An Unsuitable Occupation for a Lady by Jackie Walton
“Three days ago! And I know. When the two of you left all of a sudden like that, we figured that something important was going on.”
Chiara looked sideways at her friend.
“Well, you have disappeared like that before, with no word of explanation even after you came back. James noticed it, too. A fire, you said!” She looked daggers at her friend and shook her finger. “Anyway, you both disappeared at the same time and in the same fashion, and we, well, we started to commiserate with each other on the hopefully temporary loss of our friends. We began talking. He’s really quite nice, you know.” Chiara smiled as Lindsey rather self-consciously wound down. “I’m babbling, but I’m so happy!”
Wrapping her friend in a hug, Chiara said, “I’m delighted for you. Rafael likes him, so he must be a good man. You deserve a good man.”
“Speaking of, what’s going on with FitzHenry?”
“Well,” Chiara drawled, “what I can say is that this baby,” she patted her burgeoning tummy, “is quite legitimate.” Lindsey squealed and hugged her. “We haven’t told the families yet, so don’t say anything.” They turned back towards the house.
“Oh, I would love to know how this came about.”
Chiara gave her what she hoped was a repressive look.
“Oh, James and I may have been snarling at each other, but you two looked ready to come to blows.”
Chiara looked into the distance. “Well, it did come to that once or twice.”
“Did he hurt you?” Lindsey sounded scandalized.
Chiara couldn’t resist. “Who says he won?” They approached the back steps of Squerryes Court.
Before Lindsey could demand an explanation, a voice called down to them.
“La, Lady Chiara. I’ve been looking for you.” Lady FitzHenry stood at the top of the steps looking exceptionally animated. A midnight blue velvet cape covered her from head to toe, with the hood folded down to reveal the ice blonde of her hair. She was actually smiling.
Chiara blinked. Lady FitzHenry had just said more cordial words to her in the last seconds than she had the whole duration of their acquaintance. “Good morning, my lady. What can I do for you?” She and Lindsey climbed the steps.
“I know I have to apologize to you for my behavior at the musicale. It’s such a beautiful day; I thought I’d take a drive. We haven’t had much opportunity to talk, so I thought you might like to accompany me.” She looked apologetically at Lindsey. “Unfortunately my carriage only seats two comfortably.”
Lindsey nodded, “I understand.”
Chiara debated for a moment. She didn’t like the woman and didn’t want to spent time in her company. However, it didn’t hurt to be polite to one’s mother-in-law, and Lady FitzHenry obviously had something to say. Might as well get it done with. Despite her ladyship’s smile, Chiara didn’t think the drive would prove to be all that enjoyable. “Very well, thank you.” She turned to Lindsey. “I’ll see you at lunch.”
“Shall we go?” Lady FitzHenry waved towards the stables.
For someone who wanted to talk, Chiara thought her companion was surprisingly quiet. She hadn’t said a single word to Chiara on the way to the stables or now that they were out of sight of the manor. “You said you wished to talk to me.”
“Did I? Well, I suppose I could ask you why you have the poor taste to be seen in the company of my son.”
Scathing works rose to Chiara’s lips, but she beat them back ruthlessly. This was more in character for her mother-in-law. But why the charade? She shrugged. “I find him somewhat amusing.”
They drove on through the woods. The trees, denuded of their leaves, stood dreamless in their annual slumber. The muffled clop of the horse’s hooves on the muddy road and the whirr of the wheels provided a background for the occasional bird call. Other than that, there were no sounds.
“Lady FitzHenry, I’ve had conversations with French officials more amusing than this drive.”
“We can remedy that.”
“We?” If Chiara were a cat, her whiskers would be on full alert.
“We’re almost there.”
“Where?”
A small house, somewhat the worse for wear, came into view. “There.”
Chiara knew trouble when it stared her in the face. “Turn around, Lady FitzHenry.”
“What? And miss the fun? Never.”
Chapter 22
“What are you doing?”
“Why we’re just going to meet some friends.”
