as if he had spoken it out loud. Then her eyes flitted towards Lizzie, and a shadow fell across her face and she bit her lip and he wanted to cry out with the pain that this withdrawal, slight as it was, had caused him. He stood and bowed, bade the ladies goodnight and went up to his room. Murdo was not there, but Freddie felt he could manage perfectly well without his manservant for once, and the man deserved his rest. For himself, he could not decide on the appropriate course of action. He wanted more than anything to protect Hero from any further attacks at Miss Sutcliff’s hands. He felt sure that Alethea Sutcliff intended attacking again: Hero was too tempting a prey for her to give up with one check. The creature needed more funds, and an assault on Miss Veasey would also provide her with an opportunity to test Valentine. Who was certainly alive and on board the Silver Darling. Which would need to put in to deposit Val somewhere close at hand. If the fellow had had a wound from a saber, which was what it had looked like to Freddie on examining his friend’s coat, the ten days since his disappearance would have given him time to heal sufficiently to move, although not perhaps to do much in any more active capacity. This left the question of where Valentine would come ashore. Freddie opened up the doors of his wardrobe, the drawers in the dresser and the bedside table, seeking after the leather box he always carried with him. The door clicked open and in came Murdo. “May I help you, Master Frederick?” Freddie looked up. “No need to Master Frederick me. Are you irked because I did not summon you from what I thought would be a quiet evening to yourself? Or because I’ve muddled up your neat arrangements?” Murdo shook his head, gave an exasperated glance at the ceiling and then calmly reordered the mess that Freddie had unleashed on the room. “What are you looking for?” “The route map. I know I have one in my case of papers, but what you’ve done with the case I cannot discover.” Murdo gave a gusty sigh and went over to the bureau tucked away in an alcove between the fireplace and the doorway. “It wouldn’t have taken a good deal of wit to work out that I’d put writing materials and papers in a place where they would be easily used, but your trouble is that you don’t use what wit you have in any sensible fashion.” He pulled down the wooden leaf of the bureau and there was the case. Freddie nodded and went over to it, as Murdo lit the candles in the sconce above the desk. On unfurling the map, Freddie realized that Val had a choice of several ports: Middlesbrough, the largest, would be the quickest for access to Cheveley, but the second port where the Silver Darling would attract minimal notice would be Whitby. Men could be set on both roads to watch out for Valentine. Whichever route Val took, Freddie decided that he would stay on in Yorkshire for the moment. It would be a simple affair to smooth over Roehenstart, particularly since the general and the Veasey brothers had taken such a liking to one another. Freddie turned to Murdo.

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“I’m thinking of spending a few days here. I believe that Miss Sutcliff remains in the vicinity and intends further harm to Miss Veasey. It would make me very uneasy to leave the Veaseys here with this matter unresolved. What do you think, Murdo?” “We’d travel a sight faster to London without the ladies, and we’d probably be able to rid ourselves of your general, who seems like a pack of trouble. And we might draw her off. That’s the argument for continuing. But I’m with you. This is where the action will be.” “I’ve been keeping Mr. Dunbar informed throughout. I shall send to him again tomorrow, asking if there is any possibility of reinforcements, perhaps someone who could escort General Roehenstart down to London.” “Miss Veasey is a lady who merits every consideration. It would be wrong to desert her if she is truly in danger.” “We’ll stay until next Monday. Five days should be more than enough time to bring Miss Sutcliff out of the undergrowth.” “Very well, Mr. Freddie.” “That’s better, Murdo, no more Master Frederick nonsense.” It turned out that Mr. Charteris had little choice in the matter, for the next morning, when Murdo threw back the curtains, the sun was rising on a landscape so dense with falling snow that any movement would have been impossible. This relieved Freddie’s mind considerably, for where he could not make a move to leave Cheveley, Miss Sutcliff would be equally paralyzed in her inability to arrive in the vicinity. So it was all holiday for Freddie, and indeed the whole company. Mr. Anthony Veasey had remained at Cheveley overnight, as was often enough his custom at this time of year, and he and Leonard Veasey took great delight in taking the general through the gamebooks of the house wherein they were able to deduce all manner of interesting facts about the state of the wild fowl populations on the estate. Then there were guns to be shown, for both Messrs Veasey had taken order of some fine Purdeys, although Mr. Leonard Veasey, ever reluctant to countenance change, thought he preferred his old Manton, even though the action was less refined. After that, there were maps to be examined, stories to be recounted of great days in the field after both fox and stag, not to mention accounts of the uses put to the meat, with lengthy reminiscences of prime haunches of venison, the best method of hanging a partridge and the finest sauce with which to accompany pheasant which could be a dry bird if neglected during the cooking. Less than compelled by these discussions, Freddie was able to devote his whole attention to the ladies. Hero taught a new song to him and Lizzie, they went up to her nursery and took out all the games she had played with Rosamond such as spillikins and Halma, before resorting to fast and furious rounds of rummy, snap and beggar-myneighbor. Then Hero found out some old stories that she and Rosamond had written together when her dear cousin had been persuaded that they too could write a novel suitable for the Minerva Press, and Lizzie had the notion of acting them out. Away from a crowd of spectators, Hero proved herself a sterling actress, ready to assume all sorts of guises from the wicked pirate Grimalkin to the stern priest Monseigneur Roquefort who was the spiritual guide and mentor to the hapless hero of the epic. The snow persisted through the next day also, but Cheveley proved to be a most comfortable lair in inclement weather, for Leonard Veasey was an excellent manager when it came to his own (and consequently his guests’) comfort. There was food and

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wood in abundance, and when livelier amusements palled, there were always books in his abundant library. Although not bookish himself, Veasey was still in the habit instilled by his niece of ordering a bookseller in York to send through the latest publications, and this busy gentleman always took it upon himself to order ten books where five would have done on the wise assumption that Leonard Veasey would never remember to check the books sent to him in case any should be unsuitable. On his third morning at Cheveley, Freddie was woken without Murdo’s assistance by an unmistakable beam of sunlight which had penetrated the curtains of his bedchamber. He hopped from his bed and threw open the curtains to look out onto an exquisite scene. The snow lay deep, the sunlight sparkled and glimmered over the pristine acres and the clouds had entirely dissipated. What would be ideal on such a day as this would be a sleigh--and he would not put it past the Veaseys to have equipped themselves with such a vehicle. Although Freddie was all impatience to be out and about on this glorious morning, it took the rest of the company rather longer to rise and appear for breakfast, so it was not until past ten that he had the opportunity to ask if there was any form of conveyance suited to dealing with the snow. It proved as Freddie had imagined: Leonard Veasey had ordered a sleigh for the use of his late wife, although she had scarcely had time to take it out for even a single expedition before she gave birth to Hero and thereafter died. But this did not mean his notion was dismissed: far from it, both Hero and her father embraced the idea of such an expedition, so everyone layered on their warmest clothes before going out to the stables to ask where in the establishment the old sleigh might be found. The double doors of the carriage house were thrown wide open, allowing rare shafts of sun to stream into the cavernous space, chiefly occupied with Mr. Charteris’s carriages, as well as Mr. Veasey’s own landaulet. It was Hero who first found the tarpaulin which had been draped over the sleigh, but they all helped her to roll it back before stepping forward to inspect that state of the sleigh. “It is in surprisingly good repair,” commented Mr. Veasey. “I had quite expected to find rat’s nests and cobwebs, but it looks as though our boys have been giving it a regular spring clean. What do you say, Hero, shall we take her out?” “Let’s, Uncle. We need not press the horses, after all, and it would be tremendous sport after being cooped up for days.” So grooms were summoned to extract the conveyance from its long rest and to harness horses and clear ways. It took a little under half an hour to prepare the sleigh, but once it was done, Leonard Veasey offered his daughter and her friend his hand to help them in and then waited while Freddie settled himself in the cushions. The coachman, old Jonas, hemmed and hawed as he surveyed the unusual vehicle, but eventually sat himself in his seat, cracked his whip and set his team in motion. “It feels like gliding,” said Hero as the familiar landmarks appeared one by one strange and misshapen in the heavy drifts that coated them. “It is most exhilarating, and though I don’t believe we are going much faster than usual, it feels as though we must be because the sensation seems so speedy.” Her enthusiasm was infectious. Freddie could not resist seeking out her hand with his own under cover of the heavy fur rug that covered all three of them, and in perfect

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amity, they sailed across the snow, accompanied by the dulled thud of the horses’ hooves and the jingle of bells to warn any passer-by of their imminent passage.

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Chapter Eighteen: In which reality intrudes on an idyll Not wishing to tempt those gods who might decide that taking a thirty year old sleigh out from storage without a thorough inspection was foolhardiness in the extreme, old Jonas turned the sleigh back soon enough and though the three passengers were conscious of a little disappointment at having the pleasure of their ride so curtailed, they were also beginning to feel the cold, which was intense. Hero noticed on returning indoors first how hungry she had become in the chilly air and second how far and how fast the barometer had fallen. Even as she turned to look outdoors again, she saw the snow-clouds gathering, clearly intent on yet another blizzard. She was standing in the hallway watching the mercury plummeting when Freddie appeared, having waited to help old Jonas with the sleigh, which was an object of fascination for him. "What a capital idea that was, Miss Veasey. I hope that we shall be able to go out in the sleigh again soon, although I doubt that we will be able to go anywhere very much in the course of the next few days." He looked over her shoulder at the barometer as he spoke, tapping the glass lightly even though he must have known that she had but lately done so herself. "Are you very discommoded by that, Mr. Charteris?" He turned to look into her face and shook his head. "I ought to be, I'm sure. I ought to be half way to London by now, but I find I cannot lament the need to remain here at Cheveley. It is the most welcoming of places and I am exceptionally happy to be here." Her delighted smile lit her face and made her eyes dance and he could not resist leaning forward a little and taking her pretty chin so that he could slant her face a little upwards and drop a kiss on her lips. As on the previous occasions when he had kissed her, he miscalculated, believing that he could simply touch his lips to hers and be done with it. But as soon as he felt her tender mouth beneath his, he lost all control and could only deepen the kiss, particularly when he felt her hands run up his arms and then round his neck, and her body pressing closer and closer in on his. They gave way to the blaze of sensation unleashed by their contact for just a few seconds longer before pushing each other away, breath disordered, minds confused. Just as he had collected himself and was about to speak about this extraordinary compulsion he had to kiss Miss Veasey whenever the opportunity presented itself, not to mention the increasing need to create the circumstances in which such opportunities might present themselves, Roehenstart emerged from the gun room, glowing with good humor. He was very eager to know how the sleigh ride had progressed. "I believe we might take the sleigh and reach the lake with it, then we could shoot some duck. How would you like some duck, Miss Veasey. I have heard that Cheveley duck is particularly good and that your cook has a particularly fine sauce to accompany it.

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What do you say, Miss Hero, if the weather clears tomorrow, will you allow us gentlemen to steal the sleigh from you for such a noble cause?" "I am sure that cook would welcome the opportunity." "I should very much like to repay your kind hospitality by putting some game on your table. What do you say, Charteris, will you accompany us?" "I should be happy to do so, although I think I myself would prefer to ride to the shoot rather than trust myself to the sleigh." The truth was that while it had been a pleasure to be seated close to Miss Veasey, the prospect of sharing the sleigh with the rather bulkier general held no allure. "Of course, we must hope that tomorrow brings finer weather. We can hardly go out in this." He nodded towards the window through which could be seen the livid sky and only densely tumbling snow. Hero excused herself and ran upstairs to see some invented errand of huswifery. She could not quite credit her behavior with Mr. Charteris. He had kissed her now three times, and every time, she had been left disoriented and disappointed by the interruption of their intimacy. She went into her room and closed the door behind her carefully, not wishing to alert anyone to her presence. She needed time to think. She was the first to admit that she was not a great thinker. But this unaccountable sensation demanded contemplation. She shook out the quilt folded at the bottom of the bed and curled herself up in the window seat where she had spent enough hours driving Rosamond demented with her dreams of the future when she would be Mrs. Wemyss and the whole world would admire her dashing husband and think her so very lucky to be married to him. She could not admire Mr. Charteris in the way that she had idolized Valentine Wemyss. During all the months of their courtship, whether in his presence, or in her letters, Hero had always been in awe of Mr. Wemyss, who was so very tall and handsome and dashing. But one could not be in awe of Mr. Charteris. He was not so very tall. He had a charming face, full of vivacity and good cheer, with merry eyes and a mobile mouth that curved into a generous smile and those dark tumbling locks which were forever falling in his face. But his was not the visage that would ever have been chosen to represent heroism or nobility if a statue of a man embodying such qualities was to be commissioned. And yet, so many times he had come to Miss Veasey's rescue that she had grown quite accustomed to the notion that he would always be there to rely on. And when he had been drugged and hurt, she had not sobbed pitifully, but burned with rage against the wicked woman who had laid him so low and thought up ways to make Miss Sutcliff pay for her underhand tricks. Mr. Charteris could not be said to be dashing, not in the manner of Mr. Wemyss, who had always cut such a fine figure on his horse and had been known as a particularly athletic and energetic soldier. Mr. Charteris was dapper and neat, always well turned out, but not splashy, in fact, not remarkable at all. But there was something about him that took Hero's breath away and made every moment spent in his company pleasurable and joyous. He made her laugh. Even when matters were at their bleakest, he sought to make her happy. He sought her out. He wanted her as much as she wanted him, and not for the fortune she would bring or the connections she embodied, but simply because he seemed to find her irresistible. Just as she found him. And there it was. Hero was faced inevitably with the realization that Mr. Charteris was not simply irresistible but indispensable to her happiness. It struck her that in a day or two, she must bid him farewell, for once the snow had eased and the thaw set in, he would be on his way to London. A chasm opened up

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before her, an abyss darker by far than any sensation brought on by the absence of Mr. Wemyss. If Mr. Charteris left for London, she would be bereft. Hero wanted nothing more than to fling down her quilt and go running through the house calling for Mr. Charteris and telling him that he could not go to London, or that he could, but only if he took her with him and never, ever let her go. It was only by exercising the greatest restraint that she managed to stay seated in her room, but she was bolt upright, shocked into a state of alertness by the realization that over the past few weeks, she had fallen truly and deeply in love with a man who was very quick to snatch a kiss from her when the occasion arose, but who had otherwise demonstrated nothing other than a polite interest in her. All his actions over the past few days could be explained by his concern for a cousin clearly kicking off every trace of decency. Little by little, Hero began to remember every encounter with Freddie Charteris since his precipitate arrival in her life. On that first evening, when he had kissed her, he had said something about seeing some men about a boat. It occurred to her that this could have been something to do with either The Silver Darling or the boat on which Roehenstart had arrived. Mr. Charteris had then stuck to Valentine closely. He had always enquired after Valentine when he spoke to her. She had taken this as simple civility, although it had made her uncomfortable given how little she really knew about Valentine. But it could also have been a means of establishing her own involvement in Val's business. They had danced often enough, but that was simple good manners on his part. He had helped her with the music during the rehearsals and performance of Twelfth Night, but after all, it was convenient for him to do so, for he was wanted on stage so often it was hardly worth his while to do anything else. He had helped in the search of Valentine's lodgings, but that could equally have been for Lizzie, or for his own purposes. Which made her conclude that he had his own purposes which had a good deal to do with Val and Miss Sutcliff and very little to do with her, other than to keep an eye on her and make sure she came to no harm. It was lowering to think of herself as another responsibility. In this mood of introspection, it was easy for Hero to obliterate from her memory the warmth of Mr. Charteris's embraces in the study at Charlotte Square, and to dismiss as a bagatelle the firm clasp with which he had taken her hand in the sleigh and held it so there was no question of release. She resolved to allow no further opportunities for any exchange of caresses and continued gazing out into the ever-deepening snow as she plunged herself deeper into her own drift of despondency. Fortunately, there was a knock on the door and Lizzie entered, full of high spirits despite the unfortunate weather. "I thought our sleigh ride was most capital fun and look, Hero, we shall have several more days where we can take it out. I am enjoying this wintry weather." She hopped up onto the window seat and Hero obligingly shook out some of the quilt so that Lizzie could snuggle beneath it also. "I shall have to go out in the next day or so and see if our tenants are managing. Most are very independent, but there are some who will not have been ready for this terrible weather. We could take firewood and some preserved meats and vegetables. Would you care to come with me?" "Very much so, it sounds like a great adventure."

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When Hero broached this notion to her father and uncle at supper, they gave it their full support. Afterwards, as Leonard Veasey and Roehenstart were sitting down to a round of cribbage, Anthony Veasey took Freddie aside and said, "I hope you will accompany the ladies on their errand of mercy, for it will give you an opportunity to get to know the lie of our land - literally and it will also give you an in with the families hereabouts who might be tempted to take Miss Sutcliff's penny. If I know Hero, she is planning to visit the Pocklingtons, the Smothersbys and the Outhwaites, restive malcontents the bunch of them. All inbred and intermarried, when they remember to publish bans." "Does Miss Veasey regularly frequent the homes of these people?" "She do, but only in the company of two of our stoutest men. We send her with Jameson and Kirkby. Well, Kirkby can man the sleigh and you and Jameson can ride. I fancy you don't go much above twelve stone, so I could lend you my Molly; she's a brave mare, throw her heart over anything." "I'd be honored, sir, but are you sure you will not want her yourself?" "I'd rather not leave my brother to make a mangle of things if this Miss Sutcliff does come calling. The snow is sufficient excuse for me, but the mare will still need exercising and I'd as lief not go out in this weather. It's young man's weather, a bit too chilly for my thin blood." "I'll wager you're game for anything, sir, but I'll do as you suggest." "Well, you want nothing to do with the sluggards my brother has in his stables. It was different when Rosamond was still with us, she always had at least one decent horse in the place, but those went with her to Scotland. Neither Leonard nor Hero are the happiest in the saddle, for all his talk of taking great gates in hunts. He goes round 'em when he can, but if he chooses to believe otherwise, I'm not the one to disabuse him." The snow did ease off in the night, and it then froze hard. Most of the roads had six inches to a foot of snow but there were drifts where the wind had blown it into great mounds of four and even six feet deep. Freddie made sure to be down at the stables early, where he introduced himself to Jameson and Kirkby, who had both been briefed by Anthony Veasey about Freddie's role in the proceedings. Their noses slightly askew from the sense that they were not fully trusted to look after Miss Hero and her friend, they were soon won round by Freddie's open manner and avowed intention of remaining very quiet and listening while Jameson made conversation. The footman was a Scot who had as a young lad come to Cheveley in the train of Mr. and Mrs. Macdonald and there found himself falling in love with one of the indoor maids. After several more visits and a tentative correspondence, he had applied to Mrs. Macdonald for a reference so that he might go to Cheveley to see whether Mavis Nettlethorpe was truly the girl of his dreams. It had proved so, and she had become Mrs. Jameson on achieving the mighty position of under-housekeeper, while Jameson was second only to the old butler Micklethwaite and very likely to take over his position when the codger finally retired. The two horsemen followed the sleigh round to the front of the house where it was loaded with provisions. The ladies finally were allowed to climb in only once it was settled that the sleigh was ready to go, giving a little wave to Freddie and Jameson as they settled themselves and then flying away as the bay pair were whipped into a trot and then a canter by Kirkby.

