The Viscount's Dangerous Liaison: Regency romantic mystery (Dangerous Deceptions Book 3) Page 4

  He expected a shrug, but the curate nodded. ‘I know. It puzzles me also. I have searched the parish records and can find no references to the Flyte family, let alone that particular burial. There is no old manor in the parish that might have belonged to them – I even scoured ancient maps to see if something was demolished many years ago. There are some old documents and notebooks I found recently in a cupboard behind rotten boards in the vestry, but the writing is hard to read and I confess I have yet to persist with them. My predecessors did not appear to have much respect for paperwork and there are certainly entries that should have been transcribed into the registers. They might hold a clue.’

  The Curate leaned forward and with his forefinger traced the outline of a sailing ship that some bored churchgoer had scored into the wood of the pew. ‘I did wonder if perhaps he had been drowned off the coast here, his body brought to this church and then his family decided to have him buried at this spot,’ he continued. ‘But then one would expect a reference to that on the inscription and there is none, although it is hard to read and I might have missed something.’

  ‘What about the coats of arms?’ Theo stood up. ‘Let’s go and take a closer look.’

  Outside, they hunkered down beside the tomb and squinted at the incised designs but could identify nothing in particular. ‘If I bring some strong paper and some black wax I can make a rubbing of them, then we can study them more closely and with books of reference at hand.’ Thwaite sat back on his heels and bit his lip. ‘But I am presuming, sir.’

  ‘You most certainly are not and it is an excellent idea.’ Theo stopped tracing the outline of what looked suspiciously like a fat domestic pig, but was probably meant to be a wild boar, and decided that he liked William Thwaite. ‘I should have introduced myself. I am Theo Quenten, Viscount Northam, and I am staying at the house of my absent friend, Lord Manners.’

  ‘My lord.’ Thwaite got to his feet.

  ‘Theo.’ He stood too and held out his hand. ‘Cambridge man, William?’

  ‘Oxford. And I go by Will to my friends. My father is Sir Charles Thwaite and I’m the youngest of four. We’re a Suffolk family.’

  ‘So, your place is in the church.’ Heir, army, navy, church was the usual order of career for the sons of the gentry. ‘How did you come to be in Norfolk?’

  ‘No family influence in the church,’ Will admitted, leaning one hip against the tomb. ‘I had hoped for a town parish, if I am to be honest, not three remote rural ones, but I found there is much to be done and that is satisfying.’

  ‘Three parishes?’

  ‘The Reverend Aldous Finch holds the livings – Fellingham, Hempbourne, where he lives, and Hempbourne Marish. This is Hempbourne Marish. The village vanished long ago, it seems, but there’s the folk at Smoker’s Hole and scattered farms all over the parish. I am his curate.’

  ‘And do all the work,’ Theo guessed.

  Will shrugged ruefully. ‘That’s the way of it with well-connected rectors and vicars.’

  ‘And is there a Mrs Thwaite?’ He assumed not, or Will would look as though he had a square meal on a regular basis and his cuffs would not be fraying.

  ‘No, I have a way to go before I can look for a wife. Is there a Lady Northam?’

  Theo shook his head. ‘Not yet. Look, Manners won’t mind me inviting guests – why not dine with me one evening? You can bring your rubbings of the tomb and your mouldering papers and we’ll ransack Perry’s library for armorial references. I’d suggest a date now, but I’m waiting to hear from Swinburn – he invited me to dinner when I met him and his sons this morning and he wasn’t certain of his wife’s commitments.’

  ‘You are a friend of Sir Walter?’ Was it his imagination or had Will withdrawn slightly?

  ‘Not at all. Only met him this morning. They were out riding, we introduced ourselves and I suppose he felt an obligation to a friend of a neighbour. Like an idiot I’d mixed my dates up and Perry’s away from home, but as I said, he’ll be happy to give me the run of the place. The Swinburns are not friends of yours then?’

  ‘Humble curates are not amongst their social circle,’ Will said, a trifle stiffly. ‘The Reverend Finch is Sir Walter’s brother-in-law. Mrs Finch was Annemarie Swinburn, by his father’s first wife.’

