Chapter Seventeen
A noisy, motley crowd packed the Bow Street magistrate’s court. Prostitutes drunk on gin set up a din while thieves flinched nervously, their fox eyes darting about. Lady Forney stood in rumpled clothes before the magistrate, her gaze roaming around the room, as if surprised to find herself in such insalubrious company. Her shoulders sagged as her confidence vanished along with her well-groomed appearance.
Beside her, Crutchet looked a hundred if a day. He kept protesting in a high-toned wailing voice that he hadn’t known the countess was involved in such extraordinary dealings. He jerked at the sharp rebuke and the deep scowl the countess gave him. Strathairn was inclined to believe him. Crutchet would never be a reliable member of a conspiracy. His mind wandered on occasion. His red-rimmed eyes blinked shortsightedly; the questioning, which had continued throughout the night, had reduced him to a befuddled and quavering state.
“What purpose took you to Seven Dials, countess?” the magistrate asked. “Mr. Irvine was shot when he followed you there.”
Apparently, made of sterner stuff than Crutchet, she straightened, widening her eyes. “I know nothing of a Mr. Irvine, sir. He followed me? Whatever for? If he was shot, it was not by me.”
“Why did you come to England?”
“How many times must I explain? While in Paris, I received a note from a man who said he had news of my husband, Count Forney. I hoped he might tell me the count was alive somewhere and unable to contact me, although in my heart I knew he was dead. When he wrote to me again in London, I went to meet him. It proved to be a ruse to persuade me to back him in some scheme. I refused and left.”
“What scheme? What was the man’s name?”
“He said his name was Smith.” She faltered as chuckles and titters rose from the crowded court, then straightened her shoulders. Strathairn admired how quickly she recovered. “I didn’t stay long enough to learn of his plan. I’m sure your Mr. Irvine, whoever he is, will confirm that I wasn’t there above a few minutes.”
“What had this Mr. Smith to say about the rifle he showed you?”
She shrugged. “I took little notice. I know nothing of guns, sir. I was disappointed and planned to return to France. I was packing when you brought me here.”
She stood her ground under a barrage of questions.
It was time to test her further. Strathairn nodded to the prosecutor.
Mr. Eacock, the man employed to watch Guy’s house and guard his child, took the stand.
“Is the woman you saw outside Lord Fortescue’s house on more than one occasion here in the court?” the magistrate asked him.
“She is, sir.” Mr. Eacock pointed at the countess. “Over there.”
“It is noted,” the magistrate said, “That the witness identifies Countess Forney.”
“I hoped to speak to the baron. I thought he might know where Forney was,” Countess Forney cried. She lowered her head and fell silent.
The magistrate banged his gavel and ordered the pair of them to Newgate to await trial at the Old Bailey. The countess crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut. She turned wild-eyed to point at Strathairn. “I will talk. But only to him.”
The countess was brought to a room where Strathairn waited. She sat on the wooden chair and swept her untidy damp hair from her face. “I’m going to hang, aren’t I?”
“Confess all and avert a serious crime, and it might go better for you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And spend the rest of my life behind bars? A short life, too, for I’ll not survive long in that place.”
“Where did the gun come from? What is Smith’s real name? Where is he now?”
“I know nothing of the gun. Smith is a Frenchman. I never learned his real name. He kept his direction from me.” She raised her eyebrows. “He would hardly take the chance that you’d torture me into revealing his whereabouts.”
“Torture is an option, certainly.” Strathairn dragged a chair up with his foot. He sat down, his knee almost touching hers. “Why don’t you tell the truth?” he said. “It’s your only chance.”
Disturbed by his gentle tone and his proximity, her fingers worked at her hair again, busily tidying away the stray strands sticking to her damp forehead. “What will you do for me?”
“All that I can.”
She snapped her fingers. “Poof. Nothing, in other words.”
“You have little choice, for if you don’t…” He let the words hang in the air.
“I don’t know what else I can tell you!”
“I don’t believe you, Lady Forney.”
“Blood doesn’t come from a stone.”
Strathairn stood, hiding his anger and frustration. “Then we’ll see how you feel after a few nights in Newgate Prison.”
As the days passed, it became clear that the mysterious Frenchman, Smith, had gone into hiding. He’d failed to return to the house in Seven Dials. Inquiries as to the owner of the house had turned up a deceased estate. With no one to claim it, it fell into ruin.