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As they rode after, Jameson took the measure of Mr. Charteris. The fellow had a neat seat and a shrewd eye. There was a good deal of gossip about him below stairs, for it was the matter of hot debate whether he was more interested in Miss Hero or Miss Wemyss, for all that he was related to Miss Hero's friend. So far, he had not blotted his copybook with the staff, and his man Murdo was a wily bird with a great deal of loyalty to his master, a promising sign. The valet had laughed off any notion of his master falling for either of the ladies, swearing that he wasn't in the petticoat line and certainly had no intention of becoming leg-shackled. That remained to be seen: if all the men who had ever said they would never marry had kept to their word, the human race would have died out by now. As they rode, Freddie asked Jameson how he had found leaving Scotland to settle in Yorkshire, and the man was honest in his response. "It took some getting used to. The people hereabouts are warm enough once you get to know them, but it takes quite a time and there are some who'll never approve of an incomer. Still and all, I like it. I'm happier here than I would have been in Edinburgh. It was cheerful enough for a young lad, but I prefer the countryside. And you couldn't find a better master than Mr. Veasey. He's pernickety, but he's a true gentleman." Freddie was as impressed by Jameson's loyalty as the footman had been by Murdo's, and their conversation passed onto more neutral topics for the remaining half hour it took to reach the first cottage to be visited. It was clear that the fabric of the cottage had been properly maintained, but not so the garden around it. Even in the snow, the place was thick with weeds and what should have been a tidy vegetable patch was a forest of broken chairs and bits of wood that might once have been broom-handles or spades, a couple of twisted cartwheels and an old plough, the rust on its blade staining the snow a vivid orange-brown. The front door was a faded green and the doorknocker was hanging uselessly askew. As the sleigh pulled up and Kirkby steadied the horses sufficiently for the ladies to disembark, Jameson dismounted and hitched the reins of his mount to the gatepost. Freddie followed suit, but waited to help the ladies out while the footman went forward and knocked at the door. There was an instant wailing and a smashing of crockery. Eventually, the door opened a crack and a child with an angular, dripping nose looked out with suspicion. "Me mam's not home nor me da neither. There's no one here but us." "You know me, Matthew Outhwaite. You know better than to spin that sort of yarn to me. I've Miss Veasey here with her friends from Edinburgh with a mind to visit and see you bairns, and who's to say but there might be a bit of barley sugar in it for you." "What if he do know you, Mr. High and Mighty Jameson? You trying to bribe my boy into letting you in?" The door was wrenched open by an equally sharp-nosed woman, her nose pinker still than her sons, flashing like a beacon. "You and yon lady can take your charity muck and keep it. We want none of it." "I want barley sugar, mam, you heard what he said, he said they'd give us barley sugar. I ain't never had barley sugar since before when that lady came. I want barley sugar." "You want a good clout round the lug-hole, you do. Get inside, Matthew Outhwaite, or I'll tan yer hide and yer father'll mek it into shoes." Hero came forward. "Mrs. Outhwaite, I'm sure you need nothing, but I'll leave a little package here for we've too much up at the house and it won't keep. You know how

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Mrs. Sneaton always lays away too much and we can't eat it before it will go off. You would be doing us a favor, for I know how you hate waste." She deposited a basket on the step and held out her hand. "It is good to see you, Mrs. Outhwaite, and I can see you have taken a chill so I won't keep you. I don't know whether it will help, but I know Mrs. Sneaton has put in jars of lemons and ginger. " Mrs. Outhwaite grunted and leaned forward to poke at the cloth covering the contents of the basket. "You might as well leave it, and I'll give you the basket they sent over just before Christmas to take back to your Mrs. Sneaton. She's a wasteful woman and you'd be better off sacking her than giving us her leftovers." She took the basket and went indoors with never a thank you. A girl came out some seconds later with an empty basket and said in a whisper, "Thank you, Miss Veasey. We're very much obliged, it made all the difference at Christmas, truly it did, and I have learnt my letters, just like you asked." "You're a good girl, Janey, and I'll be sure to send some more lemons round in a day or two. There's honey and ginger in the basket and if you can make a nice warming drink for the whole family, it will help with the cold." Janey bobbed and disappeared back into the cottage. Hero glanced at Jameson and Mr. Charteris. "I'm sorry I didn't manage to worm us into the cottage, but I have a feeling that the Outhwaites would never assist anyone in anything, even if it were in their favor to do so, they are such a contrary bunch." "Aye, you're probably right, Miss Hero. I can find out through Outhwaite myself if I spend the evening at the Bull in Urra." They sped on to the Pocklingtons, where they were admitted by a cowed and shivering Mr. Pocklington who confessed that his missus had left him in charge of the children while she went out, but that he had no idea what to do for she had left no food and no instructions and the little ones were sore hungry. Kirkby and Jameson carried in a small hamper, while Hero entered, rolled up her sleeves, instructed Freddie and Lizzie to do the same and set about restoring order in a sadly disordered home. Jameson and Kirkby helped with the cleaning while Freddie was set to amusing the three older children. Lizzie tended the baby and Hero set about warming milk for the poor mite, heating the soup that Mrs. Smeaton had sent along, slicing up chicken, cheese and bread and laying the table. In no time at all, she had the family sitting down to their first decent meal in some days. Then she unpacked the rest of the hampers and gave Mr. Pocklington detailed instructions on what to do with the contents. He nodded, all the while casting nervous glances at the door, as if expecting his meaty wife to return, roaring drunk and ready for her usual rampage. "Keep the bairns quiet, Mr. Pocklington. You are still sending them to the dameschool, I hope." "When we can, we go." There was an air of desperation about him. Hero sent Kirkby out to keep watch. "He'll see her long before she sees him and he'll warn us if she comes back, Mr. Pocklington. I wanted to tell you the news from Bessie. She's very happy up at the house, but she's anxious to hear from you and the children. She's saved up a good deal of money, and we may be able to arrange an apprenticeship for young Thomas, for he's nearly twelve now, aren't you?" The oldest boy, undernourished and as jumpy as his father, nodded. Then he looked at his father and muttered ferociously, "Tell 'er, pa. You got to tell 'er."

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"Tell me what, Thomas?" The boy shook his head and fell mute. Mr. Pocklington shivered and shrank further into his over-large coat. "There's been a lady looking out for information on you, Miss Veasey. That's why Mrs. P's away. She's gone up to Great Broughton. There's talk of a reward." "Not that we'll see it," said Thomas. "She'll have drunk it all." "What sort of information?" asked Jameson. "I don't know. She heard of it from her cousin. You know, Jem Smothersby." Jameson and Hero exchanged a look. Hero did not rush, but gently helped the children to clear the table and make all neat while Freddie and Jameson took out the empty hampers again. Her last question was for Thomas. "Thomas, do you want me to tell Bessie that you would like her to get you an apprenticeship?" He looked up at her and nodded, his eyes large and fearful still. "I'd like to try my hand at carpentering, Miss, but I don't know anyone as'll take on one of us." "We took on Bessie, and we haven't regretted it. There'll be something for you, Thomas and then you can help Bessie and before long it will be the turn of the other little ones to find their place in the world." Once they had pulled away from the Pocklington's, Jameson signaled to Kirkby to pull the sleigh up, and he and Freddie came up to consult with Hero. "Should we go on to the Smothersby's? What if they've got an ambush or some such awaiting us?" Hero considered a moment. "Even if they have, I think we should brave it. They cannot take us any great distance in this weather, and the worst that can happen is a little discomfort. I do not believe that Miss Sutcliff would wish to see us grievously harmed, for then she would be hunted down. But if there is an ambush, which we don't know yet, and they do manage to capture us, it may force her hand a little, don't you think?" "Miss Veasey, I cannot allow that," protested Freddie. “You are the most vulnerable. We know from those fellows we bested at Great Smeaton that you are the target of Miss Sutcliff’s machinations.” "Do you know, Mr. Charteris, I don't think you have very much choice in the matter. I know the Smothersbys. They are a rough and foolish crowd, but they aren't cruel. If they are to hold me captive, I shall be safe enough, for I can always bribe them into treating me well." This conclusion was hardly conducive to Freddie’s comfort, but Miss Veasey could not be swayed so with misgivings, the sleigh and its accompanying horsemen set off for the Smothersbys’ cottage.

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Chapter Nineteen: In which Miss Sutcliff meets her match Into the valley of the River Seph swung the sleigh, her bells a-jangle, the manes of the horses flying, the whip cracking as Kirkby determined to give no opportunity to any potential aggressor. Jameson, familiar with the countryside and the roads, led the way, Freddie brought up the rear and despite the steep inclines leading down to the course of the Seph itself, they kept up a steady canter until the road dipped a little further and they found themselves floundering in a deep drift over four feet high. The horses sank down into the snow and the sleigh came almost to a standstill. Jameson’s mount was plunging up and down through the insubstantial powder and seeing the animal braving the drift, the pair pulling the sleigh followed suit, but their fine pace had been curtailed and the horses were weary by the time they had pulled themselves and their load through the loose-packed powder. Freddie found it easier, for he had several sets of tracks to follow, although he almost veered off the road entirely and into the beck which gurgled and frothed to his left. Struggling on at no more than walking pace, the horses did manage to haul themselves on until the path cleared a little, but there was no question of continuing at the same previous canter. The pair harnessed to the sleigh needed recovery time. Freddie stood in his saddle, peering every which way, trying to work out which way Miss Sutcliff’s minions might come. They passed through a hamlet, Grange, which was closed in on itself, the houses small grey dots against the vastness of the grey-white moor land, no sign of life on the road apart from one cottage several hundred feet above the road from which smoke rose into a mother of pearl sky. It was another three quarters of a mile to Fangdale Beck where the Smothersbys lived, but it seemed to Freddie that the journey was far longer. The Smothersbys’ home was larger than he had expected and in as good a state of repair as the other properties owned by Leonard Veasey. He certainly cared for the fabric of his tenants’ homes, and it seemed to Freddie that the Veaseys were tolerant in allowing hostile and careless occupants to keep their leases. Jameson knocked at the door. No one answered. He looked at Miss Veasey. “Knock again.” This time, his fist thundered against the wood. There was still no answer. “I could go round the back.” Hero shook her head. “We shall unload the last two hampers here and then leave. We’ve nearly ten miles to go before we reach home and that road may be even worse than this. They’ll know it’s food from Cheveley.” Kirkby and Jameson unstrapped the two baskets from the back of the sleigh. One contained clothes, for the Smothersbys were a numerous clan. The smallest children often went unclothed because there weren’t enough clothes to go round. As he remounted, Jameson observed to Freddie that at least the sleigh would be a good bit lighter now that the last of the baskets had been delivered, but he did not know whether it would be

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enough to give them any sort of advantage when it came to setting the horses for home. They would have to trust to the notion that their opponents had decided not to come out thanks to the bitter temperatures. The shortest route home was to continue southwards another couple of miles before taking the road which went through the hamlet of Hawnby and then between Arden Great Moor and Snilesworth Moor. It was an isolated and winding road in the best of weather, and Kirkby reckoned it would take them a couple of hours to reach home at least, although normally the trip lasted less than an hour in fine weather. The trick would be to pace the horses carefully, for they could easily become blown if the going proved to heavy and that could prove disastrous. At least the ladies could mount up behind Jameson and Mr. Charteris and make their way home. The entire expedition was beginning to seem ill conceived in the extreme. Neither Lizzie nor Hero said anything, but both were beginning to feel extremely chilled and would be very glad to reach the warmth and welcome of Cheveley. For Freddie, riding was warmer work, but his extremities were beginning to feel numb, despite his fur-lined gloves and boots. Jameson was also well wrapped up. And they both had weapons concealed upon their persons, unbeknownst to the ladies. However, Freddie would not have put it past Hero to know perfectly well they were armed and to have equipped herself with some sort of weapon. It was true she had shown no interest in shooting, but being raised by two such game-mad gentlemen as Leonard and Anthony Veasey, she could hardly help having learned some of the principles of using a fire-arm. Whatever the discomforts of the journey, it could not be denied that the road itself was quite magnificent. The views across Arden Great Moor and towards the Hambleton Hills were spectacular and the road, being a little higher up than the Seph river valley, was less densely packed with snow, in addition to which, the sun, however weak, had done some work in thawing at least the surface of the snow, which allowed the sleigh’s runners to glide more easily. There were also straight stretches of road where the horses were able to recover. Then they had to slow down again as they approached the incline which descended towards Osmotherley and the main road back to Cheveley. Jameson was riding steadily forwards and the sleigh was nearly on his heels. Moor land gave way to a wooded copse and it was here that the raid finally came. Out of the woods emerged two groups of five men. They quickly surrounded the sleigh, forcing Kirkby to slow down and then to stop. Jameson had ridden on without realizing that anything was amiss until he turned and looked back down the lane, the trees towering on either side. He wrestled his mount round and was about to spur her back towards the sleigh when he caught sight of Mr. Charteris laying about him with his crop and then bursting away from the pack of assailants. “Ride for help, Jameson, ride hard.” The words were whipped from Freddie’s mouth, but Jameson caught them and followed the order. Freddie managed to withdraw his pistol from the holster lying across the horse’s withers, but in the melee, he did not dare fire directly towards the men besieging the sleigh for fear of hitting its occupants. But the men soon had what they wanted, which was Miss Veasey, who was bundled over a saddle and swiftly roped into place to prevent her from flailing her arms and kicking out at her attackers. The last Freddie saw of her was the undignified profile of her rump jouncing away between the tree trunks of the

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copse. He tried to give chase, but then three of the bandits turned and drew out their guns. A fourth discharged a warning shot which upset the horses and Freddie was distracted by his own mount shying at the sound, compounded by the ireful chatter of a flock of crows disturbed from their roosting in the branches high above. He dismounted and went to the sleigh. Kirkby had his hands full calming the horses and Lizzie was looking waxy with cold and anxiety. “What are we to do, Freddie?” “You and Kirkby head back to Cheveley. You’re frozen and shocked and mustn’t take ill. I’ll follow them as far as I can and then return to the road to wait for Jameson and any assistance he has managed to secure. We’ll retrieve her, you can be sure of that.” “I am sure. Don’t do anything foolish, Hero would never forgive herself if you were hurt again.” “I shall be careful. If I’m not, they may panic and try to harm her. Try not to fret.” Reluctant as Kirkby was to desert Freddie, he knew that he must get both Miss Wemyss and his horses back to Cheveley before there were any further upsets. The sleigh disappeared, and Freddie waited until the last chimes of the harness bells had quite faded before following the tracks left by the kidnappers. Hero’s passage to the shepherd’s hut where the kidnappers had set up camp was most uncomfortable. Although she was tied up, she did not feel securely lashed to the saddle where she had been so unceremoniously thrown and felt as though she was being thrown from side to side of the horse and might any moment slide off the beast which was a swayback with a most uneven motion. Her bonnet was knocked over her eyes, so she could see very little of where she was going. The mercy of it was that their destination was soon reached. The horse came to a standstill, her ropes were loosened, although her wrists and ankles were still bound and she was dragged off the saddle and dumped on the ground. She lifted her hands to push her bonnet back out of her eyes and looked about her. They were in a small clearing deep in the forest which fringed the northwest edge of Whorlton Moor. There was a rudimentary stone shelter with a slate roof and no windows. Outside it, the snow had been cleared and somehow, a fire started. Standing by it was Alethea Sutcliff and the boy whom Freddie had brought in his entourage, still in his blue and silver Charteris livery which was looking somewhat the worse for wear, their gloved hands outstretched to capture as much of the warmth of the flames as possible. On seeing Miss Veasey, Miss Sutcliff, unveiled, elegant of feature in her riding dress, smiled a distinctly satisfied but chilly smile such as a cat might give when it has cornered a mouse and is settling down to toy with its victim before dispatching it. Hero inclined her head. “Miss Sutcliff,” she acknowledged. Miss Sutcliff returned the gesture. “Miss Veasey.” “If you wished to speak to me, you need only have sent me a note requesting a rendezvous. I would have been happy to meet you at your convenience. But perhaps that was too straightforward.” “I should have been delighted to do so, Miss Veasey, but Mr. Charteris has so inconveniently interrupted my attempts to do so that this seemed the only remedy. I hope you were not too discommoded by your journey here.”

