Regency High Society Vol 1: A Hasty Betrothal / A Scandalous Marriage / The Count's Charade / The Rake and the Rebel. Mary Brendan
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The viscount’s voice was curt.
‘Everywhere, sir—anywhere.’ Davy’s voice broke. ‘I’m sorry, sir—sorry I wasn’t here—I should have been with her—I know… ‘
Sandford’s eyes searched the boy’s face and Davy returned his master’s gaze without flinching. Sandford sighed and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Have you been out all day, lad?’
Davy nodded and his eyes filled with tears. ‘Yes, sir—but I’ll go out again—whenever you’re ready.’
‘Go and find something to eat, Davy and try and get some sleep,’ said the viscount wearily, ‘You’ll be no use to Miss Cordell in your present state. I’ll have you called as soon as it’s light, I promise you—you’ll be the first.’
The youngster bowed and turned to go to the kitchens, but was stopped in his tracks by Cooper, the gardener, who was staring intently at Davy’s uniform cap.
‘Where’d you get that flower, young man?’ he said fiercely, pointing to the withered blossom tucked into the boy’s maroon hatband.
Davy coloured as several interested faces turned in his direction. ‘I picked it up on the lane—what’s it to you?’
‘That’s a ‘'Beldale Sunset” that is,’ Cooper said mulishly. ‘I want to know how you came by it.’
With a heavy sigh, Sandford started back down the stairs. Surely we can do without an altercation about staff filching flowers, he thought in frustration.
‘What’s the trouble, Cooper?’ he asked, with a patience he was far from feeling.
The elderly man pointed at Davy’s cap. ‘It’s the flower I gave her, sir—the ‘'Beldale Sunset''—on account of it matching her hair. I gave it her just before she went missing—I saw her tuck it into her buttonhole. Where’d he get it from—that’s what I’d like to know!’
Sandford approached the scarlet-faced footman and all conversation ceased as everyone within earshot turned towards the little group at the foot of the stairs.
‘Well, Davy?’ the viscount spoke very softly.
‘I told him, sir,’ gabbled Davy almost hysterically, terrified at finding himself in this spotlight. ‘It was up at the fork—I picked it up because—it was …’ His voice tailed off.
‘The colour of Miss Cordell’s hair?’ Sandford could hardly bring himself to say the words, but the boy nodded eagerly.
‘I thought it was a sign, you see, and I started searching the derelicts, but somebody else was already there and hadn’t found anything, so we came away together, but I kept the flower—for luck.’ He stared defiantly at the gardener.
Sandford chewed at his lip. Another dead end, he thought, helplessly, but just then Tiptree stepped forward.
‘Begging your pardon, sir, he said,’ in his slow careful manner. ‘I wonder if young Davy here would be able to point out the other party he was mentioning—the man he met at the cottages?’
Davy stared helplessly around the hallway at the dozen or so men now sitting with their backs to the wall or leaning their weary frames against the great pillars which held up the ceiling.
‘It wasn’t anyone from our house, sir,’ he said, with a shaking voice, as Tiptree drew him into the largest drawing-room and led him amongst the rest of the volunteers. He gazed from left to right with meticulous attention as he made his way through the sleeping groups. Eventually he shook his head. ‘Can’t see him, sir,’ he said, with obvious reluctance.
Tiptree took Sandford to one side as Davy was motioned off to get his much-needed refreshment.
‘We kept a list of the men who left, sir—shall I get it?’
Sandford nodded bleakly and sat down on the stairs with his head in his hands. It’s hopeless, just hopeless, he thought, in misery. Where are you, my love? Are you hurt and all alone in the dark? Are you thinking what a poor sort of hero I turned out to be? He closed his eyes, willing his brain to convey a message through the darkness—I’ll find you, my darling! I promise you I’m coming to find you!
‘There’s something keeps nagging at me, guv,’ came Tiptree’s voice at his elbow.
The viscount opened his eyes and frowned questioningly at his groom.
‘Well, sir, it’s these two blokes from Westpark—Hinds and Beckett. They seem to be everywhere—and nowhere—if you get my drift?’
‘Keep talking,’ said Sandford grimly, as he rose to his feet.
‘It’s like this, sir—we know that Mr Ridgeway went down to the lake with them and they sent us on a wild goose-chase to Staines. Thing is, guv …’
‘—we haven’t searched the pavilion!’ Sandford finished, clapping him on the back. ‘Get some lanterns, Tip. We’ll do it now!’
Striding through the rear salon, over more sleeping villagers, the two men hastened out on to the terrace into the pouring rain, which was still lashing down in a relentless torrent. Sandford raised his lantern and looked down the steps at the pools that were forming on the grass below him.
‘Quicker to walk, wouldn’t you say?’
Tiptree agreed that horses would be useless in these conditions and, hats down and shoulders hunched against the drenching downpour, they had just started to make their way across the park towards the lake when the viscount’s attention was caught by a pale movement on the lawn in front of him. In the meagre glow of his lantern he beheld a sight that stopped him dead in his tracks.
A gasping Charles Ridgeway lay at his feet, his clothing soaking wet and caked with a thick, black mud!
‘Sandford?’ came his choking voice. ‘Help me up, old man—I’m done in.’
Together Tiptree and his master half-dragged and half-carried the exhausted Ridgeway back up into the house, laying him carefully down on to one of Lady Caroline’s best damask sofas—a passing thought which did cross Tiptree’s mind but knowing better than to mention it, he motioned instead to a nearby footman to bring some brandy.
Sandford himself held the glass to his cousin’s trembling lips and gently allowed some of the restorative to dribble into his mouth. Ridgeway was struggling to sit up, his panic-stricken eyes flashing from side to side as he attempted to take in his surroundings. The viscount pressed him firmly back against the cushions.
‘Wait just a moment, Charles,’ he cautioned. ‘Take your time—another sip.’
‘No—time, Robert,’ rasped out his cousin. ‘Beckett and Hinds—they’re our men—took me by surprise—knocked out—the pavilion—swam back …’ He swooned away once more as Sandford stood up.
Several of the searchers were now beginning to rouse themselves, having heard the commotion, and word quickly circulated that Charles Ridgeway had returned. A crowd began to gather around the couch.
Sandford beckoned to Tiptree. ‘Where does this Beckett live? He’s a gardener—does he reside at Westpark?’
Tiptree shook his head. ‘Dunno, guv. Hinds lives over the stables there. Some of the gardeners live out—Top Meadow, maybe …?’
‘No, he don’t, sir,’ interposed an eager voice and Cooper senior stepped forward. ‘Matt Beckett—he’s Finchley’s nevvy—shares a room with his uncle over at Westpark—got a hut out behind the shrubbery at Staines.’
‘A hut?’ said Sandford in exasperation. ‘What the devil has that got to do with anything?’
‘Grows things, your lordship,’ replied Cooper, unmoved. ‘Herbs—for horse liniment and such. Saw him put an old dog to sleep once—knows a thing or two about sleeping potions, I’d say …’ Other heads nodded and wagged in agreement behind