  ‘In that case I can confess that I did not warm to them, but it would not do to snub Perry’s neighbours. If you give me your direction I will send as soon as I know what dates are free, in the hope you can join me.’

  ‘I would like that a great deal.’ Will dug into his pocket and passed Theo a card. ‘I lodge with the Fellingham churchwarden and his wife. They are good people and need the rent, but Mrs Lubbock’s not the best of cooks, poor lady, not with her bad eyes.’

  Which also explains the fraying cuffs, Theo deduced. ‘The other mystery around here is the smuggling,’ he said, as he strolled down to the gate, Will companionably at his side. ‘Does that still go on much hereabouts? We were invaded by the local Riding Officer yesterday. He gave our cellars a thorough inspection while he was at it.’

  They’d reached the gate. Will held it open for Theo, closed it behind him, then leaned on it. ‘There are smuggling parsons and then there are curates who are regarded as in-comers, if not foreigners, from Suffolk. If I fell over a pony-train of brandy casks outside my front door they’d swear I had a brain fever rather than admit to it. But yes, it goes on and it’s a messy business – gold paid to the French, endless snippets of intelligence leaking out, huge profits in some pockets – and violence to protect the business.’ He put on the hat he’d been holding. ‘I would not hand one of my parishioners over to the law for it, but I would do my best to stop them, if I could put names to the smugglers. I preach against it, for what good that does with the local gentry supporting it.’

  ‘Then take care. I’ll send as soon as I know when I’ll be free.’ Theo shook hands and took the path down to the coast road again, his boot heels skidding on the loose pebbles, sending a cock pheasant flapping into the hedge with a cry of alarm. He thought he had just made a friend and that was a good feeling.

  He took the coast road back towards Mannerton Grange. The sun was well up now, he’d been walking since breakfast and the thought of a pint of ale was powerfully attractive, even if he had to walk all the way to Fellingham to find an inn.

  The road wound along, hugging the contours, a high hedge on the landward side and a drain and then the flat marshes spreading out towards the shingle sea bank on the other. Theo was so deep in contemplation of the mysterious tomb that the appearance around the next bend of a whitewashed, sprawling building took him by surprise. The walls, rising one storey, were made of the local flints, the roof with a few haphazard dormer windows, was of the typical red pantiles of the district and smoke curled from the chimneys.

  A weathered sign on the other side of the road creaked in the wind, displaying a double-tailed mermaid with long hair admiring herself in a hand mirror. Theo looked up at her and shivered. This was no seaside seductress, this was a creature of the deep with an expression that boded ill for any sailor washed into her scaly embrace.

  But the inn looked inviting enough and the thought of that ale was tempting. Theo pushed open the door and walked in to receive exactly the kind of reception he would have expected.

  Chapter Four

  The tap room fell silent as Theo entered the inn and seven pairs of eyes turned to survey him. Four of those pairs belonged to men sitting around a long table playing dominoes. They looked – and smelt – like fishermen. One spat into the sawdust that covered the worn boards at his feet, then they all turned back to their game.

  A man was propping the bar up and, from his gaiters, sturdy coat and the spaniel curled up at his feet, Theo guessed he was a gamekeeper. He gave the newcomer an unsmiling, but civil, nod and returned his attention to his tankard. Another man, tall, dark and dressed in plain but good riding clothes, stared, put down his mug and walked out without a word. Theo felt as though the dark,
steady gaze had stripped him down to the skin in a few unsmiling seconds.

  The final pair of eyes stayed fixed on Theo as he strolled across to the bar. The landlord was a big man, arm muscles straining his shirt beneath a leather waistcoat. He was sandy-haired, blue-eyed and looked to Theo as though he had Dutch, or perhaps Danish, blood in him.

  ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ He spoke pleasantly enough, politely moderating his Norfolk burr to a stranger, but his eyes were watchful.

  Theo settled an elbow on the smooth old wood, glanced down at the spaniel as it gave his boots an exploratory snuffle, and smiled. ‘A pint of your best please, landlord. I’ve been walking and it has given me a thirst.’

