Page 58 of The Case of the Curate

“Oh, they were receding, but the rain this afternoon won’t have helped. We must hope for a dry night.”

Kate did, though not for the same reasons as Lady Chadbon, who departed shortly afterward, promising her dinner on a tray.

Kate continued to wilt, much to Grissy’s amusement, until the tray was delivered. As soon as the door closed behind the servant, she leapt to her feet and seized a few ravenous mouthfuls.

“Mmm, that duck is exquisite. You had better eat it while I’m gone. Try to hide a few morsels that I can guzzle cold when I come back.” She reached for the small wine decanter on the tray. “Gilbert’s flask! The one you found in the bottom of the trunk when you unpacked—where is it?”

Grissy rummaged in the dressing table drawer and came back with the flask. She watched as Kate carefully poured the wine into the flask and pushed in the stopper.

“I wish you weren’t doing this, miss.”

“So do I,” said Kate, shoving her feet into her boots.

Even as she fastened them and flung her old traveling cloak around her shoulders, she knew the words for a lie. Which surprised her. But it seemed she had missed the fun and adventure of childhood. She had missed Rupert.

Accordingly, she smiled at Grissy, who had nobly offered to accompany her and been denied for reasons Kate had no time to examine, and slipped away in high excitement.

She had no trouble at all leaving the house unseen, and the lantern was still where she and Grissy had left it last night, the candle inside replaced. Since it wasn’t yet dark, she didn’t light it, just set off briskly along the now-familiar path to the magistrate’s house. The rain had gone off again.

Despite the ground being so wet underfoot, she made better time in the daylight, and it was only just dusk when she approached the house. She had to be more careful, of course, for there were lights in the house and at the stables. People were moving around in and out of the kitchen, and she obviously had no idea where Remington or his wife were. She didn’t even know who else lived in the house, and it was perfectly possible they had guests.

So she crept around to the side of the house and hid behind a dripping bush, watching the door to the gaol. No one went in or came out, and she was sure she could see the key hanging in the same place as last night. Still, she didn’t want to blunder into a constable, let alone the magistrate himself, so she tried to be careful. Only when she felt the first spot of renewed rain did she emerge from the bush and dart across to the door.

As she reached up for the key, she paused, frowning. Was that singing?

It was, and it came from beyond the door. More worryingly, she heard two distinct voices.

Oh, the devil, is he drinking with the constables? It was just the sort of thing Rupert would do, making friends and allies in his own careless way. Which would not help him, she thought crossly. Or me!

She peered through the keyhole, but it was so gloomy inside that she could only make out vague movement in the cell. At least there seemed to be no one else between there and the outside door. Crossing the fingers of her free hand for luck, she inserted the key, turned it, and went in. Hastily, she closed the door behind her and leaned against it, for the singing was much louder inside. It was also enthusiastic and unexpectedly harmonious.

It cut off like a tap.

*

Sir Colin Nye was disappointed not to see young Lady Ambrose at dinner. Frankly, she was all that made this tedious party bearable.

Well, she and the pretty maidservant everyone was pretending had never existed. That was, everyone was pretending except Lady Ambrose, who, interestingly, was prying in her own, endearing way. Though not tonight.

Tonight, there were no females under the age of forty to look at. Except Margaret Newman, and she seemed to have eyes only for her foolish husband.

Lord love us, what a tedious set of people! Trusting, too. It was like taking sweetmeats from a child. Incompetent, self-righteous jaw-me-deads.

He smiled amiably at Lady Chadbon, who’d lost her figure decades ago and was now growing jowls and wrinkles in place of the pert, rosy cheeks of her youth. Women aged badly. Sometimes he was grateful he had never married again, never felt obliged to waste time with someone who no longer pleased him. In truth, he hadn’t missed his first wife much at the time she died, and he still didn’t.

What was old Lady C. going about now? The damned bill again.

He nodded sagely. “Quite, Lady Chadbon, quite. I see nothing in it that my own party could not support wholeheartedly. Apart from the cost, of course, but let me see what I can do.”

He was quite prepared to support their bill. Lots of his party would, and he could probably claim credit for swaying them. It would give the opposition a small victory, in return for the masses of information he was quietly gathering here about their plans—which would be much easier to counter now—and about their members in both Commons and Lords.

It was, after all, why he had allowed himself to be persuaded to come. Well, that and Lady Ambrose, whom he had met in London. The maid had been an unexpected, if short-lived, bonus.

“You say Lady Ambrose is indisposed?” he said solicitously. “I hope she has not caught a chill from riding out in all the wet this morning.”

“So do I,” Lady Chadbon said. “She has definitely drooped, poor thing, but she assures me she will go to bed early tonight and join us refreshed in the morning.”

Nye almost licked his lips at the thought of Kate Ambrose in bed. He refrained, for he had a much better idea.