The Toplofty Lord Thorpe (5 page)

Dexter looked about the room, realizing that he had suddenly become the center of some decidedly hostile attention. “Plot? What plot? Who's a suspect?
Me?
I didn't do anything. I haven't the brains, for one thing.” He turned and spread his arms imploringly in his cousin's direction. “Tell her, Julian. Tell her what
a slow-top I am. You know I couldn't be guilty.
Tell her!
”

Julian rubbed a hand across his burning eyes. “He's right, Miss Gladwin,” he sighed, shaking his head. “At least he's smart enough to know he's stupid, if that can be any solace to his mama, for it surely is not to me. Relax, Dex, I'm not about to call you out.”

“Or cut off my allowance?” the semi-relieved young man pursued.

“Or cut off your allowance,” the earl agreed, silently wondering as to the future of the Rutherford line if Dexter
were
to become the next Earl of Thorpe. The resulting mental picture lent new resolve to his flagging spirits. “But I think I can no longer brush off Miss Gladwin's theory. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to discredit me. The next logical step would be to prove me criminally as well as morally corrupt.”

“I say, Julian, that's coming on a bit strong, isn't it? I mean, all you did was disappoint some country female. How was you to know she'd be such a gudgeon as to go jumping in the pond like some penny-press looby? It's not that you wouldn't have provided for the child. You
were
planning to, weren't you?”

“You idiot!” the earl exploded, causing his cousin once more to take refuge behind Lucy. “Try to get this through your thick skull—
I did not get Miss Anscom pregnant!
I didn't even
know
the lady!” After taking a deep, steadying breath, he continued: “The entire scandal has been made up out of whole
cloth to discredit me. Try, if you can, Dexter, to see me as innocent. I assure you that I am.”

“All right, cousin,” Mr. Rutherford owned after indulging in a few moments' deep thought—a feat that brought a pain to his temples and made him wish he'd gone to Gentleman Jackson's like he'd planned instead of coming to Portman Square to confront his erring relative. “But the fact remains that Miss Anscom, whether you say you knew her or not—by the by, was that in the ordinary or the biblical sense?” As Lord Thorpe's left eyebrow was developing a warning twitch, he ended that line of thought and pressed on: “This Miss Anscom, lying though she may have been, is
dead,
Julian. If she didn't drown herself over you—whom did she do it over, or because of, or…oh, you know what I mean.”

“Or did she drown herself at all?” Lucy added, crossing her arms over her bosom and making quite a business out of assembling her features in a judgelike expression of solemn inquiry. “Perhaps the lady had help?”

“Murder?”
Dexter hissed audibly. “You mean the woman was murdered?”

“Exactly!” Lucy said authoritatively.

Dexter gnawed on his knuckle for a full minute while the others in the room awaited his opinion. At last he raised his head, a slow smile spreading on his vacantly handsome face. “If they hang you, coz, can I still be earl?”

 

R
ACHEL
G
LADWIN HADN'T
been so diverted in years, and living with a madcap like her niece Lucy—that
was taking into consideration a
lot
of diverting circumstances! After pulling the usually unflappable Lord Thorpe off his cowering cousin before any lasting damage could be inflicted, Rachel had taken charge, sending Mr. Rutherford off with a maid to have his bruised nose attended to, Lord Thorpe was off to his mansion to refresh himself before joining them again in an hour, and Lucy off to her room to do whatever it was Lucy was clearly set to do.

By the time the small party had reassembled in the drawing room, Lucy's intentions were clear. She took center stage immediately, only bowing to Lord Thorpe as that belatedly composed man sat glaring at her, clearly wondering how he had chanced to land amidst this gathering of fools. Dexter, seated at a comforting distance from his cousin, and dabbing quite obviously at his oozing left nostril with his lace handkerchief, was all ears as he waited for Lucy to speak, while Rachel, again seated a little away from the rest, took up her tatting and appeared unconcerned.