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Hero looked about the clearing, trying to recall exactly where it was. It was vaguely familiar, but it was so long since she and Rosamund had roamed about the moors on their ponies that she was not yet absolutely sure of where she was. “I have been better mounted. But I have survived, as you can see, Miss Sutcliff. Good afternoon, Edgar, I am a little surprised to see you in the company of this lady. I thought you were the servant of the Charteris family.” “So did they. But I am not. You will soon discover who I am, Miss Veasey.” “Hush, Edgar, it’s not yet time for that. We should show Miss Veasey a little hospitality. She must be chilled. Ask Loomis to serve up the punch.” “I won’t go near Loomis. You ask him if you want your punch.” Miss Sutcliff’s eyes flashed and her hands twitched as though she longed to give the boy a swift clout round the ear, but she restrained herself and called for her man Loomis. Hero remembered him from her previous encounter with Miss Sutcliff at Edinburgh Castle. He brought over a pewter mug of steaming liquid and it did smell very good, but Hero could not forget that Miss Sutcliff had been responsible for drugging both Murdo and Mr. Charteris. She watched and waited while the other woman drank from her own tankard. “It is very good, Miss Veasey and not doctored in any way, I assure you.” Hero forbore to say that Miss Sutcliff’s assurances were hardly reliable. But she did not drink. Then Edgar came over and said sharply, “I’ll show you, shall I?” and took a gulp of the hot drink before handing back the tankard to her. She sipped at the punch and it did warm her most welcomingly. She sipped again. “What do you want of me? You do not have very long, for my man Jameson is on his way home bearing the news of this interference.” “I am well aware of the fact. And that your valiant Mr. Charteris is probably even now tracking us down in another misguided attempt to interfere in my plans. If you want to keep your Mr. Charteris safe, you will do as I say.” Hero weighed up the woman’s words. It was all too likely that Mr. Charteris was intent on finding her. He would be blaming himself for giving way to her blithe insistence on going to Fangdale Beck. It was both cheering and irritating to contemplate this possibility, cheering because the simple realization that she could rely on him to come ahunting her gave her hope and irritating because she knew that where Miss Sutcliff might have qualms about harming her, she had no such squeamishness where Mr. Charteris was concerned and would very likely welcome the opportunity to savage the poor fellow once again. Or rather, to set her unpleasant hired hands on him. Edgar remained by her side. Hero wanted to ask him what he had gained by turning his coat to join with Miss Sutcliff, but before Miss Sutcliff and her paid strong men, he was hardly likely to speak the truth. She contented herself with asking, “How are you, Edgar? I hope that travelling with Miss Sutcliff has been an education to you. Does she stay in such comfortable billets as Mr. Charteris?” He sniffed and turned his back on her, but he did not move away from her. Perhaps there was some satisfaction in that. He was clearly wary of both the woman and Loomis, the tall, thickset fellow with the low brow and glaring blue eyes. “So, Miss Veasey, are you going to help me?” “How can I help you?”

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“First of all, I need money. Second, I need that fellow you’ve got with you. Roehenstart. And finally, I want a decent carriage and horses.” “I see. And if I fail to provide you with any of these items, what will happen?” “I am afraid I shall have to ask Loomis to hurt either you or Mr. Charteris. He enjoys hurting people a good deal, don’t you, Loomis?” The fellow smiled and grunted. Hero resented it but could not quell an unsettling sensation in the pit of her stomach. Miss Sutcliff looked so eager at the prospect of ordering Loomis to inflict pain and Loomis appeared equally eager to do the actual inflicting that Hero had a sudden and certain understanding that she would suffer during this encounter with Miss Sutcliff. She had never experienced much more than physical discomfort and had no idea how she would react to pain but she made up her mind that she would comply as far as she could to avoid it, but if she must suffer pain, she would try to do so with dignity. Until then, she would quash all the sudden images of broken fingers, bruisings, cutting, violation that somehow had infiltrated her mind’s eye. “Presumably you will allow me to communicate with my father. I am sure that he will provide you with all the money that you need, as well as transport. I cannot promise to deliver up General Roehenstart. He is a free man and may not choose to allow any of us to treat him like a parcel confined to the post.” “I suggest you make it clear to your father that if General Roehenstart--I cannot believe that he calls himself a general--fails to submit himself to my care, you will suffer. I have pen and paper. And we will cut off a lock of your hair to send with your letter. Loomis favors a bloodier token, but that can wait.” Writing implements were produced and Hero scratched out her demands as required. Then Miss Sutcliff came over with a delicate pair of embroidery scissors shaped like a crane in flight and pulled back Hero’s bonnet and fidgeted with the golden locks, yanking and hoicking at the hair before slicing off a chunk. She was clearly disappointed when Hero made no objection and the scissors slipped and somehow the lobe of her ear was nicked. This stung a little, but the cold air chiefly dispelled the pain: Hero was too numb to feel it. She did reach into a pocket and pulled out a handkerchief which she held up to her ear, pinching as she caught the blood. When she brought the handkerchief down, the blood was very bright against the delicate lawn, but she simply screwed the fabric up into a ball and shoved it back into her pocket. Loomis licked his lips. Edgar looked rather green about the gills. “The difficulty is that I don’t have enough men to release one to deliver it. We shall have to wait until Mr. Charteris joins us. I’m sure we shan’t have long to wait.” Hero conserved her energy. She would have liked to have raged at Miss Sutcliff and spat at her and torn the paper, but she had decided that writing the letter was not something worth a refusal and any resulting pain. And then Miss Sutcliff had demonstrated so clearly that pain would be Hero’s lot whether she complied with the woman’s demands or not. It was as Hero handed the letter to Miss Sutcliff that they heard the drumming of hoof beats from the southwest and Hero did not know whether to hope that it was Freddie or that it was someone entirely different, for she did not see how Freddie could fight off Miss Sutcliff’s men being so heavily outnumbered.

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It was more than one horseman, and it was clear that Miss Sutcliff was not expecting any one other than a lone Freddie Charteris. It did not seem possible that the Cheveley people could have reached home and then ridden out again. The four horsemen arrived simultaneously. Three were equipped with cudgels and all four bore pistols at the ready. The leader thundered into the clearing and came to a stop just before Miss Sutcliff, at whose breast he aimed his pistol. “Miss Sutcliff, I shall be taking my son and this young lady. I cannot conceive what purpose you have with either of them.” He waited until his other three horsemen were in position then wheeled his mount round and cantered towards Edgar. “Come along, my child, take my hand.” The boy reached up both arms, and the man leaned forward and hoisted the child up into his lap. Very self-possessed, the boy twisted round to look at his rescuer’s face. “Are you truly my papa?” Solemnly, the man nodded. “Your removal from me has been a terrible accident. I shall never forgive myself for the things you have seen and suffered these past few years, Benedict, but I swear I shall make it up to you.” Miss Sutcliff’s icy voice shivered through this touching reunion. “How heartwarming, Henry. One might almost believe you meant it, if one did not know you better. Be careful, Edgar, he will deceive you as thoroughly as he deceived me. Then he will dupe you and desert you and there will be nothing to be done at all. In the meantime, I wish you happy.” One of the horsemen came forward and steadied his mount before offering a hand to Miss Veasey. She held up her arms and found herself carried up and around until she was neatly positioned behind the man, holding tight onto his waist. He kicked his mount forward into a trot and they made for a path leading from the northwest corner of the clearing, past the immobile men employed by Miss Sutcliff. Hero did hear the man who claimed to be Edgar’s father address Miss Sutcliff as Alethea, but she did not catch the words that they exchanged for by then, she was too concerned with keeping her seat on the bouncing rump of her mount. The path they rode down the hill looped and twisted, but it was not long before the four horsemen had reached Osmotherley. There, they stopped outside a tavern which looked humble but reasonably clean. The man Hero knew as Henry dismounted and held his arms out for Edgar. The boy spurned them, preferring to jump from the saddle unaided. Then he looked up at the man and said quietly, “How do I know you’re my pa?” “You don’t. But I can prove it if you come into this inn with me. You will find your grandmother there, and she, I think, will reassure you a little.” Edgar stood, uncertain. He looked towards Miss Veasey. “What are you planning to do with her?” “Miss Veasey will come into the inn with us and wait a little while I send one of my men to reassure her people that she is safe from that woman’s clutches. No doubt they are sending a carriage already to convey you home. One of my men will instruct them on where they can find you.” “I am sure my father will reward you well for this service, Mr….” “I am Count Stuarton.” He came over and helped her off the back of the horse. “You have nothing to fear. My mother, Countess Stuarton, is here and will be an adequate chaperone until your carriage comes. I hope you have not suffered unduly at the hands of Miss Sutcliff?”

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“I believe I have escaped very lightly thanks to your timely intervention, Lord Stuarton.” Hero took the arm he offered and he escorted her into the inn. It was a dingy place: the walls and tables and settles all seemed a uniform brown and the fire in the grate smoked without actually giving off any heat. Stuarton led her through to an inner room which was a little brighter, for the fire, fed with green wood, crackled and spat. There were several armchairs around it, as though a group of drinkers had recently and hurriedly risen from their seats in the full expectation that they would shortly return. Stuarton released his arm and bowed, then withdrew. Hero looked around a little startled and rather weary by now. She made for one of the chairs, but was distracted by a movement in the shadow just to the right of the fire. “You may wish to curtsey before the woman you ought to call queen, my child.” A slender, elderly woman, her back rigid and her eyes glittering like jet buttons, emerged from the darkness. Hero fought the urge to cry out, for this woman somehow seemed even more terrifying than Miss Sutcliff. There was something about the grim set of her smile, or the over-brightness of her eyes that put Hero in mind of poor Mrs. Westerdale who had lost her three sons in one winter and then her wits had followed her boys, and she had wandered the moors, calling for her Charlie and her Sam and her Michael, naughty boys all who must come in now and eat their supper. So Hero curtseyed deeply and waited until the woman signaled that she might stand and kiss the hand that was offered. Hero did so and then stepped back and watched as Countess Stuarton swept forward and settled herself in the most comfortable of the chairs available. Perhaps it was due to the warmth, but rather inconveniently, Hero’s ear began to throb. “I am Countess Stuarton. You have met my son and my grandson.” “I have, ma’am.” “My Henry is very fine. He will be king soon and then we shall reward you. We shall punish Miss Sutcliff. She has not been the friend that we expected. She has not been the friend that we sought.” While this blithe certitude that the world would fall at her son Henry’s feet rather made Hero want to laugh, she suppressed the urge, sure that Countess Stuarton would not appreciate any levity. “In the meantime, my dear Miss Veasey, you must long for some refreshment, and I shall see that you get some. This place is very rudimentary, but they have negus of a sort. Wait here, my dear and your needs shall be met.” The countess stood and glided to the door. She took another look at Hero, who was by this time leaning forward and warming her still-gloved hands at the fire. “Pretty child. You may do very well, if you have enough money.” Then the countess left, firmly pulling the door closed behind her. Hero looked up and it was with dismay that she heard the unmistakable sound of keys being turned in a lock. She was a captive once again.

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Chapter Twenty: In which Mr. Charteris visits the Queen Catherine Weary enough after nearly fifteen miles of heavy, snow-bound rounds, Freddie’s horse was hard pressed as it made its way in the wake of Miss Sutcliff’s band of thugs. The path wound uphill and the wind was picking up. His determination to track down Miss Veasey renewed his vigor, sadly sapped by the long ride and the cold. But Freddie could not conceal from himself that he was as weary as his horse, that his normal reserves were not yet fully renewed following the beating and drugging he had taken from Loomis. He had no notion of how he was to overcome the thugs who had so easily extracted Miss Veasey from the sleigh. It was easy enough to track the passage of Miss Veasey’s abductors, and he soon came to the clearing where they had set up camp. But there was no sign of them beyond the warm ashes of the fire which had melted the snow they had hurriedly shoveled over the flames. Then it was confusing to establish exactly who had gone in which direction: there was an abundance of tracks, some heading north towards Whorlton, others to Osmotherley in the west and then a third set continuing deep into the moor land to the east. How maddening it was not to know the country, not to be able to work out which of the three paths open to him was the most likely. He walked his horse round the glade, trying to work out what to do next. He was surrounded by black and silver tree trunks, stark against the snow, like iron bars caging him in an unroofed cell. It would be folly to take one of the paths, yet to stay put and do nothing until Jameson arrived appealed even less. Freddie swallowed. He had foolishly assumed that he’d ride to Miss Veasey’s rescue, single-handedly fell the villains who had thought to steal her away, whereupon Miss Veasey would fall ripe as an autumn plum into his arms, proclaiming her passion for her rescuer, who would then swing her onto his horse and ride away with her to meet up with a redundant Jameson, who would escort them back to Cheveley where he would be greeted so warmly that Mr. Veasey would immediately look upon his suit for Miss Veasey’s hand with favor. Which rather pulled Freddie up short. Previous fantasies he might have nursed about young women had never reached the point where the approval of a father was necessary. Quite startled by this development, Freddie dismounted and drew the reins over his mount’s head and hitched the beast to a branch that hung low from a mature ash tree. He turned suddenly as he heard some movement somewhere in the glade. It only then occurred to him that he might have walked into an ambush, and he reached for his pistol, but dropped his hand almost immediately. If he were truly ambushed, it was much too late to do anything about it, and the trigger on his pistol was much too sensitive: his gloves were too bulky to permit proper use of the weapon and if he removed them, his fingers would be too numb to manage it either. He gazed round the clearing. There was a makeshift hut which had seemed to him to be empty, but perhaps he should examine it, although he did not imagine that he would find within any kind of clue as to Miss Veasey’s whereabouts. Hero. He tried not to think

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of her as Hero, he tried so hard to think of her as Miss Veasey, he tried so hard to forget he had held her in his arms, that he had kissed her, that he had never since they met had the sense to tell her how lovely the arch of her eyebrows was, how delicate and tempting her smile was, how elegantly she carried herself, nor that he had seen that her eyes could change from a waltzing blue to a storm-chased navy. He had said so little to her of any importance and now she was gone. His jaw tightened. He was giving way to a nonsensical panic. He would see her again, very probably this evening, at worst in the next day or two. Miss Sutcliff would not be fool enough to allow any serious harm to come to Miss Veasey, although a vivid image of the threatening ox she kept in her employ, Loomis, was a vision he sought to dispel by walking towards the hut, bending to pick up a stout branch as he approached the dark opening. There was no movement as he neared the doorway, but there was the unmistakable sound of some suffering creature wheezing and snuffling inside. Freddie’s skin crawled as he peered inside the lean-to. At first, he could see nothing, then as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw the source of the noise: a man, curled into a tight ball, his back heaving with every breath. Freddie bent down beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder and the man flinched at the light touch. “I won’t hurt you,” said Freddie, taking in the shredded clothes, the blood which trickled from his right ear and was smeared across his cheek, the eye so bruised it was impossible to tell whether it was open or not, the left hand lying limp and pulped on the ground as though it had been stamped on, the unmistakable lashes of a whip which had ripped through the meager coat and shirt and torn the skin beneath. Freddie stood and unbuttoned his coat. He laid it gently over the man, then said, “I’m going to roll you over so that you are no longer lying on the ground. I’ll do it slowly, but if it is too painful for you, I will stop.” He saw the man swallow and took a slight shift of the poor fellow’s head for acknowledgement of the maneuver. Very slowly, he eased the poor fellow over. The wounded man panted as Freddie tried to move him as gently as possible. It was clear that he had been beaten with a calculated thoroughness that Freddie had never thought to encounter. Cradling the man, he wrapped the greatcoat more tightly about him before laying him gently back down to the floor. Then he reached into the outer pocket of his jacket and drew out a slim flask. “I have some brandy here. Let me give you a sip.” Freddie lifted the fellow slightly and trickled a mouthful of the spirit into the man’s mouth. He waited until the man swallowed, then lay him down again. “Now, I’m going to try to light a fire and melt some snow so that I can clean you up a little. There is help coming. When my friends come, we shall find some way to get you to a doctor.” “Back. Hurts. Side. Please.” The man gasped out his request. “Of course.” Freddie turned the man over until he was once again lying on his side. He left the hut and set about building a fire, seeking out kindling, fumbling with his flint and steel, nursing the tiny flame he finally managed to coax from his tinderbox. It gradually occurred to him that he had no vessel in which to melt snow, that his horse would take a chill if it had to stand out in the open much longer and that he was in a damnable position for he had no idea how long it would take Jameson to track him down.

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But it was equally clear that he could not desert his casualty, and that the man had at the very least broken ribs, a concussion and severe lacerations. Freddie persisted with his fire, and some twenty minutes later, had a blaze sufficient to light a branch that would serve as a flambeau for the crude hut so that he might take a closer look at the casualty. While he had ministered to the fire, he had also taken his handkerchief and packed it with snow which he then slipped into a pocket. By the time the fire was ablaze, the snow had melted and the handkerchief was sodden but not freezing, for it had taken on some of Freddie’s heat. He went back into the hut, positioned his torch, then wrung the handkerchief out so that drops of water might trickle into the wounded man’s mouth. Then he administered another dose of brandy before gently trying to wipe away some of the blood and grime on the man’s face. By this time, despite the warmth of Freddie’s capacious riding coat, the man was trembling. “Look, old chap, we can’t stay here much longer. You and my horse and I shall all catch our death. I’m going to try and mount you. Then I can lead the nag towards the road where I expect my friends to use.” The man nodded and tried to ease himself up, cradling his broken hand. It seemed to take forever, but Freddie managed eventually to ease him up onto his legs. Then Freddie draped the fellow’s good arm over his own shoulders and reached round to take him by the waist. The terrible groan which the poor chap gave as Freddie’s arm came into contact first with his torn back and then with his ribs confirmed the likelihood of broken ribs. They shuffled into the open and over to the horse. The man was considerably larger than Freddie, well over six foot, a veritable giant of a man, well able, one would have thought, to care for himself. But Miss Sutcliff’s men had clearly outnumbered him. Freddie had positioned the horse by a fallen tree trunk, hoping that the man would be able to use the fallen tree as a mounting block of some sort. Beads of sweat gathered on the wounded man’s forehead as he reached out to haul himself up into the saddle as Freddie pushed at him and finally, he managed to lever the man onto the horse. Immediately, the fellow fell nose first into the animal’s mane. Freddie made sure that his coat was securely wrapped around the man, then set off in the direction he had come. He checked his watch and saw that it was past two o’clock. He would have perhaps another hour and a half of light at most. He had no idea how far it would be to the nearest village, but it could not be more than three or four miles, and that should be manageable before dark fell. It was a damnable mess, but there was nothing for it but to make the trek off the moor and into the valley below. The going was hard because despite the tracks of the sledge and the hooves of numerous horses, it was not always easy to distinguish the road and it was all too easy to flounder into an unexpected dip. The snow also percolated through Freddie’s boots. Murdo would be horrified to see the costly leather stained with moisture, their customary gleam quite faded. If he escaped this episode without developing chilblains, he would be mighty fortunate. He did not miss his coat much, for he was keeping up a sufficient pace to remain warm, and he still had his jacket and his muffler. After a mile and a half, Freddie’s spirits rose, for he picked up the scent of wood smoke and thought he could see clear fields a little over a mile away. He picked up his pace, but the horse’s swifter movement threatened to dislodge the unconscious man, so Freddie slowed down again. A further half hour of steady tramping brought him within