A gig and a closed carriage stood before the house. Two saddled horses cropped the grass around the house. As they approached, Chiara could see the door hanging drunkenly on its remaining leather hinge. Every instinct in Chiara’s arsenal screamed. She leaned over and ripped the reins from Lady FitzHenry.
The lady shrieked, the horse whinnied, and a voice came from the house. “Good morrow, Lady Chiara.” He mauled her name as usual. “Please don’t consider springing the horse. I am considered a tolerable shot.” Lord Wilfred DuBois lounged in the doorway with a sword at his side and a pistol trained on her. Lady FitzHenry grabbed the reins back and slapped Chiara across the face with the free end.
“Now, now, Lady FitzHenry. You’ll be quit of her soon enough. Lady Chiara,” he approached the gig and offered his empty hand. “Be pleased to join us.” He nodded back to the house where three men stood near the door. One, splay-legged, folded his arms. The other leaned against the jamb, and the third sat on a nearby stump. All sported pistols and swords.
With no visible option, Chiara stepped down from the carriage, distaining DuBois’s proffered hand. He gestured her towards the house with the gun.
“Thank you, Lady FitzHenry. Your services have been invaluable,” DuBois smirked.
Lady FitzHenry’s mouth tightened at the hint of trade in his words. “Not completely ‘invaluable’,” she retorted.
“No, not completely.” He pulled a clinking bag from his jacket and tossed it to her. She caught it easily and turned the gig without another word.
Chiara watched her drive away, hoping that she herself would be alive to extract some justice from her perfidious mother-in-law. Thank God Lindsey witnessed their departure. When Lady FitzHenry returned without her companion, all hell would break lose. If worse came to worst, Rafael would follow her trail.
The lounging guard stepped aside, and DuBois nudged her into the gloom with his pistol. For a moment, Chiara saw only a black, yawning chasm. As her eyes adjusted, she recognized Mrs. Underwood seated near a shuttered window, her girlishly pastel gown accented by a neckline that almost reached her chin. Her husband, the Rev. Mr. Underwood, stood next to her. Identical pleased, sanctimonious expressions graced their faces. A short, bulky man, not as extensively armed as his companions, sprawled on a bare cot. Chiara glared at the unctuous parson, with a growing inkling of this party’s purpose.
The coach pulled away as DuBois sprawled in the seat next to her. “I think, my dear, that the first thing we shall do is change your name. I find this ‘Chee-air-a’ all too foreign. Those bloody Italians take a perfectly good name like Claire and foul it up. I think you will henceforth be known as ‘Claire’ with an ‘e.’ That’s the good French spelling. I myself will be changing my name to a most distinguished French one. After all, we will be going to France until L’Emperor makes this island the French possession it was meant to be. Then we shall return as its rulers.”
“My name is what it is, and I answer to nothing else. And I have no intention of going to France.”
“You are my wife, and you will do as I direct.”
“Do you think a refusal and a forged signature makes us married?”
“Indeed I do. And so will everyone else.”
Chiara said nothing. This was not the time to play her cards. He thought he had them all. What was the purpose of this charade? She didn’t have enough money to make her that tempting of a target for a fortune hunter. This wasn’t even Gretna Green, the preferred spot for a fortune hunter’s nupt
“France? If you expect to take control of my estate, France isn’t going to be the most efficient place to do it from.”
“Ah, my dear, but everyone will think the lovebirds have flown to a small Scottish property I have. At least that is what I have written your beloved uncle. I neglected to give him a direction, mainly because I don’t have a Scottish property, but no matter. Perception is everything. We will smuggle the directives into the country via Napoleon’s very efficient courier system and deliver them to the proper people. By the way, those people will be replacing your own here. I will simply extend my food chandlery contract for the navy to cover your preserved fruit. The Admiralty is oh-so-grateful for my patriotic and very cheap supplies for their ships. Of course, it will be a very specially spiced, preserved fruit, but there’s no need to worry your pretty, little head about that.” He chuckled. “If I work things correctly, I can feather my nest and thumb my nose at England at the same time.”