“Now that we have all had time to compose ourselves,” Lucy began, shooting warning glances at both the Rutherfords, “I think we should review what we know and set about formulating a plan of action.”

That was as far as Lord Thorpe let Lucy go before breaking in with a word or two of his own. Rising to his full height, his dignity as well as his toilette apparently repaired, he began, “I apologize for bursting in on you ladies this morning. My only excuse is a
combination of too little sleep and too many bottles of brandy. I despise myself for my weakness and am here to offer my abject apologies.”

Lucy could only smile as she looked at the earl. Even when he groveled, he looked and acted like a king. “Please do not apologize, my lord,” she interrupted when it looked as if he were about to launch into a lengthy recitation of his sins. “We are flattered that you trusted us enough to come to us.”

The earl bowed slightly, then resumed his rigid stance. “Does not the fact that I had nowhere else to turn dampen your enthusiasm even slightly?”

“I say, coz,” Dexter ventured, seeing the sadness flicker in Lucy's eyes, “can't you unbend enough to thank the girl properly? God knows I'm not sure I would have let you across
my
threshold.”

The earl had the good grace to look ashamed of himself, a thing Rachel found to be as disconcerting as it was out of character. It would be a pity if Lord Thorpe was drawn to Lucy like a waif seeking comfort—for what would happen to her poor niece once the man no longer needed her? “We are only doing the Christian thing,” she pointed out quickly. “Lucy also has a penchant for stray dogs.”

Rachel's words served to put his lordship back on his mettle. “I am no stray dog, madam,” he informed Rachel coldly. “I was merely trying to explain my vulnerability, which, upon reflection, was highly exaggerated by my shock at being turned on so decisively by my peers. Your niece, in my confusion, seemed like the safest port in my personal storm.
However, now that I have my wits about me once again, I have returned to Portman Square only to apologize and to collect my cousin. Dexter?” he ended, gesturing to the comfortably reclining youth to stand and follow him out the door.

“Rather not be seen with you at the moment, cousin,” Dexter drawled, raising his index finger to tenderly stroke his abused nose. “Much as this hurts, you seemed almost human when you were knocking me down. Now you're back to being an insufferable prig, I don't believe I care so much for you. Besides, have you forgotten Lucy's theory? Seems to me we'd better put our heads together before you're carted off to jail.”

“Are you insinuating that I cannot straighten out this misunderstanding on my own?” the earl questioned, now definitely up on his high ropes. “Moreover, are you really of the opinion that, if I should require assistance, although I do not believe I have alluded to any such eventuality, I would be desperate enough to enlist a young female and a disloyal idiot into my plans?”

Dexter grinned brightly. “Yes, and yes again, coz. You need us, you know, much as the thought must bring you pain.”

“Exactly!” Lucy applauded, running over to give Dexter a quick hug. “I have been giving this thing a great deal of thought ever since you left, my lord, and I have decided that the only thing we can do is to adjourn to your home and investigate the business where it first began. Now that Dexter has volun
teered—” she eyed the young exquisite owlishly “—you did volunteer, didn't you—I think we shouldn't waste any more time before setting off.”

“There is not the smallest need—” Thorpe began before Lucy cut him off by means of a very unladylike snort of disbelief.

“There is
every
need, my lord,” she countered, raising her hands to begin ticking off her reasons on her fingers. “One, you cannot just go round bullying the villagers into talking to you about this Miss Anscom. Two, you need a reason to be leaving town in the first place, unless you wish it bandied about that you have been disgraced, jilted, and forced to flee with your tail between your legs. For that reason we will appear to be your guests at a house party that has been planned this age or more. Three, since you are the supposed guilty party, you must be seen to have the support of two London ladies of quality as well as that of your heir. Four, although you are a highly intelligent man, you don't possess the deviousness required to obtain information from unwilling witnesses, or the approachable appearance that is needed to have people confide in you. Five—”

“Enough!” the earl allowed, holding up his hand to stop her. “I'll admit to requiring a bit of assistance. I'll accept Dexter's offer with thanks. But I draw the line at dragging you two ladies into the matter. What sort of gentleman would open two innocent females up to conjecture and censure—being seen with a man so sunk in disgrace.”

