Chapter Thirteen

Tony sat alone at his club after lunch and stared out the window. He had sent Howie down to Southbrooke after his debts had exceeded his allowance. The scene had not been pretty. Tony could not understand his brother’s self-destructive behavior. Did it have anything to do with Tony’s plans for the stud farm? Was he just trying to find an interest in life?

It would be rotten to be a second son. Maybe he shouldn’t go forth with his plans. If it gave Howie a purpose, it would be well worthwhile to keep the stud. Tony was wealthy enough to renovate the cottages with money from the estate.

He mentally went on to his next problem. Virginia. He wanted to see her so much that he found it hard to remain in his chair. Memories of finding her beneath the oak branches overcame him. The tenderness he felt for her had surprised him. How could he care for someone so much when he scarcely knew her? Carrying her in his arms had seemed so natural, so very right.

Since the discovery of the man called Sagethorn, he was forced to admit that she could be a spy. It made sense on a purely mental level, but his heart said differently.. Could he not just ask her who the bloke was?

Suddenly deciding on this course of action, he would have left to go to Shipley House but for the appearance of Bertie. He had forgotten they had agreed to a horse race to Richmond and back. It was exactly what he needed.

As he virtually flew all the way to Richmond on his stallion, Virginia was in his thoughts. Instinct told him it would be impossible for her to be underhanded in any way. But he knew her far less than he had known Pamela, and that lady had proved to be false to the core. Whatever they had, it had meant nothing.

Having lost the race, Tony owed Bertie dinner that evening.

“Where is your head, old boy?” his friend asked him. “It was not on the race.”

“You’re right. “

He told Bertie about Sagethorn. “It has me flummoxed,” he said. “Can’t imagine who the fellow can be. I put a runner onto him.”

“Wise. Can’t believe the woman to be false.”

“That’s the trouble. I can’t believe it myself.” Suddenly tired of discussing the matter, he confided Howie’s problems to his friend. “I’ve decided to keep the stud operation. He needs an occupation.”

“Another wise move. Glad you’ll not be selling Ares.”

The conversation thus switched to horses.

* * *

Tony had a bad night and woke with the certainty that he could not go another day without determining whether Virginia was friend or foe. There was no word as yet from Sandby, so he decided he would ask Virginia herself.

When he was shown into the sitting room where she was embroidering that morning, she was accompanied by her aunt and Mr. Tisdale.

“Good morning, Strangeways,” Tisdale greeted him. “Heard about your race yesterday at the club. Bad luck.”

“Men and their horses!” said Lady Ogletree.

“Actually, I like horses very well,” said Miss Livingstone. “It will be very nice to move to Dorset when the Season is over so that I can ride again.”

“Humph,” said Lady Ogletree.

“I came to ask if you would like to go for a walk with me, Miss Livingstone. It is a lovely morning,” Tony said.

“Oh! That would be very nice,” she replied, abandoning her embroidery. Her aunt’s face showed disapproval, but she said nothing. Tisdale looked as though he might object, but Tony knew very well he hadn’t any grounds for such a thing.

The fellow threw them a black look, but Virginia did not acknowledge it. As soon as they were out of the house, he said, “Your aunt’s nephew doesn’t like me much.”

She said, “Whatever he thinks, he has no rights where I’m concerned.”

Taking her hand, he put it through his arm. “Good.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

The morning was bright and sunny for a change, but there was a cool breeze. As usual of a London morning, there were not many people abroad. A few carriages and single riders drove along the street.

“Does it matter?”

“Not really. I was just making conversation.”

It felt so pleasant to have her at his side, he was loath to disturb her spirits.

“Is that a new gown?”

“How perceptive of you! It actually fits, doesn’t it?” She gave an impish grin.

“Very nicely, in fact.”

Her hand tightened on his arm, and she looked up at him with a teasing sparkle in her eyes. “Arabella Saunders went with me yesterday to your mother’s dressmaker. You shall soon not have to blush for me.”

