lines had replaced laugh lines in the young man’s suddenly old face. He took another draught of the watered-down liquid before him. “Tell me, Peter, why in bloody hell does the constable believe I am selling secrets to the French?”
Carstairs narrowed his eyes as the boy settled uncomfortably onto the hard chair. He chose his next words carefully. “I was as shocked as you when I heard the news. Perhaps you met some untrustworthy chaps during your stay with me, and they gave your name to the constable in order to save their own.”
Rupert’s eyes widened in dismay. “But I was with you. The only blokes I met were your friends.”
“Yes, and I am afraid even I do not trust everyone within my acquaintance. I did try on your behalf to defend you. I told the constable you were only my relative come for a visit, and being of true English stock could not possibly be guilty of treason.” He raised his hands and shrugged. “But alas, he maintains he has proof of greater conviction than the weight of my words.”
Rupert, resting his head in his hands, looked up to catch his cousin’s last words. “Proof? What proof?” he sputtered.
Carstairs heaved a sigh. He needed more time to think. “Rupert, listen to me. Your running away from the authorities only convinces them of your guilt. Stay tonight with me and tomorrow we will visit my solicitor. I am sure he will find a way out of this coil, he’s very clever.”
“But what about Lord Londringham? Have they not caught him yet? You told me he is the man they seek.”
“Yes, well, unfortunately, Londringham is still unfamiliar with the inside of a gaol. He has been very clever, that man, clever enough to cover his tracks.”
“I suppose an earl is better at eluding justice than a mere baronet’s brother.”
“Come now, not so gloomy. We shall take you home and let Mrs. Keene make up a bed for you. Tomorrow, we will see to everything.” The viscount rose and started toward the door, calling over his shoulder, “My horse is outside, you can ride behind me.”
Rupert caught up with him, his step livelier with restored optimism. “Thank you, Cousin, for your kindness. I am sorry to be such a nuisance. You see, the family is in a state over me, especially my sister.”
“Naturally. Let us discuss this more tomorrow.”
When they arrived back at Loganmoor, Carstairs’s estate, the housekeeper gave him a filling repast and then led the exhausted young man to his bed.
Alone in his study, the viscount’s smile faded and annoyance hardened his rough countenance. Rupert’s reappearance proved a lump in the pudding, but would not disrupt his neatly arranged plans to be on a ship for America in the morning.
Assuring himself of his deft handling of his young cousin’s affairs, he began to gather his important papers to take with him. And the Devil took his due.
The new morning dawned bright for Rupert. Confident that his troubles would soon be over, he whistled as he dressed, eager to grab his fate by the tail. He trotted down the stairs, aware of the household sounds of clanging pots, clinking silver, and servants’ voices—the normal morning routine.
On his way to breakfast, he noticed that the French doors leading from the viscount’s study to the balcony were open, and he ventured inside. The smile drained from his lips as he viewed the study in shock: papers strewn on the floor, books toppled from their shelves, a disaster.
Then he saw him. Lord Carstairs lay face-down on the floor, dried blood staining the Oriental carpet beneath his body. Rupert knelt down and rolled the prone figure over, confirming what he already knew. The vacant death stare told the gruesome story.
Horrified, he rose and continued to stare at the body, shaking his head. Who had killed his cousin, and why? Would he be next? Now he had no one to help him.
“Murderer!” screamed the housemaid.
In deep thought, he didn’t realize anyone was nearby. He frowned, looking at the young girl before he stumbled toward her, holding out his hand, but she threw up her hands and ran shrieking for help. Soon footsteps and anxious voices echoed in the hall.
After quickly considering his options, Rupert decided to flee and plan his defense from a safer distance than prison. He ran through the balcony archway onto the garden steps. Barely pausing, he bent to retrieve a shoe buckle glistening in the early dew, then raced out into the mist-dampened morning.
The carriage tilted and swayed over the bumpy, dusty road from Winchelsea. On their trip to Paddock Green, their new place of employment, Colette and Patience discussed Patience’s plan.
Colette shook her head in resignation. “I still cannot understand why you believe the earl is responsible for your brother’s plight.”
Patience studied the Sussex landscape of rolling hills in distraction before looking over at her friend and tucking a loose strand of hair back under her mobcap.
“Both my brother and our cousin Lord Carstairs are convinced it is the earl who is selling information to French agents, and that he has informed against Rupert to throw suspicion from himself. Our cousin says even the constable has his men watching the earl.”
Colette pounced on Patience’s remark. “There, you see. If the constable’s men have yet to convict the earl, why ever do you believe you can succeed where they have failed?”
“Perhaps because I have more at stake,” she replied softly.
“This could be very dangerous.”
Patience nodded. “I know,” and added more cheerily, “I feel so fortunate that I met you on the post chaise. It has been nice to have a friend to confide in. Without your entrée into his household, I would still be thinking of some way to have the earl arrested.” She still marveled her luck in meeting a young woman her age traveling from Storrington to Winchelsea. With their dark brown hair and hazel eyes, many of the other passengers thought them sisters.
Colette replied in her lilting French accent. “I hope we both do not live to regret your masquerade as a still-room maid. You, the sister of a baronet.” She waved her hand. “La, you English girls are much more adventurous than we French counterparts. I am happy being a simple lady’s maid to the countess.”
Shrugging, Patience returned to watching out the window, and wondered what the next few days or months would bring. The carriage rocked past workers planting in the fields and foot travelers on their journey home from the fair. Ripened to nature’s glory, the spring splendor of the countryside unraveled along the ribbon of road bedecked with new grass and budding trees.
Even the brilliant landscape could not help Patience forget her purpose. But for the horrible picture of Rupert swinging from Tyburn, she would have had the carriage turn around and head back to Winchelsea. Palms moist, she smoothed down her apron over her light gray dress, presuming it would be suitable for her position as a still-room maid. The mobcap and spectacles she hoped would prove a fine disguise from the earl, especially after their unexpected meeting last night.
At last, the post chaise creaked through massive iron gates, signaling the journey’s near end. Patience stared out the window, her mouth agape. Majestic sycamore trees stood along both sides of the carriageway in welcome. The newly green-carpeted lawns stretched for miles in early-spring beauty dotted with a sprinkling of mischievous dandelions.
