Playing with Fire Page 11

  He hunched deeper into his greatcoat, stamped his feet to stay warm, and tugged his tall hat lower over his forehead. His temper, not good at the best of times, had been very frayed since he returned to this back-of-nowhere county. Not only had Richardson left London hot on his heels, leaving him very little time to find the letter, but the one search he had been able to achieve had proved completely fruitless. Aided and abetted by two Chelworth footmen, whom he paid well for their betrayal of trust, he’d turned the library upside down for dear Mama’s scribble. To no avail whatsoever. He’d been so certain the library would be the place, but it seemed not. The old boy had the vital script hidden somewhere in that damned mausoleum, and sooner or later it was going to come to light—preferably sooner, because he, Randal Fenworth, would not—dared not—rest until he had destroyed it.

  So even though Richardson was in residence, he was about to try again. It would be a risky business, but it had to be done, and when the last of the sunset had gone, the same footmen would admit him once more. Tonight was as good a night as any, better than most, because nearly all the servants had time off to attend a nearby wedding. The house would be virtually empty, and Randal would be let in by way of the billiard room. Billiards? What a note of discord in a shrine to the pharaohs. He could not imagine Ramses the Great amusing himself in such a way. The deflowering of Nubian slave girls maybe, or the worship of Apis bulls, or even the hunting of crocodiles in the delta, but not billiards!

  “Why have we come here again tonight, Dandypoo?” asked a petulant female voice behind him.

  “Don’t call me that!” he snapped.

  The St. James’s light skirt he had brought with him came closer, slipped her arms around his waist, and rested her head against his back. Barely out of her teens, she was a full-bosomed redhead who liked to place a heart-shaped patch at the corner of her mouth. Her name was Liza Lawrence, and she was always over-rouged and underdressed, which was what Randal looked for in such women. Beneath her cloak she wore a new black fur scarf to protect her bare throat, her yellow satin gown being such a flimsy garment that it could be said to be neither here nor there. She knew how he hated fur, but it was so cold that she simply had not been able to bring herself to sally forth without it. “I can think of much nicer things to do than wait around in this damp old wood,” she said seductively, as she slipped her fingertips between the buttons of his waistcoat.

  “There will be time enough for that when we return to Bothenbury,” he replied, clamping a firm hand over the questing ringers.

  Liza’s hands withdrew, and she came around to look at him from the front. “Oh, please…” she wheedled, untying the front of her cloak to tempt him with a glimpse of her décolletage. Of course, she forgot that the fur scarf concealed almost everything he might find alluring; indeed, she forgot the scarf altogether.

  Randal’s pale eyes swung from the house to her face. “We’ll return when I’m ready, not before,” he said in a tone that should have warned her not to pester him.

  But she flung her arms around his neck and twiddled the ribbon tying back his hair. “Dandypoo, I—!” Her voice broke off in shock as he suddenly flung her away so violently that she stumbled backward and landed on her rump among the snowdrops.

  “I told you not to call me that!” he cried. “And I also told you we’ll go when I say so!”

  She stared up at him. “Yes, Dandyp—I…I mean, my lord,” she said warily. He was a strange one, and no mistake. There were gents and there were gents, and she understood most of them, but not this one. Just when she thought she had his measure, he’d do something that reminded her how dangerous her profession could be. This rum cove might have paid her well for her services, but right now she wished she’d never left the safety of Mother Clancy’s nunnery in St. James’s Street. It wasn’t even as if he was much use between the sheets, because he thought only of himself. Well, if that was how he wanted it, she would suit herself too. She knew many a fine trick when it came to pleasuring men, but she didn’t use one of them on him! Instead she lay there like a lump and thought about other things.

  Randal made no move to assist her to her feet again. She was only a whore, not even a particularly good one, and did not warrant courteous treatment. Besides, his eyes had begun to water and his nose tickled in that familiar way. Damn it, Richardson’s mangy ginger tom must be nearby! He glanced swiftly around, expecting to see the gleam of feline eyes in the shadows, but there was nothing.

  Liza looked around too. “What is it? Do you hear something?” she asked nervously.

