Chapter 7
Felicity still had a sense of dread, like a hovering cloud—far in the distance but sure to rain at just the wrong moment.
She hurried along the path through the woods, taking the turn toward Normanton Hall at such speed that she almost bumped into someone coming the other way.
“Lady Felicity.” It was a woman she had met a few days ago—a widow of about Felicity’s own age. “Mrs. Fleming.”
“Is it true,” Mrs. Fleming blurted, “that you spent last night in the schoolhouse with Mr. Weatherall?”
Felicity must have glared, for she quickly said, “It is none of my business, I am sure, though you should know that word has spread around the village.”
As well to know, Felicity supposed. “Thank you.”
“If it is true, if you know Mr. Weatherall well, can you give him a message? You probably know there are smugglers on this coast. I’m not going to name them, but if you can, tell Mr. Weatherall that I heard two of them talking about the shipment they are meant to be bringing in.
They are worried about it. It is for a man called Grant, and they think he is up to no good.
I thought Mr. Weatherall and Captain Somerville might know what to do with the information. ”
“I will tell them,” Felicity promised, her mind racing. What was Grant up to? How delightful it would be to have a threat to hang over his head!
She continued through the woods, her mind returning to her betrothed, so that she smiled as she hurried.
When she came out of the trees, she could see two large open carriages drawn up at the steps, and people were already emerging to take their places.
Oh dear. Felicity fairly ran across the grass, giggling at the thought of what Sophia might say if she saw her running like a hoyden.
Her happiness was like the fine sparkling wine from the Champagne region that was often served in England on special occasions, and that the French affected to despise.
It fizzed in her veins, sending up bubbles of delight to explode into smiles, giggles, and other exuberances.
She would join the painting party, since Penelope had been such a dear sweet hostess, and did not deserve to have her plans upended.
And then she would write to Hythe and let him know that he might expect a visit from Justin.
“And you must answer that I shall please myself, dear Hythe,” she composed in her mind, “but I hope I shall have your blessing. I shall marry Justin with or without it, for I love him and he loves me. But I would like my brother to be happy for me.”
She arrived in time to join the last carriage, but over the next hour, as they set up on the water’s edge and attempted to put paint on canvas, her mind kept drifting to Justin.
Was he truly recovering? What if one of the wounds became infected?
Fear for him kept trying to infest her mind, but she fought it back. There was no reason behind her anxiety.
What she should be feeling was joy, and she did! She and Justin were betrothed. At last. Hythe might grumble, but once he came to know Justin, he would see what she loved in the man. Hythe wanted what was best for her, and she knew that was Justin.
Then Robin arrived. She saw him stop to greet Penelope then saunter along the line of painters, having a word with one and then with another.
He stood beside her and said, in a voice just above a whisper, “Lady Felicity, the Bow Street Runner has arrested Justin on suspicion of being Captain Midnight or his associate.” Her vague disquiet suddenly had a focus.
“The man says his wounds are proof enough,” Robin said. “I’ll have to hand myself in, Felicity.”
“Take me to Justin,” she demanded. “I have an idea.” Without waiting for an answer, she hurried along the lakeside to Penelope. “Penelope, something has come up. Captain Somerville is going to take me into the village. May I borrow one of the carriages to return to the house? I will send it back.”
“Yes, of course,” Penelope replied. “I hope there is nothing wrong.”
Felicity was going to have to tell her something.
“Walk to the carriage with me,” she said.
When they were out of earshot of everyone except Robin, who had followed along, she told Penelope, “Mr. Weatherall and I became betrothed last night, Penelope, but we are not telling anyone until Hythe knows. Mr. Grant guessed, and has accused Justin of being the highwayman. Robin and I are going to talk to the Bow Street Runner and find out what Grant said so we can prove it is untrue.”
“You must go, of course,” Penelope agreed. “Oh dear. I had rather hoped you would marry Mr. Grant. He is distantly connected to royalty, though mostly Italian royalty, it is true.”
“Mr. Grant’s suggestions to me have been villainous, Penelope. Even if I were not most sincerely attached to Mr. Weatherall, I would never marry a man who threatens to blacken my reputation if I do not accept him. As for having Justin arrested! Words fail me.”
