Chapter Seven
Days passed, and the Excise scout did not observe anything of interest at Portland Bill either on the land or the sea. To Bertie’s considerable surprise, however, he did receive a letter from Lady Catherine in London.
Dear Lord Herbert,
I trust you will forgive the temerity of this letter, but I thought you should know that at least one of the smugglers is in London. I have reason to think he is the man who shot at me near Fortuneswell.
He accosted me in my own mews, warning me to say nothing about who I might have heard or seen in the caves. He spoke with a West Country burr and did not sound like a gentleman.
I still do not know why the voice I heard in the caves seemed familiar. It may have been only a turn of phrase that rang a bell, so to speak. On the other hand, my attacker’s voice was one I do not recall ever hearing before.
I trust your visit is going well and that the chief constable may soon catch the smugglers.
Sincerely,
Lady Catherine
The letter alarmed Bertie considerably. Because it was thought “fast” for a well-bred young lady to write to an unmarried gentleman, he did not confide the contents to anyone. His worries for Lady Catherine increased tenfold.
As it stood, the chief constable still suspected Bertie of being the Gentleman Smuggler and insisted that he remain in Portesham until his innocence was proven.
The situation chafed Bertie fiercely for many reasons—principally because he could not get to London to stand personal guard over Lady Catherine. The only thing he could do was to write her another letter.
Oak House
Portesham, Dorset
Dear Lady Catherine,
Your letter caused me great alarm. We still wait with no success for the smugglers to make their move. This is why the man who attacked you is still at large. I suppose he could be anyone you met in Dorset. With the smugglers still undiscovered, it galls me to think of him going about so openly.
I am still in the chief constable’s sights as the villain who shot at you, so I cannot come to the capital as I long to do. I urge you to be on your guard.
Yours most sincerely,
Sir Herbert
Fuming at his uselessness, Bertie decided he would also write to Lord Robert, informing him of the unresolved situation in Dorset. It would be up to him to guard his sister.
* * *
Meals were becoming quite irksome to Bertie with the presence of Miss Gilbert. However did she and Lady Wellingham become such great friends? She had such a trivial mind and was so awkwardly flirtatious that it quite put him out of patience.
At luncheon, she remarked, “Penny has been telling me that you entertained Lady Catherine and Lord Robert Redmayne. I understand they have a home in Fortuneswell near here. Could we not go visit?”
“I am afraid they are no longer here,” said Tony. “They have gone back to London.”
“Surely not!” exclaimed Miss Gilbert. “Even I know that is the last place Lady Catherine would want to be right now.”
“What do you mean?” asked Bertie, annoyance sharpening his question.
“Surely you have heard of the scandal!” said Miss Gilbert.
“Really, Mary . . . ,” protested Lady Wellingham.
“Scandal?” echoed Bertie.
“You really are cut off here!” remarked Miss Gilbert. “Even I read of it in Northamptonshire. Of course, we subscribe to the Morning Post . . .”
Now Bertie was losing patience. “What scandal?”
Miss Gilbert leaned forward, her large eyes bulging. “She was engaged to Lord William Cumberwell. Surely you remember that! He’s the son of the Earl of Leicester, the wealthiest man in England!”
Bertie’s spirits took a dive. How could she ever be interested in a quite average baronet after a man such as Lord William Cumberwell? They had been at Oxford together. He was a devil of a good fellow, in addition to everything else.
“You say ‘was,’” said Bertie.
“That is the scandal! She cried off, and he immediately affianced himself to her very best friend, Miss Sybil Anderson! Lady Catherine left town immediately and buried herself here.”
“How very odd,” said Lady Wellingham. “Miss Anderson is a little dab of a thing. Pretty, but hardly beautiful in the class of Lady Catherine.”
“Does it not make you wonder what happened?” asked Miss Gilbert, her eyes sparkling with inquisitiveness.
“I am certain the newspapers are full of explanations,” said Beau dampeningly.
Miss Gilbert did not take the hint. “So they are. They all seem to agree that Lady Catherine must have discovered them together. Can you not imagine how painful that must have been for her?”
Bertie decided he disliked Miss Gilbert. She was not at all sympathetic to Lady Catherine, only titillated by the gossip. She was not engaged or married herself and was pleased that Lady Catherine now shared her situation.
As for himself, he was surprised how much sadness he felt on Lady Catherine’s behalf. No wonder she had looked so tragic. She had lost her best friend and her fiancé. The scandal of it could only add fuel to her unhappiness. It would take a strong heart to stand up under those challenges.