Conscious of the urgency of the situation, Strathairn visited Newgate for another attempt at making the countess talk. Her wild gaze flew to meet his when he entered the crowded, putrid cell where inmates spent the daylight hours. Her gown was soiled, and her chin wobbled, but she stubbornly clamped her lips refusing to answer his questions. He reminded her of the inevitability of her fate and left, discouraged. He’d begun to doubt she’d crack. Was her determination to see this through to its dastardly end stronger than her need to survive? Or did she act to protect her husband? Could Forney be behind this?
While at Bow Street, Strathairn employed a runner to inquire into Lord Coombe’s activities. Once home, he penned a letter to Governor Montserrat in Antigua and another to the authorities in Bristol. Coombe’s sly threat worried him more than if the man had taken a swing at him or slapped his face with his glove. The man proved a disturbing mystery. No one of Strathairn’s acquaintance knew him, so he sought out Edward who had introduced him to the family.
They met on horseback in the park that afternoon.
Edward, who worked as a solicitor rode into view on a roan. “I haven’t long, Strathairn,” he said. “I need to get back to see a client. Your note said you wished to discuss Coombe.”
“Do you have any concerns about him?”
“Can’t accuse him of being a charmer,” Edward said. “And the poor chap hasn’t a chance with you around.”
Strathairn glowered at him as they trotted the horses down the Row. “You introduced him to Sibella. Did you or Chaloner feel the need to check the man out?”
“He was in the same year up at Oxford. Seemed a fairly conservative fellow. Not a close friend of mine, however.”
“No, can’t see you taking up with a conservative in those days,” Strathairn said.
Edward grinned. “Touché. According to Chaloner, he’s suitable husband material for Sib. Young widower, good breeding, plump in the pocket. Neat estate in Chiddingston. Sibella would be Maria’s neighbor when her husband became duke. That should count for something.”
“Would it? But what is your opinion of the man?”
“Honestly? Haven’t warmed to him particularly on closer acquaintance. But I told Sibella not to take him until she was quite sure. No one has pushed her into this, Stathairn.”
“Not forcibly perhaps.”
“My advice is to let it go, Strathairn. Sib can’t be happy while you’re aways watching over her.”
Strathairn raised his eyebrows. “I’m seen to watch over her?” Perhaps Coombe had a point.
“Your friends are aware how much you care for her, and if you don’t, you’re fooling yourself.” Edward gave a half-hearted shrug. “I’d like to see you both happy even if it’s not together. Dinner at White’s Saturday evening?” He touched his hat and road away before Strathairn could reply.
Despite Edward’s warning, Strathairn became more determined. He’d know this man inside out before he and Sibella tied the knot. If he proved to be all that he presented to the world, even if Strathairn didn’t care for him personally, well he’d have to live with it. Meanwhile, he had a dangerous mission to get his teeth into.
With a hoy, Lord Montsimon rode up to him. Strathairn turned to greet him, relieved to have some cheerful company.
*
Sibella eyed the thin-winged swallow gliding on the air above the trees. The soft mat of autumn leaves covered the ground and muffled the horses’ hooves as they cantered along Rotten Row, steam from their nostrils rising in the cold air. She blinked as an icy breeze rushed across her cheeks and laughed at a witty observation Althea Brookwood had made, while riding beside her. Light of heart, Sibella was almost like her old self as Coombe had returned to his country manor to attend to business matters. She hated riding with him, disliking the way he handled his horse. He whipped the animal at the slightest provocation, which made the animal even more intractable.
Althea turned in the saddle. “Montsimon and Strathairn ride behind us.”
Sibella resisted the urge to look over her shoulder as her heart began its cursed drumming. She gripped the reins tightly. Would she never be immune to Strathairn? Giving in to the impulse, she turned her head. Both handsome men looked very much at home on horseback as they approached. Enough to turn any lady’s head. She cast a sidelong glance at Althea, but she had lowered her gaze.
“A chilly day, ladies.” Strathairn reined in beside her. His gaze met hers with an odd intensity, making her start. As if he read her thoughts and discovered her plan. Even though he had no idea what she was about to do, he still unnerved her. She hated keeping secrets from him. Dishonesty didn’t sit well with her. She had sworn Maria to secrecy, and thankfully, their paths would not cross until after she’d been to Arrowtree Park.
Montsimon’s wavy dark-brown hair sprang back from a widow’s peak when he pulled off his hat. Appreciation warmed his thickly lashed gray eyes. She guessed many women would find him attractive, doubly so, because he was fond of women and seemed relaxed in their company.