  “No. I just thought…. Oh, it doesn’t batter.” He reached hastily for his handkerchief as a huge sneeze erupted.

  Liza looked curiously at him. Batter? What was he talking about?

  “There’s a cat here subwhere. Cat fur bakes me sneeze.” Randal wiped his eyes and nose, then sniffed.

  “A cat?” Still not thinking of her scarf, Liza glanced around again. She started to tie her cloak, for the sea breeze really was chilly, and if he wasn’t interested in her, she might at least be warm.

  But just before the cloak was fully closed, Randal at last glimpsed the scarf. He wrenched the cloak open again. “What’s this? Cat?” he demanded in horror.

  “No, it most certainly is not!” She drew herself up crossly. The scarf had cost her a good deal, and the fellow who sold it to her promised it was the best wild chattie from Russia. She’d asked what chattie was, and the man swore it was sable. Mother Clancy had since told her that sable was weasel fur, which was obviously not true, for who would wear weasel?

  Randal seized some of the fur between his finger and thumb, and tested it. “It is cat, dab it!”

  “It’s not, it’s Russian chattie! A sort of sable, the man said.”

  “Chattie?” Randal stared at her, then his watering, bloodshot eyes hardened. “You bindless jade! Chat is French for cat! It’s a dabbed Tiddles! Get rid of it!”

  “But it’s freezing out here!” Liza protested, moving defensively away and tying her cloak over the scarf, as if hiding it would make everything all right again.

  Randal was livid. “Don’t bake be angry, Liza. That dabbed rag has to go. Do I bake byself clear?”

  “Will you buy me something else?”

  “Yes, I’ll buy you whatever you want, just get that thing away frob be!”

  Mollified, she removed the scarf and threw it away, then turned to go back to the carriage. Once inside, she huddled in the cloak. Her neck felt cold now, and she was resentful in spite of Randal’s promise to replace the scarf. It was the most expensive accessory she had ever purchased, and it didn’t really matter if it was chattie, cat, weasel, or rat; it was hers. She glared out at the leafless trees. Then she bit her lip to prevent herself from snickering, for he really did sound silly with his nose all blocked.

  Unaware he was an object of amusement to her, Randal again directed his attention toward Chelworth. Now that Liza’s damned scarf had been thrown away, his eyes and nose had swiftly returned to normal again. Moments ticked by; then at last he saw a swaying light at the far end of the house. The lantern signal from the billiard room! Without glancing back at Liza, he left the shelter of the trees and began to make his way up the grassy clearings between the thick patches of winter-brown bracken.

  * * * *

  Sir Julian was in the library, poring intently over the two fragments of papyrus. There were several lighted candles on the desk, to give a better light, and he was feeling pleasantly replete after an excellent roast beef dinner. A glass of brandy—not the first of the evening—was by his right hand, and he had settled down to enjoy a few hours’ work. Ozzy was curled up asleep on his favorite chair by the fire, having shared his master’s roast beef dinner, even to a helping of Yorkshire pudding.

  Sir Julian now knew he had been right about the papyri. They were from the same original, and but for a few missing pieces, they fit together most satisfyingly. Since his return, he had spent every moment studying them, and alt
hough he had not yet proved anything for certain, he was becoming more and more sure that the work he had done years ago, which had been destroyed by Esmond Fenworth, had been on the right line. Instinct told him he was getting somewhere at last, yet at the same time he felt as if he were floundering! Oh, if only there was someone he could discuss it all with, someone who thought as he did; someone who knew what he was talking about!

  The Reverend Endpipe…er, Bluntwhistle…whatever the fellow’s name was…would have been ideal.

  Exasperated, Sir Julian reached for his glass of brandy. As he swirled it and took a sip, his gaze stole back to the papyrus he’d purloined from the British Museum. Was it his imagination, or was the entire thing much brighter and clearer now? Why, it almost looked as if it had been professionally restored. He put down his glass and pulled the two pieces of papyrus apart. For a moment they resisted, as if joined in some way. He stared down at the two edges. They were as fresh and clean as if he had simply ripped a single papyrus in two! And the line of the break wasn’t the same as before either! Good God, he thought, he must have had one brandy too many. He pushed the glass away, vowing to restrict himself in the future.