The devil! He wanted to take her in his arms right there in the street and kiss her senseless.

“Were you wearing a sack, I shouldn’t blush for you.”

Her hand trembled on his arm. “Lord Strangeways!”

Putting a hand over hers, he said, “Surely you can guess how much I admire you!”

“But you scarcely know me! And . . . and I am an American, lest you forget.” She looked up at him, wonder in the doelike eyes, her full lips trembling. “Shall you still admire me when I am an ocean away?”

Her question startled him. He had never forgotten she was an American, of course, but for some reason he had forgotten her intent to return there. An ache took up residence in his heart. He breathed in deeply before replying, “My admiration is certainly not contingent on your nationality.”

She was quiet. Eventually she remarked, “It is a lovely morning. The rain last night washed away the coal smoke.”

“Do you find the coal a bother?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. Remember, I’m a country girl. I enjoyed those days we spent at Southbrooke.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” This was the opening he needed. “Speaking of Southbrooke, my butler, Reams, said a Mr. Sagethorn called on you there. Who in blazes is Mr. Sagethorn? A rival for your affections?”

The hand on his arm tightened before she drew it back. “Mr. Sagethorn? I wish . . . I wish I could tell you. He claims he knows me, but of course I don’t remember him. Not at all!”

She was really quite distressed, and it hurt him to see it. “Was he imposing on you?”

“Yes. Yes, he was. He wanted to trade on a relationship that we supposedly have.”

“The blighter! Where is he to be found? I’ll set him straight!”

Her eyes would no longer meet his. “I sent him away. I don’t think he’ll bother me anymore.”

Tony thought her voice didn’t sound entirely certain. Wait until Sandby found him! He would settle Sagethorn’s hash.

A cold wind sprang up, and a small cloud blocked the sun. Virginia shivered. He took her hand once more and placed it on his sleeve.

“May we go in now?” she asked. “It is cold, after all.”

“We shall. You did not wear your pelisse.”

Smiling impishly, she said, “Of course not. I wanted you to admire my new dress.”

* * *

He found Beau lunching at the club and joined him. Today his friend wore his pale-blue suit—one of his more egregious ensembles.

“Ah, Tony! Just the man I need to see. I want to inquire into the health of Miss Livingstone.”

Beau was a friend since Oxford days, and they had shared many an exploit prior to his friend’s recent marriage. Not too long ago, Tony had helped the now Lady Wellingham nurse Beau back to health after an injury that nearly felled him for good. Their friendship had deep roots. However, his insistence on making Miss Livingstone a villain was like a great nagging toothache.

“Come now, Beau. It is not her health you care about,” said Tony.

“Has her memory returned?”

“No.” Tony ordered a glass of claret and a steak-and-kidney pie.

“She is a stunner,” his friend said.

“Do you think so?” asked Tony. “She is not beautiful in the conventional fashion, but I find her appealing. The whole package, actually.”

“Careful. If you are in danger of falling for the lady, you had best find out her political stripe.” Beau was addressing his luncheon with enthusiasm, further annoying Tony.

“You mean whether she is a spy,” he replied dryly.

“No news in that direction, I suppose?”

Tony decided not to tell his friend about Sagethorn. Not used to being evasive where Beau was concerned, he grew uncomfortable. “Nothing to report.”

“Penelope plans on calling on her soon to extend a dinner invitation. We shall include you, of course. Who are her other friends?”

“Let me guess. You are hoping to trap her in your library or some such nonsense.”

“I think it a fine plan,” Beau said.

Tony ruminated on this. It probably was a good plan. If she showed no interest in his private papers, perhaps Beau would give up. But if she did . . . well, then they would both know.

“She likes the Ruisdells very well. And she has a dreadful relation—the Honorable George Tisdale—staying with her aunt. You had probably better invite the two of them.”

“Why, if he’s so dreadful?”