Much as he wished he could ease her pain, he knew that a mere baronet with only a gentleman’s average means would have little appeal to a marquess’s daughter who had been engaged to the heir of the wealthiest man in England. He wished he dared write her another letter, but it would only add to her unhappiness to realize she was being gossiped about as far away as Dorset.
Miss Gilbert continued to monopolize the conversation, speaking of other matters, all drawn from the scandal sheets. Bertie held his tongue in check, but he wanted badly to give her a set down.
Finally, Tony introduced the topic of horses, which always served. Soon Bertie was drawn into the conversation, talking about the horses he was training in dressage at home. Miss Gilbert was at last silenced.
* * *
The day was fine, and Bertie was desperate to get away from Miss Gilbert, who had asked him to partner her in whist. He was past caring about the strictures Lord Manning had placed upon his movement. Bertie decided to take Lady Strangeways’s mixed Scottish terrier, Mr. Hale, out for a run. The estate opened up onto sheep-dotted hills that were excellent for rambling. The little dog ran joyfully at his feet. Finding a stout stick near the path, Mr. Hale ran to Bertie with it clasped in his jaws.
After he had wrestled it away from the friendly mutt, he tossed it ahead. This was the beginning of their walk up and down the gentle hills.
Now at least he knew what Lady Catherine’s heartbreak was when he had seen her weeping into her handkerchief outside of Fortuneswell House.
What was she doing now that she was back in London? Did she have many friends there? She obviously traveled in more exalted circles than his own, as he didn’t recall ever meeting her. He knew Lord William Cumberwell from Oxford. They used to play cricket together. The man was an excellent bowler, not a bad hitter, and a fair runner. Neither of them had been the star that Tony was, but they had enjoyed themselves.
He could not imagine the Cumberwell that he knew treating a woman as Lady Catherine had been treated. He didn’t know Miss Anderson at all, but how could a woman exceed Lady Catherine in beauty? And she was brave! He could not forget the way she had handled her horse.
Bertie could not bear to think of her with a broken heart. He longed to comfort her, to spirit her away to Oxfordshire, where he could introduce her to his friends and family. Heyford Abbey was a happy place. Marianne, his widowed sister, was a gifted conversationalist and could raise even his spirits when they flagged. Her twins, Warren and Marguerite—also known as Warrie and Gweet—were engaging and an amusing entertainment with their ten-year-old antics. Bertie had his horses he was training, and Lady Catherine had proven herself an accomplished horsewoman, holding back her mount from tumbling over the cliff . . . Would she be at all receptive to his collection of Egyptian bits? Would she think his obsession with Egypt a complete oddity?
Why was he daydreaming about taking Lady Catherine to Oxfordshire? Such a thing would never happen!
To his annoyance, Mr. Hale started after a rabbit and ran off. Bertie whistled for him.
There ought to be some way he could prove his innocence and get back to London, much as he disliked it in the winter. He didn’t know precisely what he could do to help Lady Catherine, but surely he would be able to do something!
* * *
A week passed, and Bertie was heartily tired of Miss Gilbert’s company when the chief constable informed them that a group of smugglers had been caught. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been able to put their hands on the gentleman involved.
They had evidently been waiting until there was no moon. They had moved the contraband onto a boat. Followed by the Excise, they had rowed to another inlet and appeared to be waiting to offload their cargo, but their gentlemanly customer never showed.
With many a curse, they rowed back to Portland Bill beach and were in the process of stowing the liquor once more when they were arrested and their cargo impounded.
None of them professed to know the identity of the gentleman from London who was to have received their goods. They claimed that he had only appeared to them wearing a mask. None of them were able to pay the fine, since they had not sold the cargo, so they were being held in jail for an extended time.
Bertie hoped that the man who had accosted Lady Catherine was now in lockup. He asked Lord Manning to interview the smugglers once more to find out what kind of mask the gentleman wore.
“If I wear the same mask, will you allow me to go before the men and see if they can identify me?” Bertie asked.
The chief constable agreed, and Bertie carried out the experiment. As he looked at the sorry bunch of conspirators sitting in the jail cell, he wondered if Lady Catherine’s attacker was among them.
“This ain’t our gennulman,” said one of the prisoners. “He’s too tall.”
Lord Manning released Bertie but made no secret of his continued misgivings. “If you weren’t a friend of Lord Ogletree, you would be going up before the magistrate,” he said.
Worrying that the man might change his mind, Bertie packed up his belongings, took leave of his friends, and left that day for London.