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sight of a church steeple and then he was walking up a street. Opposite the church was an inn, its sign worn but unable to disguise the silhouette of a gloomy Tudor woman. He led his horse into the stable yard which was deserted. He tugged at a bell and heard it clang within, but still no one came. He sighed. The prospect of dealing with surly ostlers and reluctant landlords on top of the other hellish events of the day aroused a beast which customarily slumbered untroubled deep within Freddie. He could not recall when his ire had last been roused, but he knew well enough that once it was provoked, it did not fade easily. After hauling away at the bell several times, there was finally some movement from the taproom. A skinny, wizened creature appeared, wiping a tankard out with a linen cloth. “What you want?” it asked. “Shelter and an apothecary if there is one in this place?” “Nearest ‘pothecary is across the road. But he’s not there.” Taut with restraint, Freddie asked where the apothecary might be, only to receive the illuminating response, “Out.” It would have been so easy to pick up the bar-keep and shake him like a rat, but Freddie managed to restrain this violent impulse. “Is there anyone at home there? Someone who might take a message? His wife?” “Happen. ” “And what of shelter? I have a wounded man here who urgently needs a bed, and I need some supper. I have guineas if it would help you make up your mind.” “Guineas? We’re full. But I do have a corner if you can be quiet. They’ve taken the whole place, but I’ve seen hide nor hair of their coin. Show me your guineas and you can have your shelter.” Freddie scrabbled for a purse tucked in his jacket and shook out two guineas. The old man reached for them, but Freddie’s gloved fingers fastened once again over the coins. “You can have them tomorrow morning.” The old man’s already slit eyes narrowed further. “One guinea now, t’other in the morning.” “Only once you’ve found someone to give me a hand with my companion.” The old man saw that Freddie was implacable on this point. Giving a grudging shrug of his shoulders, he bellowed in astonishingly stentorian tones given the fragility of his frame. “Absalom, you brimstone boil, come here.” A boy appeared, scarcely fourteen, Freddie thought, and as scrawny as the old man, but some assistance was better than none. They levered the poor man off Freddie’s horse, not without causing him considerable discomfort, but he withstood the pain and managed to stand, although any independent attempt he made to move ended in buckled knees and gasps of agony. Freddie once again clasped him round the waist and ordered the boy Absalom to prop the fellow from the other side and together, they managed to drag him inside the inn. They were led down a corridor through the kitchen and into a pantry off the main kitchen. It had obviously been poorly designed, for it retained the heat of the great fire, but was also somewhat clammy, making it useless for keeping food. There was already a straw pallet there, indicating the presence of previous guests when the inn was full. By the time Absalom and Freddie had levered the man to the mattress,

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he was shaking as though palsied. The old man was there, palm outstretched. Freddie withheld the guinea. “I want hot water and some clean cloths. Quickly.” “Absalom! Do as the gentleman says.” The boy was frozen, staring at the shivering creature. The old wretch barked his order once again and the child started and left the room at full tilt. The old man held out his hand again, but Freddie shook his head. “I want light and blankets. See to it immediately, and make sure the candles are wax, not tallow. The old man muttered but Freddie chose to ignore the cursing and simply stood there, his arms folded. The old man left, rolling his eyes and mumbling. Absalom was back within minutes bearing a bucket of steaming water and several dry linen cloths. “I took ‘em from the closet. You won’t tell the missus? I’m not meant to go in there she says.” “I won’t tell.” Freddie reached into his pocket and drew out a groat. “Here. You’ve been a stout lad. I’ll call you again by and by and there may be another of those on offer.” The boy looked in amazement at the coin, then secreted it about his person before looking at Freddie with gleaming eyes. “I’ll be ready, sir. Just call for Absalom and I’ll stand by.” The old man also reappeared, a pair of horse blankets slung over his shoulder, his hands full with two candelabra, each holding three candles. He took some time to light the wicks, then held out his hand once again. Freddie tossed the guinea in the air. The old man caught it deftly enough and left. At last Freddie was able to set about cleaning up his patient. He rinsed away the blood on his face, then looked at the man’s back. He had been ferociously lashed. His shirt was in tatters, the fabric caked into raw skin. Freddie fought the desire to retch, swallowed and swabbed at the shirt, trying to warm and soften it sufficiently to peel it away from the man’s flesh without inflicting much more agony. It took some time, but eventually he was able to lift it away from the man’s body and then rip it so that the back was left exposed. By this time, the man had relapsed into unconsciousness. Freddie cleaned his back once more, then stood and called for Absalom. “Can you find the apothecary and bring him here? He’ll need some salve and bandages to bind up this poor man’s hand, which I believe has been broken. And some laudanum, perhaps. As soon as you can.” The boy nodded and left. Freddie removed the man’s boots, noted that he had good woolen stockings without any visible darns and that the material of his tweed breeches was equally high quality. Then he shook out his riding coat and laid it over the man’s prone form. It was the cleanest object in the room. Over that, he laid one of the horse-blankets before taking up one of the candelabra and returning to the kitchen. There he investigated the various cupboards, foraging for food. He found beer, some apples, slightly withered but edible, a hunk of cheese and a half loaf of fresh bread. It was a passable meal, particularly once he’d heated a poker in the kitchen fire and plunged it into his tankard of beer where it hissed and steamed. The resulting brew began to help him thaw out, and he had only just finished the impromptu feast when Absalom returned with a tired young man only a little older than Freddie.

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“Here’s Mr. Grice, the apothecary.” Freddie reached into his pocket and handed over another groat. “Thank you.” The boy tugged at his hat and scampered off. Grice looked Freddie over and raised his eyebrows in enquiry. “Here,” indicated Freddie, opening the door of the dank larder. Grice made a swift examination of the unconscious man then opened his bag and began his serious work. Eventually, he looked up and saw Freddie still watching him. “There is little point in your remaining here. It will take me a good while to see to this man. If I need your assistance, I may call on you. He may need restraint when I come to set the bones in his hand.” Grice paused. “I don’t suppose you have any idea who might have done such vile things to this poor man.” “I do have an idea, but I have no proof as yet. As soon as I am able to support my suspicions, I will act on them. The people who did this will be brought to justice.” Grice shrugged before turning back to his patient. Dismissed, Freddie went back to the kitchen where he found Absalom cowering beside a large woman engaged in tasting a soup. “You weren’t watching this, were you? No, you were too busy for the simplest of tasks and now this tastes like yesterday’s dishwater. Moonling. Halfwit. Out of my kitchen before I ladle you.” She brandished her ladle like a club and Absalom backed away. Freddie came up and removed the ladle from the woman’s grasp. “Where may I find some peace and quiet? Your barman told me that your rooms are all taken, but surely there’s one where I might wait for the apothecary to finish his business?” “How should I know what goes on in this accursed house? Am I ever told anything? No, I am not. I know nothing of guests taking over the whole house. All I know about is guests who won’t eat a good gruel when it is given to them, who send back my pies, who turn their noses up at my brisket and spurn my pig’s cheek. What do I care about where you sit? Sit where you please.” “If you brandish that ladle over this boy, I shall make you pay. Leave him be. It’s not his fault that the guests here are so demanding.” The woman shook her head and Absalom made good his escape. Freddie went into the main corridor leading from the kitchen to the rest of the inn. He rattled at several of the doors, but they were all locked. Then he went up a short flight of five steps and came to what he thought must be one of the main parlors. He rattled at the doorknob. A tentative but recognizable voice spoke. “Who’s there? Can you let me out?” “Hero!” Freddie stood back from the door in astonishment, but had to lean closer as Hero’s voice hissed from the keyhole. “Yes! Is that you, Freddie?” “It is. How do you come to be here?” “It would take too long to explain. Surely you can get me out of here? They’ve had me locked up here for what seems like hours. How did you find me?” “I didn’t expect to. Stand back from the door, I’ll try to break it down.” He took a run at the door and thumped it with his shoulder, but it did not give. He then tried kicking and gradually the door began to shake under his onslaught. It was very noisy, but he did not wish to return to the kitchen to demand the keys from the irate cook

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or Absalom, for he felt sure that if he paused in his attempt to rescue Miss Veasey, it would be doomed. He kicked again and the door gave with a cracking of splinters and a crash of wood meeting wood as it swung open then bashed into some object foolishly positioned behind it. He burst into the room and saw Hero standing in the middle of the room, poised ready to lash out at any danger, both hands firmly gripping a poker raised high above her head. He took the poker from her and tossed it aside, then caught her up close to him and kissed her, any semblance of propriety quite forgotten in the relief and delight of seeing her safe and prepared for battle. Her arms came up to hold him equally close, their lips met, their mouths opened and the world was well lost for long moments until a polite throat-clearing from the direction of the smashed door interrupted them. The slender man with chestnut hair who stood there, very elegant in satin breeches, white silk stockings, his feet shod neatly in slender black pumps with large silver buckles, his waistcoat an eye-catching shade of crushed raspberry, his shirt points high and his black evening coat cut away into tails, was watching with great interest. “You seem very familiar for chance-met acquaintances. Do I take it that this is your friend, Miss Veasey?” Freddie and Hero both colored, but Freddie took a step forward, his arm about Hero’s waist. “I am Miss Veasey’s friend, and her defender now and always, since we shall be married in the spring. Frederick Charteris at your service.” He felt her start a little but when he turned his head to gaze into her eyes lovingly, she gazed back most satisfactorily, only a glint of amusement and a skeptical twist of her mouth displaying her awareness that this was a stratagem. The dapper gentlemen bowed in response. “Mr. Charteris, my pleasure. I am Count Stuarton. I must say, I am rather surprised, since I understood from Miss Sutcliffe that a Mr. Valentine Wemyss believes that he will be marrying Miss Veasey before very long. Of course, any man believing himself about to marry Miss Veasey must count himself fortunate.” Count Stuarton placed an unpleasant emphasis on ‘fortune’ at which Freddie stiffened. “Perhaps, sir, you would be so good as to explain how it was that Miss Veasey came to be locked into this parlor? From what I gather, you are of the party which has taken this entire inn, and consequently, it must be at your order that Miss Veasey has been confined here.” “I believe it was in error, which is why I came to release her.” He dangled a bunch of keys from his index finger. “But I see that your method of entering a room is rather hastier.” “Would you stop talking as if I weren’t in the room? Why was I locked in this room by your mother, Count Stuarton?” “My apologies, Miss Veasey. As I said, it was in error. She is a very careful soul; she has experienced many reverses in her life and is perhaps unnaturally suspicious. She feared, I believe, that Miss Sutcliffe and her supporters might seek to abduct you once again, and that the safest policy was to keep you confined in this room. She is also, perhaps, a little imperious, and did not see fit to disclose this to you, but I assure you, it was in your own interest that this step was taken.”

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Hero nodded, apparently accepting Stuarton’s explanation. “How instructive. I would hope that Miss Sutcliffe and her men might by now have been tracked down and arrested, in which case, it must surely be entirely safe for me to make my way home.” Freddie cleared his throat and Miss Veasey looked expectantly at him. “Dear Freddie, is there any reason for us not to return to Cheveley at once?” Just then, Grice appeared at the door of the parlor, casting a baffled look at the splintered frame before enquiring whether he might speak with Mr. Charteris.

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Chapter Twenty-one: In which an assault occurs Grice reported that he had treated his patient as best he could. “But I cannot feel that that room is a suitable environment for a sick man. He needs a nurse and a clean room. Can we secure such a place in the inn?” “We shall bring him through into this room. There must be a trestle bed somewhere in this confounded place so that we may make up a resting place before the fire, and if you can organize a reliable nurse for him, your effort will be rewarded.” “What man is this?” enquired Count Stuarton. “I believe Miss Sutcliff ordered an attack on this man. I do not know him, but he has been most severely treated and needs rest.” Freddie made to follow Grice, but turned back to Hero. “Do you think you could wheedle a truckle bed out of that rather unprepossessing fellow who seems to be in charge of the place?” “Of course,” she replied. “You fetch your patient and I shall have the bed ready at once.” “Will you, Miss Veasey? I have hired the inn myself, and I am not sure that I wish to see this parlor occupied by some battered relic.” “Count Stuarton, your mother gave me believe that you had pretensions to a higher situation than your current one. But men who aspire so must behave in a way that sets the rest of us an example of compassion and mercy, do you not think?” Stuarton reddened at this sally of Hero’s but bowed and excused himself, declaring that he would seek out a bed and linens for this fellow, whoever he might be. Freddie grinned at Hero and followed Grice. It took some time to find a suitable stretcher on which to carry the invalid, for it was clear that he could not be slung about the inn by two men. By the time young Absalom had been pressed into service to find a board on which the poor man might be transported, Hero and Stuarton had supervised the positioning of a low bed by the fire, the lighting of the fire and the airing of sheets and clean blankets. It took some time and agility to maneuver the makeshift stretcher through the snaggled corridors of the inn, but eventually, the unconscious man was brought to the front parlor and transferred to his new resting place. It was only after helping to heave him onto the bed that Stuarton recoiled at the sight of the man. “Dear God, who has done this? They shall pay!” “It is brutal, I agree, but whether we shall be able to lay our hands on the villains I am not so sure.” Freddie straightened, having gently positioned a sheet over the poor man’s body. Stuarton did look quite white with the shock. “I say, Stuarton, do you know this man?” Stuarton hesitated, but Freddie and Hero both directed sharp stares his way. He cleared his throat. “I do know him. He is my serving man. One of my people. And you say Miss Sutcliff ordered this torture? I am very much obliged to you for bringing him to

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safety, sir, very much obliged to you. Minton is one of my most trusted men. A bulwark. How vile that this should have happened to him.” “You knew nothing of his absence?” “He fell behind when we were rescuing Miss Veasey. He shouted out to me that his mount had cast a shoe and he would follow on. I was beginning to feel some concern, I must admit, but this savage attack I could not begin to envisage.” “How long is it since you rescued me?” asked Hero. Freddie glanced at her. She appeared unruffled, but by now, he had noticed that where other ladies of his acquaintance might carp or nag or justifiably exhibit some sign of agitation, Miss Veasey settled into an almost bovine state of calm. Her eyes would take on a glazed air of distraction and her golden locks would somehow appear neater than ever and her lips would set in a smile that verged on a girlish simper. Only someone who knew her well would recognize that she was intent on suppressing any hint of panic. “We have been back at the Queen Catherine some hours--four or five, at a guess.” Stuarton, unfamiliar with Miss Veasey, failed to recognize any warning signs. Freddie pulled his repeater out of his pocket. “Miss Veasey was abducted just past two o’clock. It is now not yet seven.” “Have you set any of your people as a watch, Count Stuarton?” “What are you suggesting, Miss Veasey?” “I think it highly likely that Miss Sutcliff will launch some sort of attack on this inn.” Miss Veasey made this suggestion as steadily as she might have offered a piece of shortbread to accompany a cup of tea. “She has done so before, after all, and you have removed from her not only a source of funds in my person, but also the child she seemed so keen to keep with her. She must be very angry, don’t you think, Mr. Charteris?” Freddie nodded, noting how Miss Veasey was examining her fingernails with apparent unconcern at the prospect of Miss Sutcliff’s anger. The cold, the fear, the exertion of the day had sapped his customary energy and enthusiasm, and Miss Veasey’s sensible words brought the wearisome realization that it would be a long night of patrolling the inn and its exterior so that there might be some warning should Miss Sutcliff decide, as seemed all too likely, to send her men on an assault against Stuarton. “What about Jameson? What about the Cheveley people? Perhaps they will come and relieve us?” asked Freddie. “They may well do so. The count informed me that he had sent to Cheveley with the intelligence of my discovery, but perhaps he phrased it in such a way as to make it clear that there was no longer any urgent need to send assistance.” Freddie snorted. “I daresay that’s just the kind of thing he would have done. I am baffled by all this skulduggery. I cannot imagine why needing funds requires one to kidnap young women or lock them up in parlors or fail to return them to their homes. Have your people any arms at all? Miss Sutcliff’s chaps are well equipped and desperate. If they do decide to besiege us, we require a proper defense.” Stuarton paced the room. They had all forgotten the apothecary until Grice cleared his throat. “I couldn’t help overhearing. I can tell you that no strangers had entered the village when I came across to the inn. If you need a watch, we can summon one that will give us plenty of warning of anyone approaching, and a stout resistance should there be any form of attack. We have some weapons. Not very modern, but effective enough if it

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is a simple matter of frightening off a few strangers. I could arrange it immediately. I’ve dosed this poor fellow with enough laudanum to keep him settled for the night, though it would be best if someone could sit with him.” “Mr. Grice, you are the soundest man I’ve met today. Let me accompany you on this mission. You will be well rewarded.” Freddie wound his muffler tight about his neck and drew on his riding gloves. Miss Veasey showed more animation than he would have thought possible. “Let me come with you. I have my cloak here. I won’t hold you back in any way.” She met Freddie’s eyes without a tremor, but the glazed look in her eyes was entirely dissipated. He could not leave her with Stuarton, not after her earlier experience of the gentleman and his mother. Besides, if Miss Sutcliff was seeking both her and the boy, it was a good plan to shelter them in different locations. By the time these thoughts had crossed Freddie’s mind, Miss Veasey had donned her bonnet, cloak and gloves and was ready to tuck her hand into the crook of his arm. They followed Grice, picking their way through the snow and the deep ruts left by the passage of several carts. Grice led them to his own home. He rattled at the doorknob as he lifted the latch. “Mrs. Grice, Mrs. Grice, come forward, we have guests.” A tiny, tidy woman appeared in a doorway, wiping her hands dry with a tea towel. She inspected the visitors before indicating that they should come into her back room. “Of course we should go into the front parlor, but we haven’t laid a fire there and it’ll be freezing. There’s fine blaze, and I’ve mulled some wine for you, Mr. Grice, but there’s plenty for everyone.” The room was a little cramped, for in addition to a dining table with six chairs, it held a substantial wing chair, a battered but elegant chaise longue and two small children crouched about the fire toasting crumpets and squeaking when they burnt their fingers trying to ease the hot ones off their toasting forks and onto a plate. A third child sat spreading the crumpets with butter and a neatly gauged teaspoon of jam. “No time for that, my dear. Miss Veasey, may I introduce you to my wife, Mrs. Grice. I thought you might be more comfortable here than at the Queen Catherine. Of course, you may wish to remain with Mr. Charteris, we’d all understand that, but it will be little warmer here.” “Thank you, Mr. Grice, I would be very happy to stay here.” Hero turned and held out her hands to Freddie. “Mr. Charteris, I shall be quite safe here, and I should only get in the way if I insist on accompanying you.” Freddie took up her hands and gave them a squeeze. He looked into her eyes and saw them purposeful and determined. He nodded and quelled the impulse to claim a kiss from her. Meanwhile, Mr. Grice was speaking. “Mrs. Grice, I am told by Miss Veasey and Mr. Charteris here that there is a possibility that Osmotherley may be visited by some rough types this evening, and I thought I’d rouse your brother and mine, and some other of our friends to ensure that none of us are unduly troubled.” Mrs. Grice took this news placidly enough. “If you think it best, of course you must go. I’ll keep the wine warm for you.” Mr. Grice gave his wife a grateful look, dropped a kiss on her neat little nose and held the door open for Freddie. Reluctantly, he dropped Hero’s hands and turned to