“A desperate gentleman?” Dexter offered, giving voice to the obvious.

The argument went on at some length—and with some heat—while Rachel sat in her chair and tatted, looking up only sporadically to make sure no one was about to resort to physical violence. For Lord Thorpe had lost his temper as only a very controlled, usually coldly common-sensical person can do, and it would not have surprised the lady if he were soon to begin throwing things.

“You poor abused man, don't you see you need help?” Lucy cried at one point.

“I am not your ‘poor man,' madam,” he shot back. “And I'm not likely to become an abused anything!”

“Oh, give over, Julian,” Dexter needled. “You know less about sleuthing than you do about fuzzing cards. Come down from that tower you live in and face facts—all your money and title and grand old name will get you is cleaner straw in your cell.”

On and on it went, well into the afternoon, until finally, possibly only to gain for himself a moment's peace, the earl at last agreed to the plan. They would depart for Thorpe two days hence, taking Parker Rutherford, his distant cousin and personal secretary, along as well.

“I don't see why we need that cawker,” Dexter snapped irritably, not knowing well enough to quit while he was ahead. “Talk about your prunes and prisms.”

“Parker is also a Rutherford, and it's his good name as well that is being dragged through the mud,”
Thorpe pointed out. Turning to Lucy, he said, in order to make himself completely clear, “Remember, if you please, that I've only agreed to any of this to clear my family name. None of this is for myself.”

“Of course it isn't,” his cousin gibed meanly. “You always wanted a longer neck. All the better for tying a neat cravat, what?”

“Will you be putting a notice in the papers—about the house party, I mean,” Lucy asked quickly, as a deep red flush crept up his lordship's neck. “I saw the announcement that Lady Cynthia's father inserted this morning of your engagement coming to an end.”

Bringing up that particular betrayal dampened Thorpe's rage and sent him plummeting forthwith back into melancholy. His heart was not broken—he couldn't and wouldn't deceive himself on that head—but his pride had taken a mighty blow with Lady Cynthia's defection. A notice of a house party with Miss Lucy Gladwin as his female guest would go a long way in getting some of his own back—considering his former fiancée's outrage at the mere mention of Lucy's name. “I'll see to it that Parker sends it off at once,” he told her, his small smile going unnoticed by everyone except Rachel, who missed little.

Once Lord Thorpe had taken his leave and Lucy and Dexter had gone off to put their heads together planning strategy like two generals about to take to the battlefield—or two nursery brats consulting over their toy soldiers—Rachel retired to her room to pen a letter to her brother. Sir Hale may have put her in charge of his volatile daughter, but she wasn't about
to bear the brunt of this one on her own. Oh no, brother Hale was to be ordered to send in reinforcements on this one. If he couldn't be trusted to keep Lucy from the briers, at least Rachel wasn't going to be the only one to take the blame. After all, the wisest general knew it paid to cover her flanks!

T
HE MORNING DAWNED
bright and clear, a perfect day for traveling. By nine of the clock four carriages were well on their way north of London, loaded top, back, and sides with strapped-on luggage. Postilions rode their leaders proudly while outriders accompanied the main coach. One many-caped exquisite, controlling his showy steed with some difficulty, rode ahead of the others, unwilling to pass the time riding inside the crowded conveyance.

“I do so admire your carriage, my lord,” Lucy, looking quite ravishing in her peacock-blue ermine-trimmed cloak, told her host—who was just then sulking in his corner of the seat opposite. “It is ever so much more comfortable than the public coach.”

“You speak from experience?” the earl asked, already knowing the answer—for was there anything this Gladwin chit had not done on a dare or for a lark?

