Page 37

And contrarie the remedy of the one evill is the occasion and commencement of an other, as in Scilla and Charibdis.

Langworthy made rapid calculations. Flee? Deny? Take the bull by the horns?

Flight was pointless. Having already been identified by the coachman, running away would do nothing but make him appear more foolish than he already did.

Equally unavailing would be an attempt to deny what Harker had seen—without knowing exactly what he had seen, Langworthy would have to try to ferret it out, putting himself on the defensive and adding to his guilty aspect.

Take the bull by the horns, then. But which bull? The bull of Wrigley the footboy or the bull of Miss Pence, young lady in disguise? Would it be better to be thought assaulting a servant or assaulting a lady disguised as a servant?

The former, he decided. Absolutely the former. Whatever the consequences of wrangling with Wrigley, they would be nothing so bad as the consequences of tussling with a young gentlewoman, not to mention what it would mean for Mary, to be found in such costume!

Not that the choice of interpretations lay with him, he realized bitterly. On the contrary. It lay entirely with his companion in calamity, Mary Pence.

These conclusions were the work of a moment, taking place in the instant it took for his hands to release her.

Hands he then held up in the lantern light, to show he meant no harm.

For Mary’s part, her own still clutching him and all the tighter in her alarm, her head whipped to take in the coachman, the surprise of Harker’s appearance at least serving to dry her tears.

The threesome stood frozen in their tableau until the restless Blackie whiffled and tossed her head at being made to stand.

Mary turned back to Langworthy. “Here’s a predicament,” she whispered, lips twitching. “If I threw off my wig now, you would be forced to marry me, sir. But I scorn such measures.”

“Are you all right, Wrigley?” called Harker again, uneasy at their silence.

“I am,” answered Mary Pence in the footboy’s voice, pushing Langworthy away and wagging a finger at him. “And that’ll teach you, Mr. Langworthy, to accuse me of stealing from you!”

“ What? ” he mouthed, perplexed.

She widened her eyes, as if to say, I have provided the excuse, now your story must run with it.

When he continued to stand there, mute as a stock, she hissed, “What’s wrong with you? You used to be better at this.” And then, in carrying tones, “I told you, I don’t have your ring, so it was no use—er—shaking me like the dickens until I cried.”

Belatedly he took up the thread. He didn’t like the thread, but he took it up.

“My mistake,” croaked Langworthy. “I beg your pardon.”

“You lost a ring, sir?” asked Harker doubtfully.

“Er—perhaps. Perhaps not. It might just be in my trunk at the rectory.”

Blackie danced again, and Harker had to murmur reassurances to her. “I had better get out of the road, sir, but…begging your pardon, weren’t you on your way to the rectory in the first place? Lord Dere sent me after you and the lad here, saying you’d turned your ankle and might appreciate a lift.”

Langworthy grimaced. Blast. That was right—his ankle .

Here he’d been standing, weight evenly distributed, legs solid as two tree trunks.

Not that it would have helped even if he had remembered to affect an injury—he would still have to explain how he’d got so far in this wrong direction. Double blast.

“Very kind of the baron to send you. Very thoughtful. You see my ankle is much improved. So much so that I was able to accompany young Wrigley here on this longer walk.”

Mary made an impatient noise in her throat. “We were going back to the rectory, see,” she explained, “but then I says, ‘Sir, your ankle! You’re not lamed anymore.’ And he says, ‘It was a ruse, me lad. I just wanted out of the dancing and away home for some peace and quiet.’”

Langworthy swallowed his own exasperated scoff, stepping in front of Mary before she could introduce further troublesome features to this Banbury tale.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I—developed a headache and lied about my ankle to excuse myself. I would entreat your discretion on that matter, Harker, after all the effort and goodwill the Deres put into the occasion.”

The coachmen gave a curt nod, though whether in agreement with Langworthy’s request or only acknowledgement that a request had indeed been put to him, Horace couldn’t be certain.

Asking anyone to keep such stimulating details to himself was likely useless, and to bid Harker assist them in covering the matter by telling lies to his employers was out of the question.

“But then you noticed your ring went missing, Mr. Langworthy,” Wrigley reminded him, hopping up and down to peer over his shoulder, “so we didn’t go to the rectory at all.”