  Ozzy awoke and stretched, then jumped down from the chair and padded to the French door. There he sat down again and fixed a meaningful stare upon Sir Julian, who grumbled at him but got up to do the honors. The cold air from the sea wafted into the library as the ginger tomcat slipped outside. Sir Julian returned to the desk and resumed his studies.

  * * * *

  Randal had almost reached the terrace, but then halted in dismay at the foot of the steps, for Ozzy was seated at the top, his amber eyes shining in the very last vestiges of the dying sun.

  One of the footmen came hurrying to see what was the matter. “My lord?” he said softly.

  “Get rid of that damned cat!” Randal hissed.

  “Eh?” The man, whose name was Joseph, looked at Ozzy, who calmly began to wash his face and whiskers.

  “Get rid of it, I say!” Randal repeated.

  Joseph reached hesitantly toward the tomcat, but Ozzie wasn’t a feline to tangle with. He paused in his washing to utter one of his horrible growls. The footman flinched, but then reached out again. Ozzy emitted a vile spitting sound, and his tail began to sweep to and fro on the stone flags.

  Randal was beside himself. “For God’s sake, it’s only a cat!” he cried, forgetting to keep his voice lowered, and forgetting too that as far as he himself was concerned, there was no such thing as “only a cat.”

  Joseph swallowed. If it was only a cat, he thought, why didn’t this tricky swell remove it himself? Ozzy’s growls drowned the sound of the library windows being opened, and neither the footman nor Randal knew Sir Julian had come out onto the terrace to see what was going on, and he had his pistol with him.

  The footman was anxious to get Randal inside. “My lord, if you don’t come inside now, we may be caught!”

  “You already have been.” Sir Julian cocked the pistol. Joseph whirled guiltily about, but Randal was too resigned to be dismayed. He exhaled wearily. Not the empty pistol trick again! This damned exercise was going from bad to worse!

  Sir Julian glanced at Ozzy, who was still growling. “That’s enough, Ozymandias,” he said calmly. The tomcat immediately fell silent and resumed the washing of his face and whiskers. Sir Julian turned to the footman. “Well, I’ve had my suspicions about you, Joseph, and now it seems I was right. You are dismissed. I want you out of Chelworth within the hour. No, don’t attempt to plead with me. I have no doubt that you have been well paid for your treachery. Now get out!” He waved the pistol, and Joseph took to his heels along the terrace, where his companion-in-disloyalty, named James, was very careful to keep well out of sight.

  Then it was Randal’s turn to have the pistol pointed at him. “Well, Sanderby, this is becoming something of a habit, is it not? I warned you not to trespass on my property, but you seem set on ignoring my wishes. I presume this latest visit concerns the letter you seem convinced I have in my possession?”

  “The letter I know you have in your possession,” Randal corrected.

  “Exactly what do you imagine it says, assuming it exists?” Sir Julian inquired, interested to hear the answer, but Randal shook his head.

  “I don’t play games, Richardson. You and I are both fully aware of the letter’s contents.”

  Sir Julian raised an eyebrow. “I fear you are wrong, sir. However, if there were indeed such a missive, do you honestly imagine I would leave it somewhere you could find? You may count upon it that I would use a hiding place so cunning you would never locate it even if you searched Chelworth for a month of Sundays! Now then, be a good fellow and turn around to go back the way you came.” The pistol waggled.

  Randal loathed his mocking adversary enough to choke him on the spot. In fact, a little violence suddenly seemed a very tempting—and possibly rewarding—notion! Would the aging casanova be quite so triumphant with a pair of strong hands around his throat? Would the letter’s whereabouts remain quite such a secret if suitable pressure were applied to the old fool’s windpipe? Of a mind to test the theory, Randal began to advance up the steps.

  Sir Julian stiffened, and directed the pistol at Randal’s heart. “That’s far enough,” he warned.

  “Ah, but you don’t keep it loaded, remember?” Randal murmured.