Lucy grinned in remembrance. “Indeed, yes. I was outrunning my governess at the time, you see. Papa had utterly deserted me for Newmarket and I was determined to follow.”

“Indeed,” Thorpe repeated repressively. “And did you, I sincerely hope, learn anything from the experience?”

Her blue eyes fairly dancing in her head, Lucy answered promptly, “Oh yes, my lord. I learned never,
never
to sit beside a fat person!”

“That isn't funny,” the soberly dressed young man seated beside Lord Thorpe responded dampeningly. “You could have been robbed, or kidnapped, or worse.”

“Worse, Mr. Rutherford?” Lucy said tauntingly. “You mean I could have been
ravished,
for instance?” She watched with some amusement as a deep flush appeared in Mr. Parker Rutherford's sallow cheeks. “Why, Mr. Rutherford, I do believe you have a dirty mind.”

“Leave off, brat,” Thorpe muttered desultorily. “Much as it pains me to say it, my cousin Parker is not up to your weight. Now stop trying to shock us all with your exploits and your wayward tongue or I shall ship you back to ride with your aunt.”

Lucy squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. “I was only twelve at the time,” she remarked sulkily, by way of excuse.

“And are still acting it a decade later,” the earl observed tightly, his light gray eyes warning her to hold her tongue.

The occupants of the coach lapsed into silence then, each thinking his own thoughts, and Lucy was free to give Parker Rutherford a further inspection than the quick, dismissing survey she had given him upon first entering the coach in Portman Square. No more than a year or two older than Dexter, he had all the starch of a Cambridge dean, and only half the
personality. Dex had told her earlier that he considered his distant cousin to be a dull dog, too prosy by half, and Lucy had no reason to doubt that assessment.

Look at him sitting there, she thought to herself—acting like he's been appointed my chaperon or something. It's not as if I'm unescorted, even if Aunt Rachel is riding in our own coach with Deirdre.

Deirdre. Lucy chuckled a bit to herself as she remembered what her maid—actually shared between her and her aunt—had said when that volatile Irish lass had first spied out Dexter on his hot-blooded stallion earlier that morning. “He'll come to a stick end, that one,” Deirdre had commented, giving her carroty curls a flip.

“Dexter?” Lucy had questioned, looking at the man and seeing a smaller, paler, but still attractive replica of her beloved Julian. “I think he's very handsome.

“Hummph,” the maid had sniffed. “Handsome is as handsome does, I say, and that one looks prime for trouble.”

Lucy, who had great faith in Deirdre's “feelings,” now wondered if her maid could be right. Although, as his immediate heir, Dexter was a prime suspect in any plot to discredit and imprison the earl, Lucy found it hard to believe Dexter capable of such deceit. Nevertheless, he would have to be watched, and she must be careful not to confide overmuch in him.

That left Parker, whom Dexter did not dislike for any reason more reasonable than the fact that the man
was a dead bore. Lucy already knew from Lord Thorpe that he felt his cousin to be an exemplary employee: loyal, honest, endlessly supportive, and uncomplaining. Lucy, who was used to complete love and loyalty from all her servants, who were also her friends, could see no reason for applause in that statement. Of course the man was loyal—Lord Thorpe was his cousin, wasn't he?

Two suspects. Two, because—other than to think that Lord Thorpe had incriminated himself—there were only two people even in the running for the dubious honor of being Julian Rutherford's adversary. Well, she thought resignedly, this line of thought will just have to wait until we get to Hillcrest and can examine any clues or evidence that may be waiting for us there. It is pointless to waste time looking for a bogeyman masquerading as either a witless heir or a lackluster personal secretary.

It was just that it was so important that she be able to help Lord Thorpe—and the good Lord knew the man needed help. Just look at him, she told herself, sitting over there like a child whose candy has been taken away. Power and position have been his all, and he does not know how to behave now that he has been brought down to the level of his fellow mortals. How dare he insinuate that I behave like a child—why, I wouldn't be surprised to see him putting his thumb in his mouth, just like a disappointed toddler. If Lady Cynthia could see him now she'd jilt him all over again.