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follow the apothecary, who issued a final instruction to his wife: “Lock up once we are gone, my dear and do not open for anyone except me.” Mrs. Grice accompanied the men to the door and Hero heard her draw the bolts across the door and instantly felt much safer. She dropped to the floor by the children. “What are your names?” “I am Jemima, I am the oldest, and this is Seth and Mary is the baby. But she will not be for much longer, for Mama said that we should have another brother or sister come the spring. Would you care for a crumpet?” “I should love a crumpet. I used to toast crumpets with my cousin just as you are doing, but she has gone away to be married and I have no brothers or sisters of my own to do it with. It is not nearly so much fun on one’s own.” Mrs. Grice caught these words as she re-entered the room and closed the door to keep in the heat. She was clearly a little disconcerted to see such a fine lady disporting herself on the floor with her children, but she saw such tension and tiredness in her guest’s pretty face that she thought better of insisting that the girl sit on the chaise longue. Before returning to her customary seat by the fire and the mound of mending in a nearby basket, she put the kettle on the range. It did not take long for her to make a pot of tea which she served in the delicate cups that her mother had passed to her on her wedding day. As she handed the cup and saucer to her guest, Hero looked up at her hostess. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Grice. You have been most kind. I could not stay on at the inn, not with the gentleman and his mother there.” She sipped at her tea and ate her crumpet. Once the crumpets were finished, Mrs. Grice ordered her flock, Jemima stacking the plates and removing them to the sideboard, Seth sweeping up any stray crumbs and Mary very deliberately folding up the linen tea towel that had been tied round her neck and positioning it by her place at the dining room table before coming to lean on Hero and offer somewhat squelchy kisses. The children all said a polite goodnight to their guest before disappearing upstairs with their mother. Hero rose and sat on the chaise longue. Mrs. Grice had made substantial curtains of heavy cotton lined with blanket to hang across the windows and the doors, muffling out the sounds of the outside world. Unsettled still, Hero went to the window and peered out but there was nothing to be seen and the snow further muted any noise. She dropped the curtain back into place and returned to her seat. It was hard to sit and wait, but at least she was away from the Stuartons and Miss Sutcliff, people who lived at such extreme pitch that they seemed to render any form of normal discourse bizarre. It was not entirely fair to hold Valentine responsible for the introduction of such Gothic individuals into her hitherto respectable and calm existence, but blame him she did. If ever she encountered him, he would know the full extent of his iniquity. She once allowed her thoughts to wander towards Mr. Charteris, who appeared to be quite accustomed to dealing with desperadoes and grievously injured men, but this line of reflection led her to imagine gruesome and painful scenes in which he was set upon by Miss Sutcliff’s men once again and once again, hurt. So she dismissed all contemplation of Mr. Charteris and their present situation. She turned her attention instead to thinking what form practical thanks to the Grice family might take and in the course of making lists of dolls and teddies and a milk jug and tea caddy and perhaps recommendations from Papa and Uncle Anthony for Mr. Grice’s services, Hero fell into a drowse so that

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when she returned downstairs, Mrs. Grice found her uncomfortably half lying and half sitting on the arm of the chaise. Slight as she was, Mrs. Grice was easily able to swing Hero’s legs round onto the chaise, unlace her boots and tuck over the sleeping girl a patchwork eiderdown. She returned to her chair and her mending, and waited as she had waited so often for Mr. Grice to return. With calm efficiency, Grice knocked at doors, asked after fathers and husbands, explained his errand in low, economic tones and rounded up his followers. They came equipped with, as Grice had said, rudimentary weapons, but they were weapons: a blunderbuss, a pair of old flintlocks and some fowling pieces of ancient provenance. The remainder of the eleven men and four youths raised by Grice bore pitchforks, clubs and an old army saber. Once the force had been assembled, arms checked and primed, Grice turned to Freddie. “Do you have any idea where this attack might come from?” Freddie shook his head. “None. This is your country, not mine. I’m here to be directed. But if you seek my advice, I’d post men on each entry into the village. You have the advantage in that they will know the terrain as little as I do.” Grice nodded. “We’ll do that. Then we’ll send them to the Three Tuns. The yard there should hold them until we can get some help from Northallerton.” He set about organizing his troops, putting two men and a boy at each entrance to the village and commanding those with firearms to conceal themselves about the yard of the inn. Then it was a matter of waiting, which seemed to Freddie, lurking behind a water butt at the Three Tuns, an interminable and noisy business, for what with owls hooting, the churning of a watermill on the beck and the shifting and harrumphing of the livestock kept around the village, the prospect of hearing any attackers approaching the village was considerably diminished. The church clock struck the quarter hours, and after the third, Freddie felt like turning in, although this raised first the question of where he should do so, and then what should be done with Miss Veasey and after that, where the deuce the men from Cheveley might be, by which time, he had almost forgotten about Miss Sutcliff. When the boy came rattling down the Swainby road, he was so startled he nearly dropped his pistols. The boy panted out his tale bent double in the middle of the yard, Grice patting his back and begging him to hush. The men who had emerged from their various hiding places sank back into the shadows and the boy stood by Grice, who was tucked behind the arch leading from the street into the inn. After that, it seemed to take no time at all for the seven horsemen to sweep into the village, howling and firing shots in an indiscriminate manner that Freddie gave thanks for, since it seemed unlikely that any of them would have time to reload the arms they were so haphazardly firing. The keeper of the Three Tuns, Sid Easby, emerged from the building still drying a tankard in his apron and exclaiming at the commotion. The horsemen stopped before the inn and the largest yelled down, “We seek some people who have come here today. A man, a child and two women. They’ll be travelling under the name of Stuarton. Do you know of them?” “I’ve heard something of foreigners in the village.” “Are they here at your inn?”

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“Come and see for yourself. Happen there’s some who can tell you more in my house. If you please.” The man dismounted. Freddie was fairly sure it was Loomis. Tossing the reins of his horse to a companion, he approached the innkeeper and stood over him. “You’ll tell me all I want to know now. I’ve no time for these yokel tricks. Tell me where these people are and you’ll come to no harm.” Easby looked up at the man-mountain before him and pulled out from beneath his apron a substantial pistol. “You threaten me and I’ll put a bullet in you. Don’t you come the bullyboy on my door step. Now if you want to come into my house peaceable and ask a few questions, you may, but I’ll have no more of your threats.” Loomis raised an arm as if to clout Easby, but the publican raised his firearm and cocked the safety catch. He followed the large man into the barroom. Loomis’s six companions remained firmly in their saddles, but their mounts shuffled and stirred, clearly unnerved by something. Then it happened, predictably and inevitably. One of Grice’s men sneezed and dropped his weapon which discharged across the cobbles of the stable yard with a thunderous clatter, spreading shot in all directions. Grice clearly had his men well trained, for none moved, but the horses panicked, rearing and bucking. Two of the men tumbled form their horses, and once they were down, the villagers crept from the shadows to lash the attackers’ wrists and ankles with swift expertise. One of the remaining horsemen was swept away by his mount which galloped down the main street of the village for some yards before its hooves slipped beneath it and its rider flew over its head and into a bank of snow. Grice called out, “Now!” to his men. As one, the boys grabbed at the horses’ bridles and brought the animals under their control while the men equipped with pitchforks proved most effective in persuading the foreigners to dismount. “Go into the inn and see to that giant, will you?” directed Grice. “I’m sure Easby has him under control, but it’d be as well to make sure.” Freddie nodded and entered the inn. He did not have to duck his head as Loomis had to get through the door. The sight which met his eyes in the taproom was not edifying but did have its satisfactions. Loomis was stretched out face-down on the floor, three burly Yorkshire men astride his muscled body, one methodically tying a knot in the rope which secured his ankles, the other two bouncing a little as he tried to force them off his back. He had been gagged. Easby stood there, arms folded, watching with some satisfaction as the operation to subdue his latest guest drew to a close. “He’s a very short-tempered fellow. I hear you’re over from Cheveley way along with Miss Veasey. She was threatened by this great lump, that’s what I’ve heard.” “The jungle-drums have been most effective. Do you think he’ll talk if we remove the gag, or will he just swear at us?” “The latter, I’d venture. You can try if you like.” “Turn him over then. He’ll be even more uncomfortable on his back.” This was true, for now his hands and arms were squashed beneath his own weight and that of the two stout villagers. Freddie looked down into Loomis’s enraged eyes, narrow, mean and distinctly uncooperative. “We will be keeping you here until you can be removed to Northallerton, where I believe there is a gaol house. You will be tried for the attempted kidnapping of Miss

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Veasey, not to mention the beating received by one of Stuarton’s men. And I shall be discovering all I can about you and your unpleasant ways in the interim, so that if further charges may be preferred against you, they will. You’ll very likely be hanged if found guilty. But if you are co-operative, perhaps we might come to some arrangement.” It was difficult to tell beneath the gage, but it seemed to Freddie that Loomis remained defiant. Freddie drew up a stool and sat over the man, waiting for some sign of compliance in his eyes, but there was none. Grice came in soon after and came over to Freddie. He inspected the man on the floor, then perched on a table. “We’ve got the other six secured in the stables. I’ve set a watch over them, and in the morning, Wat Glaisdale will take them in his cart over to Northallerton, the whole pack of them.” A muffled growl emerged from Loomis and he squirmed beneath his captors. Then he went limp and turned his head away. “Sid, let me fetch some laudanum. That will settle this fellow for the night, for we can’t have Jack and Matthew here sitting the whole night atop him. But I think we must keep him separate from his fellows, and ideally under guard.” Grice nipped home for a bottle of laudanum. He gave his special knock and Mrs. Grice was there in a flash. He kissed her, reported that the trouble was past, then left again with his bag. His entry had roused Miss Veasey, who received with relief the news that the kidnappers were no longer at large. She stood up, smoothing her hair back and shaking out her skirts. “I should not impose on you any longer, Mrs. Grice.” “Your presence is no imposition, and I believe we should wait for Mr. Grice’s return, and that of Mr. Charteris before making any plans for the rest of the night. I cannot help feeling that it would be better for you to stay with us than to go to one of the inns. I am sure that your father would not like to think of you in one of our rough inns, for so they are, apart from the Queen Catherine, and I am not sure you will wish to return there.” Mrs. Grice’s words were sensible enough, so Hero offered to do some mending. Just as she was about to sit, though, there came another knock at the back door and then a rattling at the latch as someone tried it. Mrs. Grice had not bothered to bolt the door again, so the door swung open. Standing there, looking unruffled as ever in a black, hooded cloak and ermine muff, was Miss Sutcliff. “Miss Veasey,” purred the lady. “I thought you might be here. It’s time for you to come with me, you know. Otherwise poor Mr. Charteris, he is likely to suffer very badly again. Perhaps he will endure a fatal wound. That will be up to Loomis. And you. Will you come?” “What proof have you, Miss Sutcliff?” “Poor Mr. Charteris. I don’t expect he imagines you will demand proof of his capture. What a suspicious soul you are, to be sure.” She withdrew a hand from her muff. In it, she held up a brass button before tossing it at Hero. “It’s off his coat, or so Loomis said. Will that be sufficient?” After examining the button which she had neatly caught, Hero looked about for her pelisse and bonnet. Mrs. Grice remonstrated with her, but Hero shook her head. “These are desperate people, Mrs. Grice. I cannot rest here while Mr. Charteris is in

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danger. I saw what they did to that poor man who your husband had to minister to at the Queen Catherine. I am sure the Cheveley people will be with us very soon. We cannot get very far, I am sure, at this time of night.” Then she followed Miss Sutcliff out into the night.

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Chapter Twenty-two: In which Mr. Wemyss reappears Once Miss Sutcliff had escorted Hero out of the Grice’s home, she extracted her hand from her muff once again. It held a small pistol. “I had it expressly made for me in the Low Countries. They have a knack for making such things. It may be miniature, but it has a bullet and I will not hesitate to use it if you choose to be foolish.” “I shan’t be foolish. What do you want me to do?” “Walk.” It was with difficulty that Hero suppressed a shudder when Miss Sutcliff linked her arm in Hero’s and propelled her up Osmotherley’s main street. They stumbled a little in the snow, and slid in ruts left behind by carts. They came to the yard of the Three Tuns and passed through the porte cochère into the stableyard. Two men were there, marching up and down to keep themselves warm. “Ladies, how may we assist you?” “You have my men. I want them back, all seven of them. If you don’t release them, I shall shoot this lady. Go and fetch Mr. Charteris and that tiresome apothecary immediately unless you wish me to injure her immediately.” Hero noted Miss Sutcliff’s air of natural command. If one only spoke with sufficient determination and authority, it seemed that anything was possible, for one of the men scurried inside at once. “So you do not have Mr. Charteris in your keeping?” Miss Sutcliff’s smile was mocking. “You are so very gullible. Of course, if I had been obliged to force you out of that cozy little cottage, I should have done so, but I thought my stratagem would be sufficient and so it proved.” The day that Miss Sutcliff’s smirk would be wiped from her face would be a day that could not come swiftly enough for Hero, but she said nothing. A minute passed, another freezing minute. She watched the hand holding the gun and wondered whether she had the courage and quickness to distract Miss Sutcliff and disarm her. It was the sort of thing cousin Rosamond would do without hesitation, but Hero could not help feeling that she would muff it and find herself in a deeper pickle. Before she could do anything, Miss Sutcliff suddenly seized her and held her close, the chill metal circle of the pistol’s barrel pressing into the tender skin at Hero’s temple, Miss Sutcliff’s other arm tight about her neck, almost depriving her of air. A door opened and light from the inn spilled into the courtyard. There was a trim figure leaning quite casually against the frame of the door. Quite formally, he said, “Miss Sutcliff?” “Mr. Charteris, be warned, this pistol has a hair trigger and I have it cocked at Miss Veasey’s head. If you wish to preserve her life, you must give up Loomis and the other men.” “We were bringing Loomis out even now, Miss Sutcliff.” He ambled into the courtyard, towards the two women locked in their unnatural embrace.

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“I say, Miss Veasey, you look a trifle encumbered. We shall see what we can do about that.” It took four men to lug Loomis’s somnolent body into the courtyard. They deposited his drugged body at Miss Sutcliff’s feet. Hero hauled at the arm about her neck which had tightened still further and started to pull forward when Mr. Grice called out, “No Miss Veasey, keep still, she’ll fire the pistol.” Hero no longer cared. From somewhere deep within her, a place she had not even known existed, there erupted an intense fury. She dropped both hands away from Miss Sutcliff’s constraining arm and so fast no one could believe that they had seen it, she reached up and yanked Miss Sutcliff’s pistol arm away from her head and brought it down with a ferocious jerk. The pistol went off, pinged against the courtyard cobbles and ricocheted like a marble spat from a catapult. Hero released Miss Sutcliff’s arm and then shoved the woman backwards. Astounded, Miss Sutcliff tumbled backward and her little gun went flying. Hero went and stood over her, shoving her back down again every time the woman reached out in an attempt to stand. “That is enough. I’ve had enough of you. Your crazy schemes, your loathsome thugs, your stupid plans. You’re a ridiculous creature with your pistols and your drugs and I don’t know what else besides. You may have turned Valentine Wemyss’ head with your nonsense and that awful Stuarton man, but you won’t get anywhere with whatever notion you’ve cooked up. Your plot, whatever it may have been, is in ruins, and as for Valentine, if you haven’t had him killed, you’re welcome to him. I hope you both rot. Egging him on to make up to me for my money.” Freddie approached Miss Veasey. He cleared his throat. She straightened and turned. “Are you going to arrest her with the rest of her horrible crowd?” Hero noticed two men approaching Miss Sutcliff. They helped her stand, then held her straight, her arms behind her back. Her hood had fallen back and her hair had come adrift during Hero’s furious assault. Her eyes were narrow and her mouth tight. Freddie looked at her then addressed Miss Veasey. “Yes. We’re taking them all to Northallerton tomorrow morning. You’ll have to make some sort of statement, but I daresay you can do it at Cheveley so long as it is properly notarized. Now, would you like to return to the Grices’ while we wait for Jameson?” He held out an arm, but she did not take it. She looked him in the eye and said, “Not without you. I am going nowhere without you. That was how she tricked me, by saying that she had you in her power and that she was about to set her hounds on you. She had proof, she showed me a button from your coat and I believed her.” He stepped forward and so did she. They met and his arms went round her even though he knew that he should not allow them to do so, and her face turned up to his. She clutched onto him, and raised herself a little, pressing her lips against his, and then she opened her lips and kissed him deeply and soundly. He gave a little murmur, but her arms were round his neck and she was kissing him hard. Then she pulled away and sighed. “I forgot myself. I beg your pardon.” She was stiff and suddenly remote. “Hero....” Another, far more astonished voice chimed with his: “Hero!” They both turned. In the gateway, astride a puffing horse, his pistol drawn and the moonlight glinting on his fair hair, was Valentine Wemyss, clearly outraged. “You were kissing Freddie. You’re engaged to me.”