“That’s right,” he agreed heavily, thinking this was the stupidest, least plausible set of lies he had ever been forced to go along with in his entire life. “I noticed my ring was missing, and I thought the boy might have taken it.”

“Taken it from the rectory or from your finger?” frowned Harker.

“The rectory,” piped Wrigley, at the same moment Langworthy said, “My pocket.”

“But—you said I must have taken it from the rectory,” sputtered Mary, giving him a wild look. The girl was on the verge of laughter, and he could have shaken her for it.

“How could I have said that, Wrigley, when you have never been to the rectory ,” he countered icily.

“What I said was, there was no use in going to the rectory , if you had taken the ring from my pocket, and if you would only confess and return it, I would put you on the next coach to London, no questions asked, and would never speak a word of it to anyone.”

“Oh, right,” nodded Wrigley. “I remember now. That’s how it went.”

Heaven might have placed Charlie Harker in the role of a coachman, but he would have done just as well as an examiner, for he cocked his head and said, “But you say you didn’t steal his ring, Wrigley?”

“Not a bit of it!” the footboy declared.

“Then what are you doing here on the Pettypont Bridge, over a mile from Perryfield, if he’s not intending to put you on the first coach to London?”

It was obvious to Langworthy that only engrained deference prevented Harker from putting these questions to him, their story being so riddled with inconsistencies.

“I—did take the ring,” blurted Wrigley, Mary Pence obviously having come to the same conclusion. “I did take it. So he was taking me to the Angel Inn.”

Which made no sense either, given that Harker had just come upon them locked in either a struggle or an embrace.

Langworthy had the passing wish that he might dive over the balustrade and let the River Cherwell carry him far, far from this ridiculous scene.

Either that, or just start over and tell the whole truth.

But how could he, if telling the whole truth would end in him being shackled to Mary Pence for life?

No. The story was contradictory and nonsensical, but they had no choice but to go forward with it.

Indeed, Langworthy’s only saving grace in the situation lay in the protection his rank afforded.

As a servant, Harker could hardly accuse a gentleman—and the Deres’ friend and guest to boot—of lying.

Moreover, if Langworthy gave him orders, Harker would have to carry them out—at least until his employers released him.

But Langworthy chafed at this advantage. It felt like a dodge, an evasion, and he hated to use it. Beggars could not be choosers, however, so use it he must and would.

With a silent sigh he said, “Harker, we are talking in circles here, and you had better leave this to me. I am going to accompany Wrigley here to the Angel Inn and would appreciate it if you would ask Mrs. Dere to send Blodgett and the belongings of both of them along as well. I believe their duties ended with the ball in any case.”

“Sir.” That it was a bitter pill to swallow was obvious from the swelling of the coachman’s chest and the reluctance of his movements. But he climbed up again and, after Langworthy refused his offer to take them all the way into

Oxford, told Blackie to “back,” expertly reversing the gig until he could turn around in the open space of St. Clement’s.

Mary waited until the vehicle was out of sight before giving a triumphant whoop. “That was a near thing! Do you think he was fooled? I think he might not have been.”

“Of course he wasn’t fooled in the least,” growled Langworthy.

“Oh, Horace. How cross you are. I thought it great fun. Though it is a very good thing I do not require a character from Mrs. Dere, if now I am to be known as a thief!”

“If I am cross, it is because you have landed us in this rare mess, and I know not how to be lifted out of it.”

Planting her fists on her hips, she rolled her eyes.

“What does it matter? You’ll be returning to Portsmouth almost on my heels—though I had hoped we might travel together.

Who are these people, whom you have known not even two months, that you should care so what they think of you? You will never see them again.”

“They have nevertheless become important to me,” he replied, “as has their good opinion. A good opinion which, barring some miracle, is now lost.”

“I don’t understand you, Horace. What has happened to you? The Horace Langworthy I knew cared for nothing but the navy and me and good fun. But you—”

“The Horace Langworthy you describe,” he interrupted, “dates from two years ago. Before I was a prisoner of war. Before my closest friend died. Before I was turned ashore on half pay. Before you jilted me.”

“Ah,” she said, softening, her voice dropping to a purr. “Poor darling. But the remedies to all but Sebastian Barstow’s death are either given to you or near to being reversed. You have your freedom, the war will began again at any moment, and…if you will have me, I am yours again.”