“Lord Thorpe,” she said, breaking the silence,
“you mustn't look so downpin. Anyone would think you don't believe we will soon have this whole scheme exposed and your good name restored.”

His lordship's upper lip curled into a sneer. “Why, Miss Gladwin, whatever do you mean? Do you really think I have no confidence in your ability to sleuth out the person or persons who have perpetrated this malicious bit of gossip? Oh, Miss Faint Heart, how could you imagine any such thing?”

“There's no reason to be nasty,” Lucy said, bristling.

“Certainly not!” Thorpe agreed. “My good name has been dragged through the mire; I am, according to your theory, about to be clapped in irons and tried for murder; my mother—once she gets wind of this—shall probably disown me; and my only supporters comprise an overly imaginative minx and my brainless twit of a cousin. Why ever should I be nasty?”

“I am prepared to support you with all the fiber of my being,” Parker Rutherford said earnestly, if a bit stuffily.

Julian looked at his cousin for a long moment before replying, “You have a most charming way of expressing yourself, Parker. It nearly unmans me to hear of such loyalty. Of course, the fact that you should be out of a job if I were to swing on the gibbet does not enter into your decision even a little bit, does it?”

“Lord Thorpe!” Lucy cautioned, thinking it unnecessarily brutal to say such a thing aloud—even though she privately agreed with him.

“What? Have I said something that is not true?” he returned, feigning ignorance. “After all, I can't see our friend Dexter retaining my secretary, can you? I rather think Parker has little choice but to be loyal.”

Parker broke in before Lucy could say anything else in his defense. “Please do not concern yourself on my account, Miss Gladwin. Lord Thorpe is quite right. I do rely on him for my daily bread. But that is not my only reason for believing in his innocence. If you'll recall, my lord,” he said, turning to face his employer, “I was with you at Hillcrest this past winter season. I know you were not involved with any female while we were there.”

“Ah, that is more like it, Parker,” his lordship said with maddening calm. “Blind loyalty would have been nice, but I find it easier to believe deductive reasoning. I was not openly involved with this Anscom woman while at Hillcrest; ergo, I am blameless in her death. Tell me, my loyal secretary—did you really think that if I were so desperate for a bit of dalliance that I would go about seducing some poor impoverished gentlewoman, I should
advertise
that fact? Disabuse yourself of the notion that you know my every movement.”

“And he said
I
was digging his grave for him,” Lucy muttered under her breath, watching the questioning look steal into Parker's watery blue eyes. More loudly she trilled, “Oh, look! I believe we could stop for some refreshments? I vow I'm famished!”

Just then, as if Lucy had conjured him up to aid her in her determination to find another topic of con
versation, Dexter rode up to the coach window and called, “My belly thinks m'throat's been cut, coz. What say we stop for a bird and a bottle?”

Lucy closeted herself with her aunt and maid during the time they stopped for luncheon at a small country inn, then chose to ride out the rest of that day's leg of the journey with the women. Lord Thorpe needed time to become accustomed to his new situation in life, and she had decided to let him alone a bit to do his adjusting. After all, she wouldn't put it past him to change his mind and send them all back to town at the next posting inn if they gave him any more reason to doubt his decision of allowing them to help clear his name.

“Dexter has decided to ride inside the coach this afternoon, Aunt,” she told Rachel as she settled in beside her on the padded seat, “and once that idiot starts in teasing Mr. Rutherford, I would not care to be within earshot of Lord Thorpe's biting tongue. Dex seems to have such a talent for rubbing up his cousin the wrong way.”

Just one hour after that statement the entire train drew to a halt to allow the earl to leave the comfort of his well-sprung coach in order to seek a little fresh air—and a bit of peace—atop the mount he had brought along. Before the coachmen restarted the horses, Thorpe rode up to the open window and congratulated Lucy for having the good sense to absent herself from the company of his cousins. “If one of them ends up floating in the village pond, Miss Glad
win, please don't bother trying to defend me. I confess in advance!”