  “That was then. Now is different.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” To prove it, Sir Julian aimed the pistol skyward and squeezed the trigger. The shot went off like a thunderclap, reverberating along the house as if to split it asunder.

  Randal was so startled that he staggered backward, missed his footing on the steps, and went flying among the dead bracken. Then, utterly enraged, he began to leap to his feet again. The pistol was certainly empty now, and once he got a hold of Richardson’s throat, he’d tear the very life out of him! But in his fury, he overlooked Ozzy. The tomcat was delighted to see his adversary at such a disadvantage on the ground, and launched himself at Randal, hitting him with such force that he fell back to the grass again. As he sprawled a second time among the bracken, Ozzy sat on Randal’s chest, put his whiskered, furry face close, and growled most evilly.

  Such close proximity had the inevitable result, and a moment later the tomcat was obliged to leap away again or be blasted by a succession of monumentally loud sneezes. Sir Julian descended the steps, the pistol once more at the ready. “Now then, Sanderby, I trust you will not repeat your folly, for although I may have been naive enough to fire unnecessarily a moment ago, you may count upon it that I have reloaded again now. You may also count upon it that unless you leave immediately, I will not hesitate to fire directly at you. Well, at a certain part of you, anyway.” The pistol muzzle moved toward Randal’s groin. Alarmed, that gentleman scrambled to his feet, and without another word fled down the hillside, his manhood intact.

  As he disappeared into the gloaming, Sir Julian winked at Ozzy. “Phew, that was close, eh, old chap? Reload in this light with my eyesight? Pigs will fly first. Come on, you are due some more cream for that truly splendid display of feline fortitude. Most impressive. Most impressive indeed.”

  He turned to go back into the library, preceded by a highly delighted Ozzy, who knew the word cream when he heard it.

  Chapter 18

  Fourteen days later, on a March morning suddenly darkened by fog, the Lucina inched toward Chelworth. Torches flared and smoked, and the sea was as smooth as a millpond as the ship’s boats hauled the frigate into the bay. At last the anchor was dropped, and preparations began to put ashore her injured officer and lady passengers, and their sea trunks and antiquities. Not forgetting one small tabby cat.

  Further out to sea, the booming of warning guns could be heard from other vessels caught up in the sudden fog. The atmosphere was rather eerie, and not at all what Tansy would have wished for her arrival back in England. She shivered as she stood on deck with Amanda and Hermion
e. Cleo was in her arms, and a carrying box made by the ship’s carpenter was on the deck by her feet. It was complete with a sturdy handle and a lid that could be closed with hooks and eyes, so the cat couldn’t leap out from the launch and fall in the sea. For the moment, however, Tansy just wanted to cuddle her much-loved pet. The cat figurine from Tel el-Osorkon was in the inside pocket of her cloak. It was heavy and felt a little uncomfortable, but she had forgotten to pack it with her other things; indeed, she had almost forgotten it altogether, and had been obliged to hurry back to the great cabin for it.

  In these chilly northern climes the three women were very well wrapped indeed. The cold of England was different from that of the Mediterranean, for it seemed to seep through to one’s very marrow. Nevertheless, she was glad to be home again—if Dorset could be termed home. Tansy had never been to the county before, having spent all her childhood and early youth in Northamptonshire. Uncle Julian had always paid visits to her, never the other way around, so Chelworth was unknown to her. Would it soon feel like home? “Oh, how I wish I knew the answer to that,” she whispered, raising Cleo to rest her cheek against the cat’s soft fur.

  Another question to which she would have liked an answer was why she had to be so unfortunate as to fall in love with Martin, for whom that wonderful kiss was not even a memory. He had lost consciousness in her arms and had been carried back to his cabin. When next he awoke, Amanda’s name had again been first on his lips. The Church Mouse was of so little consequence that he didn’t seem to know she had remained at his bedside since boarding the Lucina; instead it was Amanda he credited with having nursed him. Of course, that artful madam now went out of her way to prove the point by spending as much time with him as she could. It really was second nature for her to inflict hurt upon Tansy, and she gleaned a great deal of spiteful delight from the knowledge that the Church Mouse cried about it in secret.