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“I certainly am not. I haven’t been engaged to you since June last year, and if you recollect, Mr. Wemyss, it was you who ended our betrothal. For which I give hearty thanks, since Miss Sutcliff has been so good as to enlighten me about your relations with her. You’d better stand by her, she’s going to go before the magistrate and then they’ll try her for kidnapping that Stuarton boy and treasonous plots and assault and probably murder and mayhem too. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if they decide to arrest you too. It’s the least you deserve.” Hero made to walk away, but Valentine dismounted and blocked her path back onto the street. “You kissed him. But you love me! How could you?” “I do not love you, Mr. Wemyss. I might once have thought I loved you, but I have been quite cured of my infatuation by your behavior these seven months. Now, unless you would like me to enumerate your sins for the edification of all the people gathered in this stable-yard, I suggest you give me leave to part with Mr. Charteris who has proved a stalwart friend to you and me both even though the very least you deserve is any loyalty at all.” “I am afraid, Miss Veasey, that neither you nor Mr. Charteris have my leave to go anywhere.” Another voice rang from the gateway. “Stuarton!” exclaimed Alethea Sutcliff. She struggled in her captors’ grasp. Hero saw the glint of a pistol and hurled herself at Freddie, knocking him to the ground. The report of the shot echoed round the yard. But this time, the bullet did not ricochet, for it had reached its target. Miss Sutcliff sagged against one of the men holding her and before she fell to the ground, Valentine Wemyss had pushed the men away and held her cradled in his arms. “Light. Bring some light, for God’s sake!” Hero scrambled up and before Freddie could collect himself, she had made for the inn door where men were now gathering in response to the shots from the yard. She called for a lantern and carried it over to Valentine. Miss Sutcliff’s great eyes were open and astonished. She groped at her shoulder and found the wound. She raised her fingers and saw the blood there and gave a bitter smile. She called out, “Why, Henry? Why, you fool?” Stuarton approached, the pistol still dangling from his right hand. “For what you sought to do to my child. I shall take him now and leave this cursed country and seek to mend the harm you’ve wrought on him.” Miss Sutcliff gave a pained chuckle. “Your mother will never allow it. She won’t let you give everything up. I suppose you’re going back to that milksop maid you married.” “I am. I should have made her my first concern from the start instead of listening to you and my mother.” “If I die now, they’ll hang you for my murder.” “You won’t die, Alethea. Your kind does not die. But I shall take whatever punishment they seek to dole out. I don’t regret firing at you. And I shall be excused seeing that you were aiming your second little pistol at Mr. Charteris here.” Stuarton bent down and reached under Miss Sutcliff. He drew out a matching miniature of her other gun from beneath her skirts and handed it over to Freddie. “Wemyss, you need to carry her indoors somewhere and have that wound looked at. I believe the apothecary is around

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and about. He’s an excellent chap, has quite restored my poor servant. Whose barbarous treatment I may also lay at your door, I believe, Alethea.” Valentine took up his burden and carried Miss Sutcliff into the inn. Stuarton turned to Hero and Freddie. “Your people are on their way. They stopped at the Queen Catherine in search of you. They have a sleigh ready to carry you home. I shall remain here with my son and my mother, but we will give no further trouble. I shall make my statement with regard to my actions here. Miss Veasey, I do not know who is the local magistrate, but I shall stay in the country until such time as this affair is cleared up and then leave for Italy.” “Your mother is very certain that she should be queen. Will she not be very disappointed by this outcome?” asked Hero. “She may well be disappointed. But she must live with the disappointment. It was she, you know, who helped Alethea Sutcliff steal my boy. I had no designs on any throne. That was their difficulty. I was happy with my wife and child at home in Milan. She is very wealthy, we are very comfortable, or at least were until Benedetto was taken from us. Now I have him back and we must reunite him with his brother and sisters, seek to restore to him some semblance of childhood.” Hero frowned. “Your mother conspired with Miss Sutcliff to steal your child and persuade you to come to Scotland in search of him?” “Yes. I have no purpose in Scotland or England except to find my son and remove him from the malign influence of one who has held me in great enmity for a decade now. If you wish to hear the rest of my story I will tell it to you on the morrow in somewhat greater comfort than this place has to offer.” So, very quietly and calmly, the evening came to an end. Jameson appeared in the yard, Freddie and Hero climbed into the sleigh and left Osmotherley for Cheveley. Their extremities protected with muffs, hot water bottles and a foot warmer, Hero and Freddie were tucked beneath heavy rugs. Kirkby cracked his whip and his team snorted and set off into the night. The journey to Cheveley would probably take a little over an hour. The moon lit their way and set the snow shimmering with a silvery glint. Above, stars dotted the dark sky in impassive tranquility. Both Hero and Freddie were tongue-tied, weary, uncertain and somewhat astounded by the sudden ending to their afternoon and evening of high adventure. Hero broke the silence. “Mr. Charteris, it is my understanding that Miss Sutcliff sought to restore some descendent of Bonnie Prince Charlie to the throne. But I thought her chosen candidate was General Roehenstart.” “So did I. Consequently, I could not understand her interest in the boy. I knew him only as Edgar Dewpin, younger brother to some poor woman she had inveigled into participating in her...,” Freddie trailed off. He could not bring up the subject of Miss Sutcliff’s establishment before a lady. “Her house of ill repute. I have gathered exactly what sort of business Miss Sutcliff was engaged in.” “I do not know that Valentine quite understood what sort of woman she was, Miss Veasey.” “Perhaps not at first, but he has been entangled with her long enough to discover the truth. I have had a fortunate escape there, for I do not like to think of my father’s money keeping such a creature. Will she recover, do you think?”

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“Yes, I am quite sure of it. And will have to stand trial for the abduction of Stuarton’s child. And you could bring charges against her, if you chose.” “I don’t think I do choose. You could bring charges against her too, if it came to that. She ordered her men to attack you, she kept you bound and drugged. She is a ruthless woman. I feel for Valentine, caught up in her machinations.” “What do you feel for him?” Hero turned her head and met Freddie’s gaze. “You heard what passed between us at the Three Tuns.” He reached for her hand beneath the thick pelts that covered them. When he had it in his grasp, he lifted it and turned back the cuff so that he could lay his lips on the narrow band of living flesh between glove and pelisse. Hero’s breath caught. He kept her hand in his as he slid both beneath the furs. “I did hear.” He leaned over slightly and whispered in her ear, “If you do not love Valentine, is there anyone you do love?” “Mr. Charteris, it is indelicate of you to enquire and it would be indelicate of me to reply.” Her voice was as chill as the night air and Freddie cursed himself for his ineptness, especially when he felt her fingers slip from his. Neither spoke again before arriving at Cheveley. When Hero came to stand and leave the sleigh, though, her legs buckled. Before she could make any further move, Freddie was there, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her indoors where Leonard and Anthony Veasey and Lizzie Wemyss stood, anxiously awaiting their return. Hot soup and hot toddies were pressed upon them, explanations demanded, but Freddie forestalled them all. “I fear for Miss Veasey’s health. Perhaps it would be best if she were to retire. I can carry her to her room.” “Will you let me down, I am perfectly capable of walking up the stairs,” snapped Hero, weary of being disregarded. But Freddie’s grasp was too firm and once he was on the stairs, it would have been dangerous to struggle. Lizzie led the way to her room, where he deposited her on the chaise before the fire. “Good night, Miss Veasey. I did not mean to offend. I hope to have the pleasure of further discussion with you in the morning.” He bowed and left smartly, leaving Lizzie agog. “Hero, what has happened? How were you rescued?” “I have been twice rescued, once by some former connection of Miss Sutcliff’s and once by Mr. Charteris.” “Freddie rescued you from whom? Start at the beginning and tell me all. Freddie will not be left in peace until he has disclosed all to your father and uncle, but I cannot return downstairs, so there’s no help for it but to badger you until you tell me all.” So Hero described the events of the late afternoon, although naturally she failed to mention that she had spontaneously kissed Mr. Charteris, nor did she make any mention of their curtailed conversation in the sleigh on the way home. “So this Stuarton fellow is coming over tomorrow to reveal all, and Miss Sutcliff is under guard and in the apothecary’s care?” “With Valentine at her side. I fear that he is very heavily implicated in her business, Lizzie.” “That comes as little surprise.” Lizzie hesitated and swallowed. Her eyes were moist with unshed tears. “I wonder you wish to keep me by you.”

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Hero leaned forward and took her friend’s hands in hers. “Dearest Lizzie, let me make it plain. You are my friend, quite regardless of your brother’s actions and affections. I have no intention of casting you aside. You have accompanied me on this escapade, and you have been a dear, true soul. I want you by me, but if it causes you any discomfort, you may at once return home. We’ll arrange it immediately. However, perhaps you would feel easier if you were near Valentine in the next few weeks and able to report to your mother directly.” “What do you think will happen to him?” “I fear that he may be arrested and charged with conspiracy of some sort. He has been working in concert with Miss Sutcliff. However, I think she has been doubledealing on all fronts. It is not clear to me exactly how, but I believe that she was persuaded that both General Roehenstart and Count Stuarton had worthwhile claims to the throne through their Stuart forbears.” “What a fool Val has been! You would have thought, after all the trouble the Stuarts have brought us that he would leave well enough alone.” “I will speak to my father. He is the local magistrate. He is bound to refer Miss Sutcliff to the Assizes in March, although that may simply be for the abduction of Count Stuarton’s son. It is a great tangle, but we shall contrive to keep Val out of it if it is at all possible.” “Too many people know. You, Freddie, this Roehenstart. There will be an investigation and it will all come out. He will be sent to prison or transported.” Lizzie looked away, her gaze bleak, her face drained of color. Hero took hold of her hands. “Lizzie, we will manage. I promise you, even if I have to declare that we are still betrothed, I will find some way of restoring Valentine to your family without disgrace.” Lizzie looked sharply at her friend. “You would do that? What about Freddie?” Hero straightened and smiled. “What about Mr. Charteris?” “You love him.” “You are quite mistaken. I have no particular feelings for Mr. Charteris, and he has none for me. There is no obstacle to my declaring any affection for Valentine and it is what I will do tomorrow if it will prevent my father from sending him to York.” The set of Hero’s chin, the glint in her eye, the harsh tone of her voice all made Lizzie Wemyss uneasy, but she saw that nothing further was to be gained from pressing Hero on this matter--and who could say whether any declaration would be necessary. She leaned forward and kissed Hero on the cheek. “Thank you. I hope no such measure need be taken, but thank you for offering to do this. I know that Valentine has done nothing to merit it.” “Valentine may not have done anything, but you, Lizzie, are very dear to me and I will do anything I can to spare you grief.” Hero stood and ushered her friend out of her room, pressing another kiss on her cheek before closing the door quietly but firmly. She returned to the fire and stretched out her hands. There had been times during this long day when she had felt that she might never be warm again, but now there was ice at her core, and she suspected it would never thaw. Freddie’s uncertainty about her feelings for him suggested to her that he was uncertain also about his own feelings for her. Never again would she place herself in thrall to a man whose affections were in any doubt.

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Chapter Twenty-three: In which Mr. Wemyss squirms and Mr. Charteris seethes The next morning, no one rose early, for it had been nigh on midnight when Miss Veasey and Mr. Charteris had returned and then there had been explanations and exclamations and the need to forestall Mr. Veasey’s determination to administer gruel so that it had been well past one in the morning before the house was quiet, a quite extraordinary hour for Cheveley. Cheveley men were helping the villagers in Osmotherley keep watch over the haul of villains, but they needed relief, and it was thought that the sooner the brigands who had caused such uproar in the neighborhood were transferred first to the gaol house in Northallerton and then the prison at York, the better. Before this could happen, however, both Messrs Veasey decided they wished to see the malefactors for themselves, particularly since Mr. Valentine Wemyss, Miss Veasey’s erstwhile suitor was being held with the rest of Miss Sutcliff’s band. Mr. Charteris was determined to accompany the Veasey brothers. Naturally enough, Miss Wemyss wished to see her brother after the grave unease caused by his disappearance, which meant that Miss Veasey was certain to accompany her and then General Roehenstart astonished the company by declaring his wish to meet with Mr. Wemyss and discover exactly what had happened to prevent their scheduled meeting, not to mention whether Val might shed any light on the disappearance of his manservant. Eventually it was decided that the Veasey brothers and the ladies would travel in the barouche, accompanied by a guard of Cheveley men and followed by General Roehenstart and Mr. Charteris on horseback. The snow made heavy going, but there was a definite thaw in the air, and all along the road, one could hear water trickling along ditches, dripping from branches and running through streams. The party headed immediately for the Three Tuns, where it transpired Mr. and Mrs. Grice were in attendance on the wounded Miss Sutcliff who had fallen into a fever. Mr. Charteris went to the Queen Catherine to enquire after Count Stuarton and the man Minton. Under the jaded eye of one of the Cheveley men, Valentine Wemyss was measuring out the length and breadth of the inn’s main parlor. He did not look pleased when his sister came into the room. “What are you doing here, Lizzie?” “I am here to prevent you from bringing further disgrace to our name.” She turned to the man still watching Val with intense suspicion. “Please leave us. You may lock me in with my brother. I will knock when I am ready to leave.” The fellow shrugged and departed, turning the key in the lock as he did so. “Your arrival here can serve no purpose, Lizzie. I never imagined that I would come across you here in Yorkshire, and what you think you are doing still hanging about Miss Veasey when she has made it abundantly clear that her affection for me is at an end, I cannot imagine.”

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Miss Wemyss quelled the impulse to pummel her recalcitrant brother as she had done in their childhood, but she could not disguise her rage. “You have no right to say such things. You have no right to pass any judgment on any action I choose to take because your own judgment is so very feeble. It will kill Mama if your antics come out. You know how weak she is, you know how very low her reserves of strength are, what a struggle it has been for her to keep up appearances, to manage, and yet you throw her every sacrifice into the gutter for some trollop with lunatic notions of rebellion and treason.” “If that is what you think of me, I wonder you do not spurn me now and leave me to my fate.” “I cannot. You saw Mama last autumn, Val. Any shock such as this will be beyond debilitating. But there is a solution.” Valentine crossed his arms and gave a sulky roll of his eyes. “Heaven preserve me from sisters with solutions.” “Heaven can have no interest in a sinner such as you, Valentine. However, we are fortunate in our friends, and we may count on Miss Veasey.” Valentine gazed at his sister in bafflement. “How? She told me last night in no uncertain terms that she did not love me. I saw her kissing Freddie. Here, in the stable yard, in front of every able-bodied man in this cursed village. She and I can have nothing further to do with one another.” “She was kissing Freddie?” “Passionately.” “I don’t believe that signifies. She has said that if you are implicated in any of Miss Sutcliff’s schemes, she will tell her father that you are betrothed and he will ensure that you are sheltered from any accusations of treason or misdoing.” “What if I choose not to accept this noble sacrifice?” “You will accept it, and you will support her in whatever lies are necessary for so long as it takes for Miss Sutcliff to be dispatched to her fate. And you will return home and stay by our mother and help her and care for, as the rest of us have been doing all these years while you have been bringing our name nothing but shame.” “And how do we get out of this second betrothal? The Veaseys will have us before a priest as soon as the banns can be read.” “Mama’s condition prohibits any immediate nuptials. She is too ill to travel but would be heartbroken to miss the marriage of her only son. Any wedding must wait until the weather is clement enough for her to travel without harm to her health. By then, Miss Sutcliff will have come before a judge in York and Miss Veasey can break the engagement.” “Break the engagement! You want me humiliated, I suppose.” “Better humiliated than arraigned for treason, Valentine.” Lizzie reached into her reticule and drew out the locket which Freddie had found at Val’s lodgings. “Imagine how humiliated Miss Veasey felt when she saw whose portrait graced this locket. Imagine how humiliated I have felt staying with her once I had realized that any respect or affection that she might have had for you has been utterly destroyed by your folly. Imagine the humiliation our mother will feel when the bailiffs remove all our furniture and escort us to a debtor’s cell. If the least you suffer is a little mortification, it is not too high a price to pay for your freedom and Mama’s life.”

