The pretty, young rector’s daughter flushed angrily and glared with animosity. Her jaw clamped, her mouth pursed.
“I am here to answer your demands, dearest Miss Caudle. Crass, vulgar, and plebeian though it might be, I am here to buy you off—just as you predicted I would.”
Mavis Caudle smiled. It was a far uglier expression than her pursed lips. “Excellent. We have a deal. Well done, Manfred.”
“She’ll have to give us a promissory note, Mavis-dear. The banks are…”
“Not good enough.”
“You were the one to set the impossible timeline.”
“Be that as it may, banknotes are the only currency I … we will accept.”
“I cannot get them in time.”
“Try.”
“But—”
“Good-bye, Miss Whitfield. We will see Mr. Newton on Daisy Hill at dawn. If you have furnished him with the necessary funds, Manfred might not aim at his heart. It is up to you whether they stand at twenty paces or share a handshake and walk away.”
Bile rose in Lydia’s throat, and she opened her mouth to protest, but Mavis Caudle shook her head. She smirked and grabbed Lord Aldershot’s arm; she walked past Lydia with perfect posture and a chin so high in the air it was doubtful that she could see ahead.
The effect was spoiled when, after having gained the hallway, Lydia could hear Mavis snap, “A promissory note can be traced, you fool.”
*
Fourteen hours can be experienced in many ways—to Lydia they were an eternity and a moment. Calling upon the goodwill of her nearby friends and family, with no questions asked—at least none directed toward her—Lydia was able to collect five hundred and ninety-three pounds. It was far short of the two thousand demanded, but she hoped, prayed, that it would be enough to sway the harlot to walk away from Daisy Hill with no blood on the field. Lydia was not worried about her good neighbor’s opinion, gullible, malleable sap that he was. He would go along with whatever Mavis-dear directed.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, Lydia penned a note to Robert, letting him know what she had arranged. A note returned with a cryptic and unhelpful message.
Excellent scheme, though I have thought of an alternate to try first. As I was the one challenged, the choice of weapons is mine. Will let you know if the funds are needed.
His words were not reassuring.
*
The predawn rising was not as difficult as Lydia had thought it would be. Excessive trepidation foils a restful night. Even Cora, who insisted on accompanying Lydia to Daisy Hill, looked wide awake when they met to tiptoe down the stairs.
Shodster watched them descend with sorrowful eyes, hesitating before unlocking the door. “Jeremy and Hugh will go with you, Miss Whitfield,” he whispered.
“But—”
“Mr. Hodge will need to stay with the carriage, Miss Whitfield. I will not have you traipsing through the dark without proper protection. I don’t know what Mr. Newton is thinking.”
“He isn’t expecting me to be there.”
“More fool him,” Cora said, maneuvering Lydia through the door.
“Thank you, Shodster.” Lydia nodded in a way that she hoped conveyed her appreciation of both her butler’s efforts and his concern. “I will return as quickly as I can.” The door shut behind them, and she heard the bolt shoot home. She shuddered at the sound and then joined Cora in the coach.
Daisy Hill was not far from the city, and yet there was a sense of complete isolation. An owl screeched, and the leaves rattled in the wind, but of humanity there was no sound. The air was crisp, far cooler than one would expect for the beginning of May. But then, Lydia had never been up at dawn before. Perhaps this was the norm.
The sky was marginally brighter when Mr. Hodge pulled alongside another carriage. The other driver was huddled in a blanket, leaning on the side rail in an indolent manner. His unemotional stare did not invite queries. So Lydia was left to wonder if it was Robert or the terrible two who had arrived ahead of her.
Wordless, they alit and stared across the mole-hole-dotted field to the hill beyond. It seemed logical that this was their destination, so they lifted their skirts several inches and climbed; Lydia’s overstuffed reticule bumped against her thigh as she walked. She was glad to have worn her brown pelisse, as it not only blocked the wind but also kept her person hidden in the dark. Cora, too, was shadowed, swathed in gray. Hugh and Jeremy followed behind—somewhat more visible in their green livery and cream breeches.
The hill was not overly high; the climb did not take long.
Movement up ahead directed their path, and Lydia did not know if she was relieved or disappointed to see that the group of four resolved into Miss Caudle, Lord Aldershot, his groom, and a stranger carrying a black satchel.
Taking a deep breath, Lydia approached.
Before she had closed the gap, Robert burst through the bushes, evidently having gained the hill from the other side. It was a far more convoluted route if Lydia’s inquiries had been correct—a more arduous climb.
“Excellent, we are all here.” His voice cut through the silence, sounding loud and invasive. He glanced toward Lydia with a slight frown of surprise, but just slight. He shrugged, smiled, and then turned to face the terrible two. There was no sense of nervousness about him.
His bonhomie manner intensified Lydia’s disquiet by leaps and bounds. Was he not taking the whole process seriously? She increased her pace until she stopped twenty or so feet from the confrontation.
“Lower your voice, Newton. We do not want to attract attention,” Aldershot snapped.
“Don’t see why not.” Robert’s reply was louder if anything. He half turned to the person beside him. “There we go, Cassidy, mark off the twenty paces. Looks like the sun is coming up.”
“Mr. Newton, voices carry in this kind of stillness—”
“Don’t you know it!”
“And we do not want anyone to know what we are about.” Miss Caudle’s tone was caustic.
“Why? Are you doing something you ought not to be doing?” Robert spread his raised arms, gesturing dramatically, very un-Robert-like.
Lydia began to fear for his reason as well as his person.
Robert watched Mr. Cassidy mark off an area—counting as he did so. “How is that?” he asked Robert, ignoring the other party entirely.
“Excellent, excellent. Yes, that should do. Plenty of room for everyone. What say you, Aldershot?” Robert pivoted, looking in every direction. “Time to discuss the terms of your challenge.”
“Finally, you are seeing reason.”
“Yes, indeed. You accused me of insulting Miss Caudle.” He flicked his hand in her general direction without glancing toward the young lady. “Though it was not true, you issued a challenge nonetheless.”
“This is all water under the bridge, Newton. We have come to terms—monetary terms. Let’s get on with it.”