“I could not agree more, my dear. I shall wish you very happy, then, Felicity, and when Mr. Grant returns from his trip to Brighton, Peter shall tell him he must leave the house party.” She nodded decisively for emphasis. What a dear Penelope was.
“I have something to fetch from the house,” Felicity said to Robin when she descended from the carriage. “I won’t be a moment.”
Robin nodded. “I’ll have them harness my team to my curricle.”
He was as good as his word, and a few minutes later, they were on their way to the village.
Robin occasionally eyed the long pistol case on Felicity’s knee, but he asked no questions.
Just as well, for Felicity had no intention of answering any.
She had taken her carriage pistol from her luggage, and fired it into the log basket.
Despite her efforts to smother it with a blanket first, it had made an almighty noise, but no one came to investigate.
The blanket was in no good state. She would need to buy Penelope another one.
The runner was staying with the village constable, Robin said. Justin was in the cottage’s little lockup, waiting to be seen by Robin’s brother Peter. Somerville was the local magistrate.
“I hope they have not made Justin’s injuries worse,” Felicity said. If he was sick again, someone would answer for it, or she was not a Belvoir. She led the way to the cottage’s front door, and rapped on it without waiting for Robin.
“Lady Felicity Belvoir to see the gentleman from Bow Street,” she told the maid who answered the door. “You may tell the gentleman that I am Mr. Weatherall’s betrothed.”
The maid let them into the hall and hurried off to announce them to the runner, who came out into the hall himself a few minutes later. “Lady Felicity, is it? I regret, my lady, that I am unable to allow you to see the prisoner. Nor you, Captain Somerville.”
“I hope to see Mr. Weatherall, of course,” said Felicity, “to be sure that he has not been put in danger by your rash action in arresting him.”
The runner tossed his head back, jutting his chin belligerently. “I have it on the best authority, that the prisoner Weatherall was injured in the commission of the crime of highway robbery,” he said. He might have said more, but Felicity interrupted.
“Your authority is, I believe, Mr. Victor Grant, a retired naval officer who asked me to marry him yesterday evening. When I refused, he threatened to harm Mr. Weatherall and also to damage my reputation. I have since been informed he is in league with smugglers. Hardly the best of authorities, and clearly no gentleman.”
That bothered the runner, but he rallied.
“We also have information laid by a young female, as to what she observed, plus there is the fact of Weatherall’s injuries.
One of the highwaymen in question was shot last night by a coachman, using a blunderbuss, and Weatherall has wounds consistent with those made by a blunderbuss. ”
Milly Stone. Silly girl. Felicity was going to find her and give her a piece of her mind. Or better still, talk to her father. She was easily dismissed, and Felicity had an explanation for the wounds that the runner would find hard to disprove.
“The wounds were made by an espignole,” said Felicity, holding out the pistol case until the runner took it. “You will find my espignole in that case.” She blushed. It was a talent she had developed as a child, requiring only that she thought of something deeply embarrassing. “I shot my fiancé.”
She fluttered her hands by her hot cheeks.
“Oh, this is so mortifying. After I was threatened by Mr. Grant, I wanted to tell Justin. Mr. Weatherall. It is not a long walk to the schoolhouse, so I decided to go and see him, even though it was late at night. To protect myself, for there are desperate characters abroad, as you know—and besides, Mr. Grant had gone out again, though heaven knows why. Oh! Perhaps he had gone to meet the smugglers! I took my carriage pistol, which is an espignole.”
She had him. The runner was hanging on her every word, and rather than give her away, Robin was merely staring at her with his mouth slightly open. Surprise had been the reaction she was looking for.
“I must have been more nervous than I thought, for when I heard a sound in the undergrowth, I inadvertently pulled the trigger, and the pistol went off.” Felicity had no trouble calling tears to her eyes.
She had only to think about how pale Justin had been last night while she was digging bullets out of his shoulder and arm. “I shot my own betrothed,” she wailed.
Robin coughed. If the man betrayed her by laughing, he might be the one she shot. However, he got himself under control to say, “How frightening for you, Lady Felicity.”
The runner either wasn’t falling for her act, or he was too set on his arrest to accept her story. “I don’t suppose Mr. Weatherall mentioned what he was doing out in the woods at night,” he said, his voice heavy with doubt.