“I believe the aunt is trying to instigate a marriage between them. Inviting the aunt means Miss Livingstone will be able to accept the invitation. And where Lady Ogletree goes, the Honorable George goes. Lady Ogletree certainly doesn’t like me above half.”

“Is she really such an ogre?”

“Dreadful woman. I was forced to entertain her at Southbrooke, and nothing pleased her. She showed no concern for her niece whatsoever. She keeps her on a very tight rein.”

Beau appeared to ponder this. “Sounds very unpleasant, indeed.” Then he gave one of his quick smiles. “Never mind. I don’t think I told you, but Ernest is home on shore leave. He will be there.”

“It will be good to see the fellow. But how is this going to work with Miss Livingstone? Surely he will want to share news of the war.”

“I will warn him in advance not to share anything about future strategy. I think he wouldn’t do so, in any case.”

“Howie would be happy to see him had I not sent him to Southbrooke.”

“What is that about?”

“Gambling. He has exceeded his allowance again. I have decided to keep the stud operation to give him another interest in life.”

“Wise move, most likely. I hope it pays off.”

“The party sounds a jolly one,” said Tony.

“I hope for your sake that it doesn’t end in an arrest.”

“It won’t. Then perhaps you will forget all this nonsense about her being a spy.”

* * *

When Tony returned home after lunch, he realized his good mood of the morning had vanished. Once again he was tied in metaphorical knots. The devil take this business!

He found a note waiting for him from Mr. Sandby, his Bow Street runner.

 

My lord,

Had a bit of luck. Started in the East End and found the fellow for you pretty quick. Not many Americans there! He’s lodging at 117 South Street.

Sandby

 

That was fast! After changing into less conspicuous clothes, Tony set out by cab for the East End. Maybe he would be able to settle this business one way or the other, but he dreaded the meeting.

The smells of rotting horse dung, sewage, and boiled cabbage assailed him as he arrived in the poorest section of London. It always smote his conscience to see this side of his city.

Driving past the duchess’s Soup Kitchen for Wounded Soldiers with its long line of men wearing ragged, dirty uniforms, his heart went out to the woman for conceiving such a compassionate project. The Duchess of Ruisdell was one in a million. Would that he could find such a lady.

When they arrived at the address Sandby had given him, he paid the jarvey, walked up the stoop to the dwelling, and hammered the tarnished door knocker. A shrunken lady in an apron worn over a faded-blue dress greeted him. She could have been anywhere from forty years old to seventy.

“I am here to visit Mr. Sagethorn.”

“At his pub, most loikely. Spotted Pig. Over ’t the market.”

Tipping the woman a shilling, which should keep her in food for several weeks, he took his leave and made his way among the urchins playing heedlessly in the street. His destination was Covent Garden. There, smitten by the smell of the fish market, he maneuvered through displays of fresh berries, apricots, and turnips. Dodging sides of beef and lamb, he finally located the Spotted Pig. It was a large low-beamed pub, smelling of ale and unwashed men. Consisting of a big common room, it had one large fireplace and no private parlors that he could see. How was he to find Sagethorn?

He bought a pint of bitters at the bar and settled in a booth, looking over the patrons. At this time of day, the market was still open, so patrons were fewer than they might be. He studied each man present. If only he’d thought to get a description from Reams!

He dismissed the men in shabby uniforms—wounded, home from the war on the Peninsula—and concentrated on the men drinking alone. Most of them looked like men down on their luck, dressed in soiled, torn clothing. There was one fellow, however, dressed in brown, reading the Post.

Tony decided to risk it. He picked up his pint and walked over to the man’s table.

“Mr. Sagethorn?” he asked.

The man looked up quickly. “Who’s asking?”

“Viscount Strangeways. You visited my home in Kent a few days ago.” He held out a hand, and the man rose to his feet and shook it.

He was a person anyone would miss in a crowd. His one distinguishing feature was an exceptionally long and pointed nose. For some reason he reminded him of a rat. Tony sat. How was this unpromising fellow connected to the guileless Miss Livingstone?