“You are both dressed for the cooler weather,” he said in his soft Irish lilt. “And quite charmingly, I might add.” His gaze lingered somewhat longer on Althea. She did look gorgeous in a royal-blue velvet habit trimmed with ermine, a matching hat perched on her golden locks.
“How gallant you are, Lord Montsimon,” Sibella said.
Althea sagged in the saddle and put a hand to her forehead. “Sibella—my lords, forgive me, my head has begun to ache most abominably. I fear I shall have to return home.”
Concerned, Sibella stared at her. How odd. She hadn’t mentioned a headache before now. “That is indeed a shame, my dear. I’ll accompany you, of course.”
“No, please continue to enjoy the day. I’ll be perfectly all right once I’ve taken a little willow bark and rested in a darkened room.”
“Allow me to escort you home, Lady Brookwood,” Lord Montsimon said.
“Kind of you, my lord, but entirely unnecessary.” Althea’s tone brooked no argument. “My groom will accompany me.”
After Althea left the park riding with her groom, Montsimon’s expression became abstracted. “I believe I’ll ride on. Good day, Lady Sibella. Tonight at the club, Strathairn?”
“Does something go on between those two?” Sibella asked.
“No, nor ever likely to.” Strathairn angled his fine stallion alongside her horse. “Lord Coombe doesn’t ride with you today?”
“He’s visiting his estate.”
“Then may I see you home?”
“There’s no need. Cordia and her husband, Viscount Barthe are here with friends.” She glanced along Rotten Row. “I believe they’re not far ahead of us.”
“When does the family retire to Brandreth Park?”
“Tomorrow. Our stay will be short, however. We must prepare for Maria and Harry’s wedding.” She was careful not to hint at their visit to Harry’s parents. “Coombes and mine follows soon after.” She almost choked on the words when her chest fluttered like a frightened bird. She dropped her gaze to the reins in her hands afraid he’d see the dread in her eyes.
“I’m pleased I’ve found you alone.”
At the tone of his voice, she tensed, and her gaze flew to his face. “Why?”
“What happened at the ball to upset you?”
Sibella bit her lip. Those handsome eyes of his missed little. “Upset? I hardly think… Well at one point, I was cross, I admit.” She laughed and said in a careless tone. “Lovers will quarrel, you know.”
Strathairn’s eyebrows rose. “Lovers?”
“We are about to marry, Strathairn.”
“Then what I witnessed was nothing of consequence?”
“A small disagreement ’tis all,” she said airily, casting him a sidelong glance.
“Something’s wrong. It’s clear by looking at you.” His lips firmed. Lips that had taken hers in passionate kisses she would never be able to forget.
“That’s not flattering, Strathairn. Perhaps you require lessons in charm from Lord Montsimon. I was enjoying the day before you came.”
He scowled. “Dammit! You’re being evasive. I know you too well, Sibella.”
“Nonsense. Men find women very difficult to understand. My brothers constantly tell me so. And being my friend does not allow you to curse in my presence.”
“Then I apologize. Now, what happened to bring you so low?” He leaned toward her with intent in his eyes.
She shivered. If she didn’t explain, would he whisk her off the horse and into the bushes?
She dropped her gaze. “Maria believes Coombe is jealous of you.”
He nodded. “I believe he is.”
She stared at him. “Did he say something to you?”
“He was angry.”
She steadied her mount. “I’m sorry that happened. He’s hard to understand at times,” she confessed. Then immediately wished she hadn’t, for Strathairn sat up straighter in the saddle.
“Your brother made enquiries into Coombe’s past?”
“I expect so.”
He eyed her. “I believe I’ll do some digging into the man’s history myself.”
“Thank you, but really, it’s not necessary. I’m quite capable of… Look, there is Roland. Cordelia is with him.” Relieved, she nudged her horse’s flank.
With a scowl, Strathairn made to grab her reins. “Sibella you’re not going to—”
“Roland, Cordelia, come join us.” She welcomed the disruption, fearing Strathairn would continue to interrogate her until he wrestled the truth from her.
It was his job after all, and she was sure he was very good at it. She would not allow him to become involved. Coombe had warned her, and even though Strathairn could hold his own in any company, she knew him to be honorable, and she had begun to suspect that Lord Coombe was not. That way might lead to tragedy. She turned to talk to her brother as a sad little voice deep inside told her she would never know the thrill of surrendering herself to the hard, demanding, overpowering passion of a man like Strathairn.