Chapter Fourteen
Early that afternoon, three handwritten notes were delivered, one to the Viscount Rowdean, in care of the Inn, Little Chillendale, one to Lord Southwick and one to Sir Rodney Chillendale.
No particular mention was paid to them, since notes were flying around from house to house concerning important matters such as gowns, food, gowns and more food. And beverages for those few poor sods who didn’t, or couldn’t, drink Chillendale ale.
Neither did anyone notice the messenger bearing the notes, since a heavy cloak with a thick full hood obscured his dark features, his moustache and beard, and the turban that wrapped his head.
In fact, Dal Singh was adept at becoming all but invisible when working for Lady Hecate Ridlington. And this afternoon, delivering her notes, was no exception.
But by the Gods, he loathed the icy cold.
Mission accomplished, he hurried back to the horse he’d tethered near Southwick, mounted and rode like the wind back to his mistress and what he hoped would be a roaring fire. How the English survived in winters like this, he didn’t know, because it was definitely not to his taste.
His unobtrusive departure was not matched by the effects of the notes on their recipients.
Sir Rodney opened it, casually perused it, and then sat down rather heavily in the chair behind his desk. “Good God.”
At the Inn, Brent was having much the same reaction, although his was accompanied by the exhalation of a mouthful of ale. “Jesus.” His jaw dropped. “Jesus bloody Christ.”
Not far away, Lord Southwick—also working in his office—read the note. And began to tremble. He stood, walked to a small tray and poured himself a large brandy which he took back to his desk and sipped as he read the letter again.
The trembling eased, but his shock was palpable. And after a few minutes, tears began to fall. If anyone had observed him at that moment, they would not have seen the Lord Southwick who managed his estates so ably and with a firm hand. They would have seen an aging man in agony.
*~~*~~*
A couple of hours later, Lady Jocelyn was surprised to find Brent Rowdean in her front hall. “Hallo Brent. What brings you out this way? The ball doesn’t start until eight, you know.”
He smiled. “I know, Lady Jocelyn, and you can be assured that I’ll be here. As will Emmeline.” The smile grew. “You know we’re engaged?”
“I heard. Such great news couldn’t be kept a secret.” She crossed the hall and gave him a big hug. “Congratulations, my dear boy. I wish you all the happiness in the world.”
“Thank you. I hope for that as well. But at this particular moment, I’d like a quick word with Sir Rodney if he’s around?”
She blinked. “Well, yes. I believe he’s in the study. Something about getting a year end tally underway.”
Brent grimaced. “Oh Lord. Yes, it’s getting to be that time for all of us. D’you think he’ll have a moment for me?”
“Of course.” She led him down a short hallway and stopped in front of a large door. Tapping on it, she entered. “Brent’s here, Rodney. Wants a word. Got time for him?”
Sir Rodney stood. “Of course. Just the man I want to see.”
Lady Jocelyn blinked. “Really?”
“Yes. Come on in, lad. Warm yourself.” Sir Rodney walked to the fire. “Will be it all right if I ask Joss to stay?”
“Er…” Brent looked somewhat puzzled.
“I received a note this morning.”
“Ah. Well then.” Brent’s countenance cleared. “Yes, sir. I’d be very pleased to have Lady Jocelyn here.”
“Good.”
*~~*~~*
And an hour or so afterthat…
“Beg pardon, Milord. Sir Rodney Chillendale and Viscount Rowdean are here and would like to see you. Should I show them in?”