  ‘Aye, sir. It would that.’ The man turned to the barrels propped up behind the bar and began to fill a pint pot. ‘Not from around here, sir?’

  ‘I’m staying with Lord Manners at the Grange.’ Theo lifted the tankard as it was slid along to him, admired the fine head on the brew for a moment, then took a deep draught. ‘You make a fine ale.’

  The landlord unbent enough to give a grunt of acknowledgment and the gamekeeper remarked, ‘He does that, does Jerry Harris.’

  ‘His lordship’s back then?’ The landlord went back to polishing pewter mugs.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Ah.’

  This was standard, Theo knew. He was a stranger, a nob and not to be trusted, but no-one was actively hostile. He observed the etiquette of such places by staying silent for five minutes before venturing another remark. ‘Just met your curate along at Hempbourne Marish.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘Good man, I thought.’

  ‘Means well. The women and little ’uns like him.’

  ‘Not the men?’

  ‘We don’t hold with do-gooding clergy,’ a voice behind Theo said. ‘Rector’s more our stamp.’ There was a faint ripple of amusement. ‘Don’t interfere in what don’t concern him.’

  The landlord shifted slightly, looked across at the speaker and silence fell again.

  Smuggling, Theo thought. Either the Rector turned a blind eye or he was a good customer, whereas Thwaite disapproved and tried and influence his parishioners against the free trade from the pulpit. He might as well stand on the beach like Canute and tell the sea to stay put.

  Theo drank some more, scratched the spaniel behind its ears, complimented the keeper on the dog and enquired of the taproom at large what the weather prospects were.

  ‘Set fair,’ was the general agreement.

  ‘Interesting church along at Hempbourne Marish. That fine great chest tomb by the porch caught my eye. Local family is it? Curate didn’t seem to know, said he was going to look into it for me.’

  ‘Wouldn’t know, sir.’ The healthy freckled face on the other side of the bar was quite expressionless. ‘Another pint, sir?’

  ‘Not just now, thank you.’ Theo decided to push a little, the atmosphere was intriguing him. ‘You couldn’t put me in the way of some decent brandy, could you? Or geneva? I hear this part of the world is a good place to find both.’

  ‘Wouldn’t know about that either,’ the landlord said. He put down the mug he was holding with a certain emphasis and the dog looked up alertly. ‘I get ours from Lynn, all stamped and certified by the Excise down there, as is right and proper.’

  This time the ripple of amusement from behind Theo was unmistakeable and the landlord’s warning glance, revealing.

  ‘Ah well, never mind. I’ll be on my way. Good day to you all.’

  Oh yes, he thought, as he found a lane leading off inland in the direction of the Grange. Smuggling is alive and well and flourishing in this part of the world.

  ‘Pitkin, do you like working for Lord Northam?’

  The valet stared at Laura, wide-eyed. ‘Like? Well, yes, Mrs Albright. He’s a very kind gentleman, very rewarding to dress with that fine figure, and it’s a good position.’

  ‘He doesn’t hit you or threaten you or make unreasonable demands?’

  ‘No, ma’am! No, indeed. Lord Northam is most considerate.’

  ‘Then why, Pitkin, are you so nervous?’

  She couldn’t stand it another moment. The valet was almost in tears because of a stubborn stain on a pair of breeches and he had been fussing over Lord Northam’s breakfast eggs as though it was a hanging offence to overcook them.

  ‘Pitkin, sit down and do not mumble, I can’t hear you.’ Laura pressed him into a chair in the scullery and perched on the table. ‘I won’t bite you. Tell me.’

  The story emerged in fits and starts. Pitkin’s father thought him a useless weakling, accused him of being effeminate because he had wanted to be a valet, not a gardener like his parent. He’d found a good place with a younger son of a family where the valet to the master had unbent enough to train him up, but he could not conquer his nerves and had been handed his notice

  When Michael Flynn – Laura was obviously supposed to have heard of the great Duke of Calderbrook’s valet – had found him nursing a black eye in the gardens of a house His Grace had been visiting, Flynn had taken him under his wing and persuaded the Duke to let him accompany them back to London. Pitkin was reticent, but it seemed his second employer had been a violent drunk and had lashed out at anyone who did not stand up to him.