“You think I will agree to this. If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, it stinks of treason.”
“Of course you think its treason. I, on the other hand, look on it as my patriotic duty.”
“Patriotic? You’re mad!”
“No, simply French.”
Chiara looked out the window. She knew this road. It headed east, toward the coast and Dover. Did he really think the Royal Navy would let him blithely board a ship for France? “Where are we headed?”
“I have a yacht anchored at a little coastal town called Margate. We will embark from there. Unfortunately, Lady FitzHenry took her time about bring you to me, so if we don’t hurry, we will need to spend the night at an inn along the way.”
The idea of spending a night with him turned her stomach.
“I am looking forward to our wedding night, my dear. From what I understand it will be most entertaining.”
Chiara went still.
“Oh, by the way, did I tell you the new name I’m adopting? It is Etienne, in honor of my beloved Etienne. Your remember him, don’t you, Etienne Radet, my dear, departed Gallic angel. He said you were quite amusing. Dare I hope that it’s his babe in your belly?”
Twisting towards the window so he wouldn’t see the disgust on her face, she let him read what he would into her silence. Which was worse, an Englishman with access to sensitive information being the lover of a French spy or the idea of carrying Radet’s child? She had no good answer.
“The most beautiful specimen of humanity, cut down by that bastard spawn of England. It is my dearest hope that FitzHenry will pursue us. God knows I’ve laid enough bread crumbs for a blind man to follow. My escorts are the cream of Napoleon’s army, skilled in all types of combat. They will deal with that murdering scum.”
Chiara didn’t bother to tell him that she had also gone on the mission and had helped in the death of Radet. He must be aware that she’d gone, after all, he worked with Uncle Geoffrey, but she wasn’t going to remind him. One did not go and deliberately bait a rabid dog.
A thought struck her. “Did you murder Vole?”
He smiled sweetly. “No, but I did point him out to my precious angel. The little bugger knew too much about me. My angel…he was so efficient at those things. It was a pleasure to watch him work.”
Chiara closed her eyes for a moment. She thought of her own anguish with the human wreckage of combat. This monster took pleasure in it. But then, so did Radet.
“I will enjoy thumbing my nose at the English. Your self-righteous uncle is going to loose two more of his agents. Your Admiralty will be dealing with shiploads of violently ill sailors, now and for the foreseeable future. And I will have the honor of removing two thorns in the side of my Emperor.
“It will be amusing to share you with my angel, my dear. I don’t know how long I will keep you, but, for however long it is, you will probably not enjoy it as much as I will.”
She turned towards the window to stop the conversation. Oh, he knows she was in Italy, she thought. The only question now is whether Rafael will arrive before I have to take care of matters myself. The idea of combat while five months pregnant daunted her, but it might be the only way out of this mess.
Rafael spent a goodly part of the morning placating Jones, his valet. Last night, that worthy suffered banishment to the servants’ hall shortly after his arrival with instructions not to intrude on his master unless the house tumbled down around their ears, or he was summoned. In addition to bruised feelings, the sight of his lordship, put together by his own devices and therefore no where near Jones’s standards, was enough to engender the valet’s resignation. Almost.
Well-used to the polite histrionics, since Jones had served the family since before memory, Rafael assuaged his man with hints of a new mistress for Oakleaf Abbey. That and the promise of the babies Jones prayed for were enough to calm the turbulent waters.
Rafael left the interview whistling. The old man meant more to him than his blood kin. Making him happy was a joy in itself. In fact, Rafael toyed with the idea of asking his old friend and employee to stand as godfather to the baby. It would raise some eyebrows, Jones’s included, but it felt right. He’d have to brush it by Chiara, but he didn’t think she’d mind when he explained things.
Speaking of, where was Chiara? Although he’d breakfasted long ago, he strolled through the empty dining room. Food still sat on the side boards awaiting any late risers. A manservant cleaned away the remains of someone’s meal. “Have you seen Lady Chiara?”