 

A
FTER BREAKING THEIR
journey for the night at an inn Thorpe had frequented in the past—and having been treated most coldly by the innkeeper—they were once more on the road, hoping to reach Hillcrest in time for an early supper. Lucy had exited from the inn in riding dress, having cajoled and pleaded with Dexter until that young man (who was at the moment nursing a sore posterior) agreed to give up the thrill of riding his new stallion in favor of allowing Lucy the pleasure of sitting atop such a splendid animal.

Her sidesaddle having been dutifully produced by Deirdre, who had packed everything except the drawing-room clock, Lucy talked soothingly to Dexter's horse for some minutes before mounting with ease and riding off ahead of the coaches. Lord Thorpe, who knew he must do the right thing and ride beside her, gritted his teeth to better endure the splitting head that was the result of another bout of drowning his sorrows, and followed her.

“Isn't it a beautiful morning, my lord?” Lucy chirped merrily once she had succeeded in slowing her fresh mount down to a more manageable pace.

“I would liefer it were raining,” Thorpe said, wishing himself and his pounding head inside his comfortable coach.

Lucy pulled a face at him, blighting him with her youth and beauty. “Oh, don't be such a sourpuss,” she prodded, unwilling to succumb to his poor mood.

After all, she was young, she was in love, and she had finally succeeded in getting the earl off all to herself.

“I am
never
a sourpuss,” Thorpe contradicted, raising his eyebrows at her. “I would not stoop so low. I am merely above such transports as waxing poetic merely because our thin English sun has condescended to shine. Besides, it will probably cloud over soon.”

“Most assuredly, my lord,” Lucy concurred, tongue in cheek. “It may even snow.”

“Don't be flippant,” he warned, refusing to be shifted from his determined bad mood. “Do you know that our host of last evening demanded to be paid before he would show us our rooms? I have been favoring his establishment these twenty years past, and the man had the
effrontery
to demand his payment in advance! If your aunt had not been so weary I should have pushed on to another inn. How dare he—
how dare he
—treat a Rutherford that way!”

Lucy looked at her companion, easily reading the pain and confusion that warred so with his anger. “You should have given the idiot a good bash in the noggin. Aunt Rachel and I would have understood.”

“Oh, and is that your answer then? To go around bashing noggins every time I am slighted because of this dratted gossip? Considering that it would seem that everyone from the Regent to the rat catcher has heard of my supposed disgrace, I do believe defending my honor could become a full-time occupation.”

“Of course I'm not saying that,” Lucy said
fiercely. “Not that delivering at last one good smash to somebody's bulbous nose wouldn't do you a world of good, for I'm sure it would. No, what we need to do is what we have set out to do—discover who has launched this dastardly plot and clear your good name.”

“If wishes were horses, beggars might ride,” the earl said acidly. “The closer we get to Hillcrest—not to mention the more I am forced into close company with my bloodless secretary and bacon-brained heir—the more I despair of ever being able to show my face in town again. And when I look at my remaining ally—a silly chit who can delight in a bit of sun when the world is crumbling down atop my head—I begin to know the true meaning of the word ‘despair.' Oh God, my head hurts,” he ended self-pityingly, lowering his chin onto his chest.

Of course Lord Thorpe did not mention the defection of his fiancée among the trials just now besetting him, but Lucy knew his poor heart must be near to breaking over losing his fair Lady Cynthia. Well, she thought, prodding her horse into a canter, that was one thing she could do something about! Just as she had always felt Lord Thorpe had been resisting his attraction to her, she likewise believed that he was never as committed to Lady Cynthia as the world believed him to be. Once she, Lucy, had succeeded in insinuating herself into the earl's heart, banishing forever the insipid, fickle Lady Cynthia, she would have come a long way toward bringing the man back to his former mental strength.