“Late hour.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Lynch said he was working late to make up for the time lost while dealing with an addlepated hussy. She—the hussy—claimed that you and a young lady had been forced into a coach and rushed away. Complete nonsense, of course. Or so I thought … except that I could not find you anywhere. Believe you me, I looked—I looked well into the night. That is, in fact, why I am up at this ungodly hour—to continue my search … for you.”
Robert stared for some minutes at the carpet, recalling the strength of their friendship, thinking about the newest member of that circle. “This has to be between us,” Robert said finally, with a tone earnest enough to secure Cassidy’s undivided attention.
“Without saying,” his friend said.
Robert told Cassidy the whole. Well, not the entire whole, for he didn’t use names, avoided mentioning Lydia’s exemplary qualities, and skipped the change in their relationship. So, actually, it was only a part … and as a consequence, not long in the telling.
“Well, your day was far more interesting than I had imagined.” Cassidy nodded to himself. “If one can use that word.”
“Interesting? No, I think I would use harrowing instead.”
“Harrowing might be too strong. Shall we agree on curious?”
“Curious, it is.”
“Now that that is settled, I will say that I had not anticipated such a curious day for you. I imagined that you had latched on to a pretty miss and been so thoroughly distracted that you had forgotten about me.” He snorted a laugh. “I was right in a way, wasn’t I?”
Robert shook his head in a stiff jerk and ignored the rejoinder—and the reference to a pretty miss. “If that were true, you would not have been searching for me.”
“I’d like to sit here and pretend that my search started with concern, but in reality it was driven by the need to ring a fine peal over you. I was thoroughly piqued. Thought you had left me high and dry. Should have known better.” Cassidy glanced out the window into the gray featureless sky, shrugged to an inner thought, and then turned back to Robert. “What are your plans?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yes, I believe we have to make arrangements to cancel a duel.”
“But what of your lady?”
“Lydia?”
“Is that her name?”
“Just a figure of speech.”
Cassidy laughed outright. “Of course, that makes perfect sense.”
Robert rubbed at his face, trying to rearrange his thoughts. “The miss is now with family and friends, protected and soon to be returned to her home. I will find the villain behind this dirty deed soon enough, and he will pay … but first, your duel.”
Growing serious again, Cassidy swallowed. “Thought I might visit a rifle club. Get in some practice.”
“Don’t be foolish. You cannot learn to be a crack shot in less than a week. You would be better served by practicing a heartfelt apology.”
“For what? I know not what I did.”
“Practice anyway,” Robert said unreasonably.
They arranged to meet at Cassidy’s club, Lewis’s, where they might talk to Peterson, the only witness of this foolish business that Cassidy could recall. Until then, Robert had to see Mr. Lynch to arrange for a few days away from the firm. If need be, he would take a leave; there was really no choice.
And as Robert rushed hither and yon, he found his thoughts constantly wandering to the subject of Miss Lydia Whitfield. Would that these thoughts were of a useful nature, listing possible ways in which to investigate or puzzling out who might be worked upon for answers about her abduction. Those would, at least, be worthy avenues of thought.
No, indeed. His befogged brain had the audacity to be distracted by recollections of her tinkling laugh, her gentle touch, and her intelligent eyes. When called to task, said brain acquiesced, refocusing on how enticing was the sweet smell of lavender, even when overlaid by an odor of stale hay. It really wasn’t very helpful.
*
Lydia arrived at Roseberry with pomp and ceremony. Or at least that was the only decent name that she could conceive for the helter-skelter squeals, disjointed conversation, and angry tones. The concoction would soon give her a headache.
As it was, Edward and Shelley had accompanied Cora and Lydia to Roseberry Hall in their large travel coach. Edward was obliged, having promised Robert to do so; though he stated that he would have done so regardless and with great enthusiasm even had he not been duty-bound.
Lydia was not certain of this eagerness, as Edward had fallen asleep, leaning against his wife’s shoulder, before they had even seen the last of the church spires of Bath. Shelley, on the other hand, could not be doubted on her keenness to stay in her friends’ company. When the time had come for Lydia and Cora to prepare for their journey, Shelley had only just started to describe the Louvre. She still had to talk about the splendid shopping, spectacular nightlife, and the journey home through Calais. Nothing could be done but continue their conversation in the coach.… Perhaps it was no surprise that Edward had fallen asleep.
When Shelley had reached the end of her many tales, Cora took up the subject of Mr. Granger; the girls spent a good half hour discussing the whys and wherefores of the gentleman’s possible betrothal. In the end, Shelley thought that she would be the best one to engage in a correspondence to ascertain the validity of the rumor.
“There are advantages to being an old married lady,” Lydia teased.
But other than shared laughter, a few teasing remarks, and an odd comment or two, Lydia was unusually pensive. She knew her friends believed this silence was caused by the events of the previous day, and while that was partially true, Lydia was not as distracted by the abduction as much as by the person abducted with her. Try as she might, Lydia could not stop thinking of a handsome young clerk—not in the will-he-be-able-to-discover-the-villain sense but in the engaging-manner-and-attractive-countenance sense. It was rather disconcerting to find that most comments by her friends—on completely unrelated subjects—could, without intent, grab her thoughts and shoot them back to Robert Newton.