“Lady Chiara, sir? She left some time ago with Miss Alder. I believe they spoke about a walk around the garden.”
Muttering acknowledgement, Rafael went out to the steps facing the large English-style garden. From the rise the house sat on, he could see the grounds down to the lake. Graveled paths wound among raised garden beds. A few spots of color played in the beds. No yellow or brown heads bobbed along the paths.
He went back into the house. There were worse things in life, he mused, than chasing his woman to ground. Or better yet, to bed.
Quentin and the Meriwethers waved off the Lowells as he slipped into the drawing room. Miss Alder and James sat a little too closely on the sofa, holding hands and talking softly. They jumped and then relaxed at the sight of him. “Miss Alder, have you seen Chiara? And if your parents catch wind of this little tête-à-tête, Miss Alder, they’ll have the two of you before the local parson with a special license in hand before you can blink.”
James came lazily to his feet after kissing the hand he held. “Sounds good old man. But you should talk. What’s this havey-cavey with you and Lady Chiara?
Lindsey frowned as she rose. “Lady FitzHenry, I mean the Dowager, I mean, your mother didn’t appear to know anything about you and Chiara. At least I didn’t get that impression when she asked Chiara to go for a ride with her when we returned from our walk.”
“A ride? Rafael frowned.
“Yes, she said she had a gig with only room for two people ready. She wanted to talk to Chiara. Said she hadn’t had a chance.”
“Talk to her? That doesn’t sound like m’mother.”
“Not in this life-time,” James agreed.
“I’d better go and see what she’s up to. When it comes to women like that, Chiara’s a complete innocent.”
Striding out to the stables, Rafael’s irritation grew. His mother. That witch would slip poison into the Prince of Wales’s wine just to watch the ensuing chaos.
He spied Sam Goode talking with a groom. “Have you seen Lady Chiara or Lady FitzHenry?”
Sam shook his head, “Is Lady Chiara still in the big house?”
“No,” the groom interjected. “The two ladies look a gig out about an hour ago.”
“Where’d they go?”
“Hum, headed out by t’north road, I believe.”
Behind them hooves clattered into the stable yard. The groom looked over Rafe’s shoulder. “There she be, m’lord.”
“What are you doing here? Playing groom as well as sailor?”
“Where’s Chiara?” he demanded, his voice soft.
Unaware of her precarious situation, Lady FitzHenry tried unsuccessfully to jerk her hand away. “La, how should I know where the chit is?”
“That ‘chit’ is my wife, and she left with you. Now where is she?”
“I don’t…”
Rafe used the leverage of her arm to throw her against the side of the gig. Her hat landed, crushed between the wheel and Rafe’s boot. The groom yelped, but Sam’s good arm restrained him.
“Where?”
“I don’t…”
“Where?”
Lady FitzHenry crumpled under the pressure of his hand. “A cottage about a mile away.”
“Who’s there?” He increased the pressure to forestall any dithering.
“DuBois and his men.”
“How many?”
“I saw three.”
Rafe dragged her out of the stable and called over his shoulder, “Saddle several horses.”
Striding into the house with his mother stumbling behind him, he shouted, “James, David, get out here!”
James opened the drawing room door, “What the devil?” Lord Meriwether followed him. “David’s gone to inspect the house. Why are you manhandling…”
“This witch has helped DuBois kidnap Chiara.”
Mr. Day wandered down the hall, his expression confused.
Rafe looked at Meriwether. “Keep her secure. If any thing happens to Chiara…” Meriwether nodded.
“This is absurd,” Lady FitzHenry asserted as her son handed her off to Lord Meriwether. She tried to twist out of the older man’s grip, but found it a manacle similar to her son’s. Finding both force and umbrage unproductive, she tried again, “My lord, I’m only a woman. How could I possibly be involved in something as nefarious as this? Rafael is daft in the head to even suggest it.”