“You are an American, I understand. You came to visit my friend Miss Livingstone at Southbrooke Hall.”

“As a matter of fact, you’re right. She’s a friend from Virginia. I read about her accident in the Post. I wanted to make sure she was all right.”

“What exactly are you doing here in England with the war between our countries?”

The man’s eyes narrowed with hostility. “What gives you the right to question me?”

He noticed that the man’s voice was more clipped and had less of the relaxed drawl Miss Livingstone’s had. Almost certainly not from the Southern states. Tony decided a little intimidation was called for. “I am taxed with this mission by the Foreign Office.”

Alarm leapt into the man’s eyes, but it was soon replaced by cunning. He looked more than ever like a rat. “I was in this country when the war broke out. Down on my luck now. I’m a cotton merchant. Can’t negotiate any deals with this war on and can’t get home either.”

“I suppose you can provide me with references? Englishmen who know you to be in the cotton business?”

“If I must.”

Tony removed a notebook and pencil from his coat pocket. Sagethorn gave him three names of men who lived in Lancashire and Yorkshire, where Tony knew the cotton weaving industry was centered. He wrote them in his book.

“And how are you acquainted with Miss Livingstone?”

“I was employed as an agent to sell cotton for her father. I heard he had died and she was living here. Then I ran across the notice in the Post about her accident. Knew her father would want me to check on her and see that she was doing all right.”

His first mistake. If he had been here since the war started when correspondence between the two countries had been impounded, how could he have received news of Mr. Livingstone’s death and his daughter’s residence in London? Only with a smuggled communication to that effect, possibly through the American War Office.

Tony let the lapse pass. He didn’t yet want the man to know he was on to him.

“Very well. But you are a hostile individual in a country at war. I need to register your address with the Foreign Office. If you move anywhere, you need to inform me.” Tony passed the man his card, hoping he would believe his bluff. “If you try to disappear, we will find you.”

Sagethorn sneered at him, rose from the table, and walked out without a word. With sudden decision, Tony dispatched himself back to Bow Street.

Sandby sat in the dim office, feet on his desk, paring his fingernails.

“You did a good job, Mr. Sandby. I just returned from speaking to Mr. Sagethorn. I suspect he will try to hop it. I’d like you to follow him for the next few days and send me a daily report.” Tony slapped a guinea on the counter. “Here is a deposit.”

The man with the sleepy eye rose and said, “Will do, yer lordship. Glad to be of service.”

Tony retired to his club for the remainder of the afternoon, where he played piquet with Bertie. He played badly, the problem of Miss Livingstone not far from his mind.

He was positive Sagethorn was up to no good, but what did that mean for Miss Livingstone? Perhaps he had imposed upon her for a loan, claiming to be a family friend?

If there was a reasonable explanation, mightn’t she fail to remember it? She had no memories from after the death of her parents.

On the other hand, he had not much doubt that spying or some other illegal game was Sagethorn’s business. He could not picture a successful planter such as Miss Livingstone’s father dealing with such a shady character.

After losing his final game to Bertie, he asked, “What is your opinion of Miss Livingstone?”

“Why do you need my opinion?” his friend asked. “It is clear you are potty about her.”

Tony sighed heavily. “A very dodgy individual, an American, called on her at Southbrooke in my absence. Do you think it possible that she is an American spy?”

“A spy?” Bertie’s eyebrows shot up, and he chuckled. “Whatever put that idea into your brainbox?”

“Beau is convinced of it, and he doesn’t even know about the dodgy character.”

“Seems a very unlikely spy to me. Asked her about this fellow?”

“She claims that she does not remember him. That he imposed upon her some way. She was quite shaken when I asked her about him.”

Bertie took out his pipe and began filling it. As usual he was slow and methodical. Finally, he said, “Since he visited her at Southbrooke, stands to reason you have a right to know who he is. Ten to one, there’s a good explanation.”

Cheered as always by Bertie’s comfortable logic, Tony decided he could do nothing but wait on events.