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She dropped the locket in his palm. He opened it and looked on the picture of Miss Sutcliff within. “No one will tell me how she does. No one will let me see her.” “I have no idea how she is. But if you behave to Hero as a gentleman should, I will contrive to find out and tell you.” Valentine looked up at his implacable, flint-eyed sister and snapped the locket shut before handing it back to her. “What exactly must I do?” “Follow Hero’s lead.” Val acquiesced with ill grace and followed his sister out of the room and into the saloon where the Veaseys and Roehenstart now sat. Valentine made his bow to the assembled company and went over to Hero. She held out her hand and he saw that where there had once been warmth in her eyes, now there was nothing but faint, detached curiosity. “Miss Veasey,” he said and bent over her hand which she withdrew at once. “Mr. Wemyss.” She cleared her throat a little. “I believe you owe the General an explanation, and indeed, we are all agog to discover what it was that took you from Edinburgh with so little notice.” “I met with an accident. I had an altercation with some fellow on the shore at Coldhingham. He seemed to think that I was planning to steal the General’s possessions. He succeeded in wounding me with a saber and I had to spend some time recuperating. By the time I was fully recovered, I heard that you had come south with the General. It seemed to me to serve our purpose best if I made myself known to the General since he was in the vicinity. And of course, I hoped to see you again.” “What was your purpose?” asked Anthony Veasey. “To escort the General to London and assist him in any way I could to secure his pension. We met in Brussels and I had undertaken then to assist him should he ever decide to come to Britain.” “This is true enough,” corroborated the General. He was not to know that Val had only struck up an acquaintance with Roehenstart at Miss Sutcliff’s behest. “You have no dealings with this Sutcliff woman? She has not instructed you in any way?” Leonard Veasey took up the interrogation, more than a little confused. Valentine met Hero’s glance and took in the almost imperceptible shake of her head. “No. I knew of Miss Sutcliff’s establishment in Edinburgh, certainly, it was the talk of certain circles, but I knew the lady only by reputation.” “What sort of establishment was this?” Valentine stammered and Hero intervened. “Father, it is not the sort of place which a gentleman may discuss in the presence of ladies. I believe that Mr. Charteris can enlighten you further, for he did attend this place.” “Is Charteris still meeting with the apothecary?” enquired Leonard Veasey vaguely. As if summoned by these words, Freddie entered the room and saw Valentine. He stiffened and glanced at Miss Veasey. She returned his gaze steadily. “As you see, Mr. Wemyss is restored to us. He was wounded, he tells us, at Coldingham, by the General’s man who seemed to believe that he was a common thief.” Leonard Veasey’s was patently baffled, but Freddie was not concerned with clarification. “I see you are fully recovered, Val.” He paused. “I wish I could give positive news of Miss Sutcliff’s progress. The Grices are with her still, for she is extremely

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unwell. Stuarton’s bullet appears to have shattered her shoulder and there is infection. Grice does not hold out much hope for her.” “How long does he give her?” asked Lizzie. “It could be several days yet. He has settled her, for she was delirious and agitated, in great pain. He has administered opiates, but this means she is not fit to be questioned.” “This Miss Sutcliff, she is the same who attacked us?” Roehnstart appeared increasingly confused. “Yes, General. She was an adventuress who I believed wished to extort money from you or through you.” “What have I to do with a Miss Sutcliff? I never heard of such a woman!” The General laughed. “Besides, it is well known I depend on my army pension and any expectations I have are from my royal cousins here.” “I believe that you may have met her on the continent, but perhaps under another name. She also styled herself Madame d’Alquier.” Freddie leaned against a table and folded his arms, his casual air quite at odds with the tense forms of the other occupants of the room. General Roehenstart frowned. “Madame d’Alquier? Surely not! She was respectability itself, a woman of the highest principles. She is not the sort to be running any maison de tolérance! I believe that that is the nature of this Miss Sutcliff’s establishment in Edinburgh?” “How do you know this?” asked Valentine, glaring at Freddy. “Miss Sutcliff caught the eye of a friend of mine some time ago. You’ll remember Ivo Dunbar, Val. His ministry has been keeping a watch over Miss Sutcliff for years now, ever since she was befriended by M. Talleyrand in Rome, he tells me. That would have been in 1806, I believe. She was also the belle amie of Monsieur d’Alquier, who was French ambassador in Rome for some years. He gave the lady her congéebut this did not prevent her from assuming his name when it suited her. A very resourceful woman, Miss Sutcliff. Although sadly lacking in pecuniary resources.” “So it would seem.” Valentine was doing his best to appear nonchalant, but Hero could tell that he was unsettled by Freddie’s knowledge of Miss Sutcliff’s past. “However, while I am sorry that the lady has been so grievously wounded, I know nothing of her or her business with General Roehenstart.” Freddie looked at Lizzie and raised an eyebrow. She averted her eyes and lowered her gaze to a suddenly quite fascinating section of table leg. Leonard Veasey cleared his throat and said, “I find this all most confusing. How did you come to be at the Three Tuns, Mr. Wemyss? Indeed, how did you come to be in Osmotherley? It is not the most convenient of locations. Why did you not come directly to Cheveley if you were in search of the General.” “I heard about Miss Veasey’s disappearance. I was making for Cheveley when I came upon some men searching for her on foot. They were in a state of some agitation, and said that it was rumored that she had been brought here. I wondered if I could be of some service, so I made my way here.” This was the simple truth, although the fact that he had had this intelligence from Miss Sutcliff’s men was one he chose to keep to himself. “That was very good of you, Mr. Wemyss.” Hero sounded a little warmer.

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“I could not do otherwise, Miss Veasey. How could I abandon my betrothed?” Valentine held his breath. “Betrothed?” drawled Freddie. “Betrothed,” stated Hero firmly, meeting Freddie’s unusually hard eyes with a steady, solemn gaze. “I see.” Freddie looked next at Lizzie, then once again at Hero. “I see.” He straightened and gave a slight bow. “Congratulations are once again in order, then.” “Betrothed!” Anthony Veasey snorted in disbelief. “You have said nothing of this, Hero.” “I was waiting for Mr. Wemyss. I did not think it right to say anything until we were able to disclose our news together, but now finally, we are reunited and we are free to speak.” She went to stand beside Valentine and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. She noticed that Mr. Charteris’ jaw was clenched tight and a muscle flicked beneath the surface of his skin. She met his eyes once again and looked away at once. Leonard Veasey stood and went over to his daughter, dropping a kiss on her forehead before turning to Wemyss and shaking his hand. “It is as it should be, at last. If Hero has agreed to take you back, you have my blessing. Mrs. Macdonald wrote about her hopes in this quarter, but then we heard nothing further. It is a delightful piece of news.” “A surprise, certainly,” said Anthony Veasey. He glanced at Freddie who appeared somewhat white about the mouth, the ready twinkle in his eyes quite extinguished. “To be sure, you cannot be muddled up in Miss Sutcliff’s affairs, and I do not know how any of us have managed to gather the impression that you were entangled with this disreputable woman. Let that impression be dispelled at once.” “You will return with us to Cheveley.” Leonard Veasey patted his future son-inlaw on the back and turned to Lizzie. “I am delighted to be able to welcome you too into our family, my dear Miss Wemyss. Now, what matters need we see to here before we return home?” The prospect of going home, where there would be champagne to celebrate the engagement and cakes and other little luxuries having become Leonard Veasey’s prime object, he was eager indeed to conclude any tiresome business that needed to be done at Osmotherley. As the local magistrate, he swiftly ordered the removal of Miss Sutcliff’s men to the Northallerton gaol, with a view to sending them to York as soon as the snow had melted and the roads were quite clear. The issue of Miss Sutcliff arose once again, but it was thought that it would be best for Grice to send bulletins twice daily. She could certainly not be moved when grievously wounded. “What of Count Stuarton?” asked Hero. “He and his mother seemed to know Miss Sutcliff. He is answerable if she should die. Perhaps you should question him now, Papa.” So the count was summoned to the Three Tuns. He arrived with Edgar Dewpin, now dressed in a sober set of clothes rather than the Charteris livery, his hair tidy, his nails clean and his eyes fermenting with rebellion. “May I present my son, Benedetto Stuarton. Benedetto, you may make your bow.” Stuarton was calm, but steel ran through his voice. “I am afraid that Benedetto has been allowed to consort with the lowest company. It may take some time before he is

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truly fit for society, but we must make a start at once to train him to his proper station in life.” Edgar, or Benedetto, bowed and stood, his hands behind his back, his brow lowered. “I am happy to see you restored to your father,” said Freddie. “It’s all very well for you, you ain’t poked and prodded by that antiquated battleaxe nor drilled in etiquette by this tailor’s dummy.” “Benedetto, that is no way to speak either of your grandmother or your father.” “Some fine grandmother she’ve been to me, selling me off to that kite. But see, Mr. Charteris, I don’t want you forgetting, you promised to rescue Alice Dewpin, and that promise ain’t gone away just because these people have claimed me. You go and find her and make things right for her, and when I’m grown, tell her I shall come to see her and hope to find her happy. I shall do that, and if I find she ain’t happy, I shall come looking for you and make your life a merry hell.” “I shall do that, Master Benedetto. Your Alice will be well taken care of and if you need to find her, she shall be safe on my family’s estate of Mountquhidder, where you may visit at any time.” For the first time since he had heard of Hero’s engagement, Freddie’s demeanor softened a little. “Even though I ran off with that Sutcliff woman?” “Indeed. I am assuming she told you she’d harm Alice if you did not go with her.” said Freddie. “She did, the buzzard. But this Stuarton fellow tells me he shot her last night, when she began waggling her own piece about.” “Benedetto, a little respect. I am your father, not ‘this Stuarton fellow.’ Kindly remember your manners.” “Which brings me to the matter at hand,” interjected Leonard Veasey. “Miss Sutcliff is very seriously wounded. She may not live. Whether she does or not, the matter must be fully investigated. I do not propose, Count Stuarton, to place you under arrest, but if you could be so kind as to remain in the area until this matter has been fully resolved, I should be grateful.” “By all means. The Queen Catherine is a comfortable enough inn, and until the weather is a little more settled, I am reluctant to move my mother. In fact, might I suggest that we repair to the Queen Catherine, as the parlor there,” here Stuarton glanced about the Three Tuns as though the furniture might rise and snarl and bite him, “is rather more salubrious than the conditions in which we now find ourselves. I should be happy to make some form of statement which could be notarized, the ladies could be more comfortably installed and the refreshments there are excellent, although the staff are perhaps more temperamental than I am used to.” Valentine gave a helpless look at Lizzie. She raised her brows, then turned to Freddie and asked for a private word. They withdrew to a corner of the room while the rest of the party shrugged on their coats and prepared to walk down the street to the Queen Catherine. Freddie drew Anthony Veasey aside. “I need to speak with Valentine about this stabbing. I will detain him a little longer here, and then we shall join you in half an hour or so. It would probably be best if Stuarton felt free to make his statement without the presence of witnesses to the event. We can make our own statements later and then you may compare them.”

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Anthony Veasey agreed readily enough. The ladies led the way to the smarter inn and at last, Valentine and Freddy were left to themselves. “Is she truly dying, Freddie?” “Yes. She knows it too. I don’t know whether she will still be conscious, for she was dosed heavily enough by Grice, but I’ll take you up to see her if it helps.” Valentine swallowed and nodded. “I know you think I’m a fool and a blackguard for treating Miss Veasey so poorly, but Alethea--Miss Sutcliff--she is like no other woman.” Freddie gave a sardonic laugh. “That I can well believe.” He thrust his hands in his pockets. “I hope, Val, that this betrothal to Miss Veasey is a sham.” “Of course it is. Lizzie blackmailed me into it. I believe the girls must have concocted this plan last night or first thing this morning. The thing is, my mother, you know. I have been a fool. Worse than a fool. But if the game is up with Alethea, then I might as well salvage what I can for my mother’s sake.” Freddie did not voice the view that the last thing he would do if the woman he loved lay dying would be to weasel out of his connection with her by hiding behind another woman, but he could not conceal his contempt for his cousin entirely. He went to the door and was about to hold it open when Val burst out, “You have no idea what it is like. You are not poor. You never have been poor, you never will be poor. Miss Sutcliff and I, we both know, and we both struggled against it and sought out every way to make our lot better. You may think she is nothing better than a harlot and a traitor, but she has suffered betrayal and heartache beyond anything you could ever understand. That man Stuarton and his mother--they have used her abominably, ever since she was a young girl, and she had a chance at righting it all, but between us, we have muffed it. Well, perhaps this way at least, she will find some peace.” Freddie made a face. “And then what of you, old fellow? What will you do once she is gone, and your name is clear and you are free of her?” “I shall do as Lizzie has told me I ought. I shall go home and strive to put things right for my mother and sisters. I’ll take on some work. I know the land still. I could be a steward on someone’s land. I daresay I shall come about.” “I could look about me for some position, Val. The future need not be so very bleak. But you must treat Miss Veasey well.” “Of course. Lizzie has decided that I must release her from her engagement as soon as this business has been smoothed over, and it shall happen however she chooses.” He gave Freddy a swift look. “I suppose you want her for yourself.” “The question is whether she wants me, Val.” This same question was the issue that concerned Miss Lizzie Wemyss as she accompanied her friend to the Queen Catherine. As soon as she was sure they would not be overheard, she taxed Hero with her actions the previous night. “Valentine told me he found you in Freddie’s embrace.” “Valentine would do well to hold his tongue until this mess is sorted out once and for all.” “Freddie loves you, and you love Freddie. I should never have allowed you to declare that you were betrothed to my brother.” “It distracted both my uncle and my father. They would have pressed Val, and he is truly the feeblest of liars.”

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“But what of Freddie? How could you think he had no feelings for you when it was plain as a pikestaff that he wanted to sweep you off as soon as the betrothal was mentioned. He was furious. He still is. What game are you playing? What passed between you that you should wish to cause him such pain?” “Nothing has passed between us.” Hero could not bring herself to explain how Freddie, given the clearest possible encouragement and opportunity had failed to ask her to show any substantial interest in securing her affections. “You kissed him. Valentine saw you embrace him.” “It was an error of judgment. We’ve all made those in our time, Valentine no less than any of the rest of us. In any case, as you and I have both agreed, this betrothal is a sham, so it doesn’t make a whit of difference what Valentine saw. If he knows what is good for him, he will mind his own business.” Hero forebore to suggest to her friend that Lizzie would do well to follow the same course. By this time, they were at the Queen Catherine, and Hero wanted Lizzie’s support in their imminent encounter with Countess Stuarton.

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Chapter Twenty-four: In which the meaning of fiction is fulfilled Freddie led Valentine up to Miss Sutcliff’s room. Pausing before the door, he said, “Are you sure? She’s in very poor shape.” “I’ve seen men die, Freddie.” But Valentine wasn’t ready for the unrecognizable women lying on the bed, her blonde hair dark with sweat, her face pale and hollow with pain, her features drawn into a grimace. The chilly beauty that had so captivated Valentine had evaporated. Her face had taken on the lineaments of the skull beneath. When he recoiled, Freddie was behind him. “You can’t turn back now, Val.” Alethea’s eyes opened as Val drew near. “You are free of me,” she rasped. He dropped to one knee beside her and took the limp hand that lay on the coverlet. She winced at his touch but did not withdraw her hand. Perhaps she was not able to. “I shall never be free of you, Alethea. Nor would I wish to be. I am only sorry that I was not worthy of you.” “Prettily said,” murmured the dying woman. “How glad Henry must be, finally to be rid of me.” “He will pay for this, Alethea. You will not die unavenged.” Although he had withdrawn somewhat, Freddie could not help but hear his cousin commit himself to still more folly in Miss Sutcliff’s name. But there would be time enough to unravel the mess after she had died. Her strength seemed almost visibly to ebb and she made no response to his fierce avowal but turned her head restlessly against the pillow as if seeking to escape the pain which was clearly racking her. Val looked up at Freddie. “I wish to stay with her until the end. Do you think it can be arranged?” Freddie nodded and left the room, sickened by both Val and Miss Sutcliff in their careless assumption that their bidding would be done even at the expense of any one and every one in their path. He went back downstairs to track down his cloak before making his way to the Queen Catherine to explain to the Veaseys the necessity of Val’s continued absence. The street was muddy with the passage of so many horses and vehicles, but the sun continued to shine, albeit weakly and snow slithered from rooftops as he strode towards the more sophisticated inn. It was perhaps a fortunate outcome (although not of course for Miss Sutcliff) that the lady had been so grievously wounded for arraigning her and charging her would have been a long-drawn out affair. But Freddie was not so sanguine where Val was concerned. His name must be associated with that of Miss Sutcliff in Ivo Dunbar’s voluminous files down in London, and the Veaseys could not protect him from the considerable hard evidence connecting him with the adventuress. She had hired so many men, and treated them so shabbily that anyone giving evidence about her misdoings was certain to implicate Val.

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Freddie suppressed all ungracious thoughts regarding his cousin. He could not respect the fellow, he wished nothing more than to bestow on him a hiding for all the pain he had brought to Lizzie and Hero, but if the women chose to expend their energies in salvaging such a scapegrace, he would do his utmost to serve them in this aim. At the Queen Catherine, all was uproar. Countess Stuarton, as the ferret-featured woman insisted on styling herself, was in arms at anyone daring to question her beloved son, Anthony Veasey was clearly equally incensed that some jumped-up nobody from Italy should attempt to lord it over a Veasey in Veasey territory and Count Stuarton rested scowling in the window-seat of the parlor, his arms crossed, for no one would allow him a word in edgeways. On Freddie’s entry, the assembled company turned as one and demanded to know the whereabouts of Val. “He is detained by Mr. Grice who is inspecting the saber wound he had off the General’s manservant. He will be along shortly.” Freddie looked round the parlor and raised an eyebrow. “Surely it is time to escort the ladies back to Cheveley. The day will be drawing in soon and I am sure you will all wish to be safely home by then.” Concerned as always for his own comfort and that of his daughter, Leonard Veasey immediately chivvied the girls and the General to his carriage. He charged his brother and Freddie with the task of guiding Valentine home to Cheveley and reminded Count Stuarton that a solicitor from Northallerton would be come over the next morning to take his deposition regarding the unfortunate mishap with the lady at the Three Tuns, whatever his good lady mother might have to say. As they waved farewell to the carriage bearing the Cheveley party away, Anthony Veasey turned to Freddie and suggested they repair to the Three Tuns, since their horses were stabled there and besides, they’d be away from the crazed harridan ensconced in the parlor of the Queen Catherine. It was not long before the pair were sitting in some comfort before a healthy fire, sipping at the brandy which the publican had been persuaded to uncork once he realized it was Mr. Anthony who would be drinking it. “Will she last the night?” “I don’t think she will last the afternoon.” “At least Mr. Wemyss is sticking with her. The only bit of backbone I’ve seen in him. I take it this betrothal is a sham cooked up by the girls to keep him clear.” Freddie spluttered and stared at his companion. “Do you all take me for a nitwit to equal my brother? Hero and you have been warm as eggs in a basket since you arrived at Cheveley. And you were incandescent when she announced this nonsensical engagement. My brother and the General were the only ones taken in by that farrago Hero and her friend cooked up.” Freddie began laughing for the first time in what felt like years rather than days. “I must have appeared a prize gudgeon.” “By no means. Hero wants him safe for Miss Wemyss’ sake, and that I can understand, for Miss Wemyss is a dear girl, all that her brother might and should have been if he hadn’t had his head turned by that Jezebel upstairs. But we cannot stand by and let Hero tie herself to that blackguard again.” “No indeed. But I see no easy way out of it.”

