Deborah Simmons - Glory And The Rake

He slipped in a side entrance to avoid any scrutiny and to determine whether he showed any signs of his recent adventure. A quick assessment in his bedroom revealed nothing except a dusty coat, which could be easily remedied by his valet. Reaching into his pocket, Oberon removed the small pistol and deposited it in a bureau drawer.

Looking down at the weapon for a long moment, Oberon wondered whether he should have questioned the young woman more closely. But too much interest on his part would be remarked, and he could not afford to show his hand even in such a distant locale as Philtwell. However, he had no intention of dismissing the incident, and he was already thinking ahead as he called for his valet.

Country hours were kept at Sutton House, which meant an early supper and a long evening of boredom to follow. But now Oberon’s senses were alert, and the upcoming meal became like so many others, an opportunity to listen and learn and ferret out the information he sought.

However, when he made his way to the dining hall, Oberon found it deserted. Obviously a part of the original structure, the room remained much as it must have looked when built. Although most of the house had been refurbished, here the dim lighting cast only a faint glow that did not reach the corners. The furniture, too, was heavy and dark, Oberon noted, as he walked slowly around the perimeter. He was approaching one wall where the paint appeared to be mottled with age when he heard footsteps.

Turning, he saw only his mother on the threshold. ‘Your cousin is unable to join us?’ he asked, masking his disappointment. It appeared he would learn little about the locals tonight.

‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘But he does seem to be improving.’

Oberon wouldn’t know, having been shooed away from the sickroom of a man he could not recall. And he wondered, again, why his mother insisted that he accompany her when she would have been better served by a physician, companion or man of business who could put her cousin’s affairs in order, if necessary.

But he was here, whether he liked it or not, and he took a seat across from his mother, hoping that the food would be palatable.

‘Did you enjoy your walk?’

Accustomed to hiding his reactions, Oberon gave only a non-committal nod in answer, for he was not prepared to share the details of his unexpected outing with his mother, at least not now. Perhaps not ever.

‘Did you see the Pump Room?’ she asked. ‘That’s where your father and I met, you know.’

Oberon nodded. Despite her sharp wit, his mother seemed to have succumbed to nostalgia. Since receiving her cousin’s summons, her usual pragmatic comments had been replaced by such reminiscences, and Oberon was not quite sure what to make of them.

‘I understood that it is no longer in use,’ he said.

‘Yes, not long after your father and I were here, the spa was struck by a fire that consumed some of the buildings and resulted in its closure. That’s when the owners sold Sutton House, but it seems they held on to other properties.’

‘And yet I thought I saw some activity there,’ Oberon said, carefully.

‘Perhaps it was the Suttons. Randolph says they have returned to rebuild and re-open Queen’s Well.’ She seemed absurdly pleased by the prospect, while Oberon wondered what kind of fool would attempt such a venture.

Although watering holes like Bath still had their adherents among the elderly and barely genteel, the Prince Regent had made the seaside, most notably Brighton, the fashionable destination. And from what little he had seen, a lot of money would be required to make Queen’s Well presentable, with little prospect of return.

‘And did you meet anyone when you were out?’ Something about his mother’s innocent tone made Oberon suspicious.

‘I hardly think I would be approached without an introduction, even in such a place as Philtwell,’ he said.

His mother loosed a sigh of exasperation, whether directed at her son or the strictures of polite society, Oberon did not know. And he had no intention of finding out. Instead, he turned the conversation towards the village in the hopes of finding out what he could. But his mother had not visited Philtwell in decades, making her less than knowledgeable of current residents, including a pair of possible thatch-gallows whose names Oberon had not obtained. At the time, he had not bothered to ask, suspecting they might answer falsely.

Now he wondered whether they played some part in the revival scheme. And if he was more intrigued by the female half of the duo, Oberon told himself it was because no woman had ever held him at gunpoint. Whatever else he had felt when subduing his opponent was not something he was ready to admit, even to himself.

Glory would probably have remained where she was, gaping in shock, had Thad not hustled her away. So scattered were her wits that she had walked some distance from the Pump Room when she remembered the open door.

‘Thad, wait,’ Glory said, halting in her tracks. ‘I’ve got to go back and lock up.’

‘Well, I’m coming with you,’ he said. ‘It appears that you can’t take two steps on your own without getting into trouble.’

The statement was ludicrous coming from Thad, but Glory didn’t argue. She was too grateful for his presence as they turned back towards the Pump Room. She had never been wary of the place before, but now the deep shadows gathering under the trees seemed ominous and menacing, as though anything, not just a handsome stranger, might be hiding there. Waiting. Watching.

Glory tried to ignore the sensation, but a creak revealed the door was still swinging, and the back of her neck tingled. She wished she had her pistol back. Fie on the Duke of Westfield for taking it! But surely he hadn’t been the one creeping about the deserted Pump Room.

Or had he? Now that she had recovered from the shock of his identity, Glory realised that a title was no guarantee against bad behaviour, and she shivered. Somehow the thought of the tall, dark and attractive duke intending harm was more disconcerting than some nameless, faceless pursuer. Was he mad or simply … bad?

Pushing aside such speculation, Glory stepped towards the opening, only to flinch at a sudden flash of brightness. She whirled around, smacking into Thad, in time to see a lad passing by with a lantern. Seizing upon the opportunity, Glory sent Thad to borrow the lamp, so she could see what she was about.

Thad grumbled, but did as she bid and was soon holding the light near the open door. Fingering the key, Glory was wondering whether they ought to look inside, just to make sure the place was empty, when something caught her eye.

Leaning forwards, she stretched out her arm to keep Thad where he was and knelt down to get a better look. The mark was just outside the building on the first of the flagstones that led towards a gravel path. Crouching close, Glory saw it was in the shape a curve as though the painted outline of part of a boot heel. Tugging off one of her gloves, she reached out to touch the mark and lifted her finger. Fresh paint.

‘Lud, Glory, I think you’ve gone a bit too particular about the damned well, if you’re bothered by something back here that no one can see without crawling on the ground,’ Thad said. ‘Just lock the place and let’s go home. Isn’t it enough for one evening that you assaulted a duke?’

Ignoring the question, Glory snatched the lantern from her brother and carefully walked over the threshold. Inside, she found another stain and then the source: a drip that had landed on the floor.

‘Here’s where they stepped in it, but when? And who?’ Glory asked aloud.

‘Are you playing at detective now?’ Thad asked, with a snort. ‘What can it matter? Are you going to sack the workmen for a stray drop or two?’