  He was certainly a pretty young man and one too slight for the heavy physical work of gardener, but Laura would not have called him effeminate and, having observed his gaze shyly following Nell, one of the maids, she did not think his sexual inclinations were towards men. His father’s bigotry was not even founded on fact.

  ‘But what if I let Flynn down? Let his lordship down? They took such a risk on me and were so kind. But my father was right and I am clumsy and useless and his lordship’s engaged to be married now and what if his wife takes against me?’

  ‘Don’t talk like that,’ Laura said. Theo is betrothed. Of course he is. What difference does that make to you, you fool? The fact that she cared made her snappish. ‘Don’t you dare weep at me. This is sheer self-indulgence.’ Pitkin gaped at her and she felt a brute, but she pressed on. ‘You are simply preparing for the worst, which is a very good way to make certain that it happens. Flynn would not have risked his reputation and Lord Northam would not risk appearing less than perfectly turned-out, so they must have confidence in you.’

  ‘They have?’

  ‘Of course. Neither of them are a charitable institution. And you will perform much better if you believe that and don’t dither about. Now, on your feet. Shoulders back, head up and repeat after me: I am an excellent valet and my lord is very pleased with me.’

  ‘I… I am an excellent valet and my lord… I hope he is…’

  ‘And my lord is very pleased with me. Go on.’ She stuck at it for almost quarter of an hour by which time Pitkin looked three inches taller, revealed that he actually did have a chin and could repeat, I am highly skilled and very competent, without more than a token protest.

  ‘Now, before you next go in to Lord Northam take a moment to check your posture and say one of those phrases we have been rehearsing and everything will gradually become easier.’

  And I know this because it is what I had to learn. She had enjoyed staying with her father’s sister and his family for occasional holidays, but once she was living there permanently and once her uncle had discovered just how much she had inherited, everything had changed. I am not afraid of my uncle, I am capable of winning against him. I am going to secure my rights – and if I say it often enough I might come to believe it.

  But she had escaped, she had a plan. I am not afraid.

  ‘Is that someone in the front hall, Mrs Albright? I think both Terence and Edward are out at the back fixing the new washing line that Cook wanted put up and the maids are in the wash house.’

  ‘I’ll go.’ Laura tweaked her cap into place, went through and opened the baize door from the servants’ area. ‘My lord?’ There was Lord Northam. The very much betrothed Lord Northam who still, for
some reason, made her feel like a giddy seventeen year-old.

  ‘The front door was open.’ He stood there windblown and a trifle muddy around the ankles and shrugged apologetically. ‘I rang.’

  ‘I know.’ And there was no-one to answer the door as they should in a gentleman’s house. Which was why she was feeling so flustered, of course. It was absolutely nothing to do with the proximity of a large man with that disarming half-smile. Betrothed, she reminded herself again.

  ‘I do apologise, my lord. The footmen are both at the rear of the house, which should not happen. I fear things have become rather slack with the master away. And as for the door, you are in residence here and must come and go as you please, not wait on the front step like a caller.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ he said, turning to look through the half-open door, ‘here comes a genuine one.’ He opened the door wide as the sound of hooves on the drive grew louder. ‘Giles Swinburn, I recognise the horse. He has a dinner invitation for –’

  Laura did not wait for him to finish. She picked up her skirts, ran for the kitchen, flung open the cellar door and, wrenching the key out as she closed it, locked herself in.

  ‘Mrs Albright!’

  How long had she been standing there in the dark, her back pressed against the door panels? Five minutes? Ten? Laura told herself that Lord Northam was not going to invite Giles Swinburn into the kitchen in search of an errant housekeeper. But just that one glimpse of Giles’s nervy chestnut cantering towards her had knocked all her courage and resolution into a pile of spillikins. I must do better if I am going to win this fight.

  She unlocked the door. ‘My lord?’

  ‘He has gone.’ Lord Northam stood by the table, arms crossed, eyeing her as though she was a skittish mare in the training ring and he was not certain whether she was going to bolt or kick him. ‘Do you want to tell me what that was about?’