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“There I have the advantage of you. The only people who know of this betrothal are the General, this Stuarton fellow and his mother. Well, the Stuarton clan will be making their way to Italy as soon as he has said his piece to old Swallow from Northallerton: he has no stomach for rebellion and mayhem, and I believe he’s a stronger feller than his mother realizes. He’ll have her bundled on a boat for Leghorn before the week is out. So that’s them taken care of. That leaves the General and my brother, neither heavily freighted when it comes to brains, so ready enough to believe in the betrothal. But both of them are sticklers, and I know Leonard is not so wild as all that about Wemyss’s lack of pecuniary resources. So what I propose to do is pay off Wemyss. I’ll stump up the cost of a passage to India, or any other colony that may take his fancy, as well as enough to keep him going for a year or two. In exchange, he writes some soupy letter releasing Hero from the attachment, since he feels--not before time--that he should be beforehand with the world when he makes an offer to a lady. He looks honorable, she is not slighted and they are no longer bound to one another. How does that sound?” “It sounds very well, except that as his cousin, I must claim the right to fund Valentine’s departure. Should this ever come out, it would make much more sense for him to have applied to me for funds.” “You might allow me to reimburse you.” “Absolutely not. On this point, my father and brothers would be in complete agreement with me and they will almost certainly wish to shoulder some of the costs. Besides which, I am the chief beneficiary of this scheme, for if Hero is free, then I am free to make her an offer.” Anthony Veasey drained his brandy glass and folded his arms, well satisfied by this outcome, which at once proved to him the strength of Mr. Charteris’s attachment while ridding them all of a confounded nuisance and not a penny of Veasey money need be wasted in the affair. It was not long before they heard Valentine’s footsteps descending the staircase. He came in and slumped in a chair beside the fire, his hand kneading at his forehead. Without a word, Freddie poured out a fresh glass of brandy and pressed it into Val’s other hand. “Well, it is over. I don’t know what you wish to do with her body.” “We shall bury her as soon as the weather allows.” Valentine said nothing. He leaned forward, nursing his brandy glass and gazing into the embers of the fire. “She may not have been the best of women, but she was beautiful and could be charming and so delightful. I suppose I am the only one who will ever remember her with anything like fondness.” Freddie suppressed his uncharitable desire to snort. He caught Anthony Veasey’s eye and they each looked away before they could give way to any unseemly response. It did not seem the moment to broach the subject of Val’s future, but he did it for them. “God help me now. Lizzie and Miss Veasey have cooked up this betrothal, but I cannot go through with it. What am I to do?” The fire crackled and spat. Freddie shifted a little in his seat. “I have a possible solution, Val.” “You’re mighty quick, Freddie. Keen to jump into my shoes, I daresay.” “I do hope to make an offer for Miss Veasey. However, that is immaterial when it comes to your future. I have been thinking of how best we might assist you for your

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family’s sake. And mine. It would look very ill if we did not rally round in some way, Val, and I know that whatever emerges of Miss Sutcliff’s plans, no one wishes to see you arraigned for treason.” “I was a fool. I did not believe that she would be able to proceed so far. I thought the whole thing would fizzle out before we ever set foot in Scotland. I should have reported her schemes to my superior officer as soon as I discovered what she intended, but somehow, I always imagined that circumstances would intervene. I suppose they have, although certainly not as I imagined.” Neither Veasey nor Freddie disagreed with Val. He sighed. “So how do you propose to dispose of me, cousin?” “Exile to the colonies. A proposal of gainful employment. I will fund your passage and provide you with a bank draft and introductory papers anywhere you choose. India, New South Wales, Canada. The world is yours, provided you undertake to write a letter to your mother. And one to Miss Veasey. She must be formally released from her engagement.” “I’ve never been much for letter-writing, Freddie.” “You do not need to write a great deal. Simply that you feel that you must make your way in the world, you have been offered the opportunity to do so and it would be unfair to hold any woman to a betrothal on the basis of so uncertain a future when you are unlikely to set foot in Scotland or England ever again.” “Must I write? Can I not visit my mother one last time before I leave?” “I do not believe it is in your interest or in hers to remain so long in the country, Val. There are people in London who have been following this case for some time. If you are not safely packed off at once, you will very likely be arrested. As it is, I can smooth things over, preserve your name and your family’s honor.” “You make a persuasive case, Freddie. Very well, how soon must it be done?” “We will all ride back to Cheveley now. If the thaw permits, we could leave tomorrow for London and be there in three days’ time. I can secure a berth for you within a week and you may be off without further delay.” “How efficient. You play a very good game, cousin. With all your frippery ways and your clumsiness, you leave the rest of us underestimating you. But you have thought it all out. I will go with good grace. I shall be glad to quit these shores, at any rate. There’s nothing left for me here.” Freddie forbore to say that so self-indulgent a frame of mind was unlikely ever to achieve much. Relieved that Val appeared to have forgotten his intention to avenge Miss Sutcliff’s death, he summoned a boy for their coats, paid the reckoning and the three men left for Cheveley. The next morning, Val sought a private interview with his fiancée. A footman led him to the small music room where he had spent time enough turning her pages and singing with her. When he remembered the time of their engagement the previous summer, it seemed like a mirage from the desert, a place that was entirely imaginary. When he went in, she was standing beside the pianoforte, leafing through some music and idly testing the fingering of a passage. She looked up as the door clicked shut. “Good morning, Val. I hope you are well-rested.” “Very much so. The best night’s sleep I have had for months.”

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They both looked away, each equally abashed that Miss Sutcliff’s death appeared to have so little afflicted him. “I wish to thank you for claiming that we were betrothed. I have wronged you in so many ways and you have never merited such treatment at any man’s hands. Yet you came to my rescue yesterday and I will be forever in your debt.” “There are no debts between us, Val. I believe you have paid grievously for your association with Miss Sutcliff.” “I wished to tell you that I am leaving this morning with Freddie and General Roehenstart. My family has offered me the opportunity to make a fresh start in a new country and I must take that opportunity. I should never have thought to hang off your purse-strings. I should always have sought to make my own way in the world, and now I have the chance to do that. But I cannot do it and take a wife. Especially not you. You are heiress to Cheveley, your home is here, your place is here. I have written this all down, but I wanted to speak with you face to face. To deal honestly with you.” Hero forbore to say that it was about time. Instead, she smiled and held out her hand. “Friends, Val?” He reached out and shook her hand. “Friends.” “I have something for you. Freddie found it at your lodgings, Lizzie took it from him and now I am restoring it to you. With Lizzie’s agreement.” Hero reached for a jewelry box sitting on the pianoforte. “Here.” Val opened up the box and found within his locket. He opened it and looked on Miss Sutcliff’s face. He snapped it shut decisively. “I shall keep this by me to remind me of my folly. If I had never met her, if I had never allowed myself to be ensnared by her, I might yet be the decent fellow you first met in Edinburgh so many years ago. And I should be the happiest of men for our betrothal would have been real.” Hero was not cruel enough to remind him that it was he who had broken off their engagement the previous summer. “God speed, Valentine. And try to write to Lizzie and your mother every now and then. Let them know how you are getting on.” “I will.” He turned and headed for the door, but checked himself and turned back to her. “I wish you very happy, Hero. Freddie is a most fortunate fellow.” “Is he?” enquired Hero, a note of hauteur entering her voice. “He intends to offer for you, and I thought it quite fixed that you would accept him. Given the way you--ahem--defended him from Miss Sutcliff the night before last.” “He has said nothing of this to me.” “I daresay he has been too preoccupied with getting shot of me. I believe he loves you as you deserve to be loved. As I should have loved you if I had had sense and judgment. Don’t do anything rash, Hero. Don’t brush him off before he has a chance to declare himself.” Hero blushed, for she had intended to do exactly that. She looked up at Val, her eyes shining. “I won’t, Val. I think it is now I who owe you a debt of gratitude.” A scant half-hour later, the Veaseys and Lizzie Wemyss stood on the great stair at Cheveley, waving farewell to Freddie’s carriage as it bore him away in the company of his cousin and General Roehenstart. Hero led Lizzie back inside and held her friend tight as she finally gave way to the tears which she had suppressed while bidding her brother farewell.

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“I know he is a scapegrace and a fool, but I cannot help myself. Perhaps we shall meet again. Who knows, he might pull himself together and make a fortune and return home covered in glory.” “I do not believe he will ever again be susceptible to feminine wiles. So he may concentrate his efforts on his career and surprise us all.” Lizzie mopped her eyes and blew her nose heartily. Still a little tearfully, she said, “I am quite astounded by Freddie’s resourcefulness. I never would have thought him capable of so much decision and common sense. His conduct has been the greatest surprise to me in this whole miserable affair.” “Since I have never known him as anything other than resourceful, I do not find him astounding in the least.” “But you love him.” Hero met her friend’s eyes and nodded. “I only realized how deeply when we found him senseless in his room at Coldingham. But then he seemed to be playing with me. The night before last, after I had shown him so clearly what he meant to me, he asked me who I loved, as though I were some flirt on the dance floor.” “So that is why you displayed to him so cold a shoulder!” Lizzie’s voice was warm with laughter. “Dear Hero, Freddie never exerted himself for anyone until now. And surely you noticed how he reacted when you announced that you were engaged to Val? He was ready to explode. Not only has he sought actively to assist you in all your concerns, he has also been prepared to act against his own interests if he believes it is truly in your interest.” “I know,” replied Hero. “Val made me understand that. But Lizzie, what if Freddie does not come back from London?” “He will come back. I have no idea how long sorting out this business will detain him there, but you may be sure, he will be back.” But Hero was not so sure. Certainly, he had singled her out as the General made his farewells to the Veasey brothers and as Lizzie had given Val a fierce and final hug. Freddie had stood before her, customarily spruce, and said quietly, “Miss Veasey.” “Mr. Charteris.” Hero had been scarcely able to speak, so large was the lump in her throat. “Should I pass this way on my journey back to Edinburgh, will I still find you here?” Hero cleared her throat and forced some strength into her voice. “I am not sure. My aunt and uncle will expect me back for the rest of the Edinburgh season, but I have no appetite for gaiety just at the moment.” “Perhaps you should take this opportunity to restore yourself in these charming surroundings. I do not believe I have ever seen a house which combines elegance and comfort so well as Cheveley.” “I am glad you have found my home so pleasant.” “It would not be half so pleasant without your presence gracing it.” She wanted to beg him to write, or to return quickly, but was too conscious of the impropriety, especially as both the General and Val had climbed into the carriage and the footman waited only for Freddie for mount the step before closing the door. She reached out to Freddie involuntarily. He caught her hand and raised it to his lips. “Goodbye, Miss Veasey.”

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“Mr. Charteris.” Their hands parted. He turned to the carriage and disappeared into its depths. She swallowed and tightened her lips and stepped back. And then her attention was claimed by Lizzie who was doing her best to appear stalwart. Despite Lizzie’s firm belief that Freddie would be back, days passed without a word from him. Then it was a week since the three men had left. But on the tenth day, there came letters for Lizzie, one from her mother and one from Freddie. They were brought to the girls who were in a morning room, engaged in tatting and sketching. Lizzie opened first the letter from her mother, but put it down almost at once. “She has crossed and recrossed the page and I cannot make out one word in ten. I believe I will understand it better once I know what Freddie has been up to.” It proved to be so: Lizzie read Freddie’s letter aloud, well aware that Hero could scarcely contain her impatience. Dearest Lizzie, Val is safely stowed aboard the Endymion, bound for Nova Scotia. From there, he will make his way to York, which I believe is a growing settlement in Upper Canada with plenty of opportunities in trade and in soldiering, for there have been disputes enough with the Americans of late. I have furnished him with several introductions. Provided the Atlantic crossing is calm, they should make shore by mid-April. I think it unlikely that we will hear much from him before July. Meanwhile, I have spoken to my friend in the Home Department, who assures me no action will be brought against Val. It is enough that Miss Sutcliff has died and Count Stuarton has done as he undertook and embarked for Italy with his mother and son. I trust the Veaseys were not further troubled by Stuarton or his family. As for Miss Sutcliff’s henchmen, they are likely to be tried and transported. Unfortunately for them, she kept ledgers at Number Nine and did not destroy them, so there is proof enough that they were party to her schemes. You will no doubt be astonished to hear that I am much commended for my efforts and have been offered employment of a more permanent nature. I am not sure whether this will suit. I would be grateful if you could pass on my regards to the Messrs Veasey. Commend me to Miss Veasey. Ask her if I may correspond with her directly. I do not know how much longer I am to be detained in this affair, but I long to return northwards. I await your answer with impatience. With my fondest cousinly regards, F. “Write back to him at once, Lizzie, please. Tell him he must write to me immediately. Come, there will be paper and ink next door.” Hero swept her friend behind her and stood over Lizzie as she wrote a brief reply to her cousin. As soon as the letter was sealed, Hero headed for her father’s study and begged him to frank the letter and dispatch it without further delay. Then she spent the rest of the morning calculating how long it would be before she might reasonably expect a response from Freddie, imagining what he might say in a letter, how she might respond, how soon it would be before he could be expected at Cheveley. These thoughts she kept to herself, but she could not prevent them from whirring about her brain like spinning tops, even as Lizzie painstakingly deciphered her mother’s somewhat hysterical reaction to the intelligence

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that Val had left the country and provided the family with a windfall which their Charteris cousins were in the process of investing to provide a steady income and perhaps even possible dowries for the Wemyss sisters. When Lizzie suggested that it was time to leave the Veaseys in peace and make her way back to Fife, she was greeted with a chorus of dismay: both Leonard and Anthony were well aware that Hero depended on her friend. They feared that she might insist on accompanying Lizzie back to Scotland and were loath to lose her. It was established unequivocally that in remaining at Cheveley, it was the Veaseys who were imposing on her rather than the other way round. So Lizzie stayed on and the weeks lengthened. Hero was fidgety, for she daily expected some communication from Freddie, and once the post had come, she fought against dejection when day after day there was no communication addressed to her. The weather was cold, but there was no repeat of the snowy showers of early January. The sky was leaden; the wind whirled in from the east, the family kept to the snugger rooms which were easily warmed and played at cards most evenings. Hero and Lizzie occupied themselves with ensuring that those tenants who were in need were amply fed and fuelled. Following Miss Sutcliff’s activities, there had been a warm surge of affection through the estate for Miss Veasey. Conscious too that her father would quite happily disburden himself of certain aspects of managing the estate, Hero began to take on herself some of the decisions which formerly had been his alone. One afternoon, Hero found herself walking back alone from the steward’s house, a distance of a mile or so from Cheveley itself. As she made her way up the tree-lined drive, she heard the thud of hooves behind her and turned to see who the rider might be for he was clearly pushing his horse at some speed. The hood of her cloak fell back and she stood still. An elegant but weary bay horse appeared round the curve, its gallop not quite regular. She was not sure that the rider had seen her at first, but the horse slowed to a canter and then to a trot until at last she could see a face below a beaver hat. Neither of them spoke. Then Freddie slid from the saddle and slipped the reins over his horse’s head. He came forward and took Hero’s face in both gloved hands and looked once more at her like a man parched. He smiled, his eyes merry, dimples emerging in his cheeks and she could not help smiling back. Then he kissed her hard, but before she could reach for him, he pulled back and offered her his arm. “I’ve come hell for leather the last six miles. I’m not fit to touch you, not until I’ve washed away some of the road.” He reached for his horse and held out his arm to Hero. She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and together they walked towards the house. “Ivo kept me too busy sorting out this mess for me to write, and when he finally released me from his clutch, I could bear it no longer. I had to see you. There didn’t seem any point in writing when I might actually be with you. Are you very cross?” “How can I be when you put it so? I was a little downcast, I suppose.” “You were busy doubting me and thinking I’d never come to the point. But I am here, and I have come to the point. Hero, I have this very moment in my pocket a special license. If you wish it, we could be married at once.” “Yes.” “Of course,” continued Freddie, “as heiress to Cheveley, you must have obligations and you may not wish it at all, you may think my offer inappropriate.”

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“Freddie, I said yes.” “Yes. You said yes.” He stopped and looked at her again. “I cannot tell you, Hero, how much I have missed you. I thought of you almost every minute, at least, every minute that I was allowed to think of anything other than mopping up Miss Sutcliff’s imbroglio. If you do not marry me, I think I shall go quite mad. Perhaps I’ll build a little hut at the gate and you will have to pass me by and give me alms every time you leave Cheveley. I might survive on alms if they came from you.” “Freddie, I said yes.” “You did. Did I mention that I love you? I should say it was from the moment we kissed, but really, it was from the moment you looked at me so wickedly at your aunt’s house when I came to see Lizzie, and you knew exactly who I was and I had not fully understood who you were. A naughty expression, very similar to the one you have now.” “Freddie, I love you too, and we will be married this afternoon if you like.” “I daresay your father will have something to say about that, but it is what I should like above everything else. Except I would like a hot bath first, if that isn’t too prosaic. I don’t want to be married reeking of horse, however valiant the horse might be, and this one has been very valiant.” By this time, they were at the stables. A groom appeared and took Freddie’s horse. Hero led him indoors before she spoke again. “Dearest Freddie, I too would prefer it if you didn’t smell of horse when we get married. I believe it will take a little time to rouse the parson and summon my uncle and all the rest of it. Plenty of time for a bath. Leave the arrangements to me while you refresh yourself. Isn’t it strange--today it would be most improper for me to intrude on your bath, but tomorrow, I shall be entitled to come and splash water at you as much as I please.” She paused. “I don’t mean to be inquisitive, but if you have brought a change of clothes, perhaps it would be as well to let my father’s man have them so that they are freshly pressed. I’ll call the carriage to take us to the church at four o’clock.” A little dazed, Freddie watched as Hero set her household to work, absorbing him into its smooth-running cogs without any apparent effort. It was in a daze that he readied himself, not entirely able to believe that Hero had not only greeted him with warmth but accepted his offer with such efficient alacrity. It was as he was tying with a flourish his cravat that someone rapped at the door and entered without a pause. It was Anthony Veasey. The old man came to the cheval glass where Freddie was adjusting the fall of the linen and slapped him on the back. “You young dog, doing just as a fellow should. A special license, by God. I’m here to take you to the church. No time to change your mind. The carriage is waiting, and so are we. Leg-shackled by dusk.” “I never imagined she’d agree.” He turned and beamed at Anthony as the valet helped him on with his coat. “I procured the license to prove to her and your brother that I meant business. I shall be the happiest man alive at dusk.” And he was. As he waited at the church, a tidy Norman building just beyond the Cheveley wall, the pews filled with people all craning their necks to ogle him. Then the fiddle and flute tuned up and the choir began singing with surprising tunefulness and the congregation rose. Hero was framed in the nave of the church on her father’s arm, Lizzie Wemyss following behind.

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Afterwards, in the carriage home, he gathered her into his arms and kissed her as he had wished to do when he first saw her on the drive. To the west, the sun was streaking the sky with apricot and red, and to the east, the dark blue of a winter night rapidly encroached on the land. The horses swept up the avenue and they could see lights glowing from the windows of the house. “We are home, Freddie.” “Finally, my love, we are home.”

THE END