Memoirs of a Hoyden by Joan Smith Page B

would do anything of the sort.”
    “But if he does?”
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ronald! Use your head. You can tell him what I’m doing.”
    Ronald gave an arch laugh. “That’s what I thought,” he answered.
    Not knowing what I might end up doing outdoors, I deemed it wise to change back into my own traveling suit. It would be difficult to explain a rent or grass strain on her “pretty” gown to Miss Longville. To prevent the possibility of being seen if I went out by a door, I opened my bedroom window and let myself down by a thick branch of ivy that clung to the wall of the house. Not a word will I write about having had more perilous escapes abroad; the trip made tatters of my gloves, but they were already beyond polite use. Once on the ground, I took my bearings before doing anything else.
    It was a chilly night. The soughing of the wind in the branches was strong enough to be heard above the breaking of the waves at the shore beyond sight. The sky was covered in layers of long, ragged clouds. If there was a moon, it was invisible, but a lightening at the edge of some of the clouds suggested it was up there, trying to shine.
    My bedroom was at the back of the house, looking toward barns and outbuildings. It was possible Sir Herbert would come out this way later, but at the moment there was no sign of life, and I didn’t intend to enter that cavernous, black barn alone. What I wished to investigate first was what Sir Herbert was up to, and with that in mind, I skirted the house to his office. His drapes were partially drawn, but by standing on my tiptoes I had a view of him. He still sat at his desk, scribbling away. From time to time he looked at a magazine, or checked some address in a book by his side. What was he writing there, looking as innocent as the sheepfarmer he pretended to be?
    I looked sharply for a long letter bearing a seal, which would indicate he had already got the letter stolen from Kestrel by the Frenchies. Nothing of the sort was seen. A little later, Mr. Harcourt stuck his head in at the door, smiled, said a few words, and left. Was Harcourt in on this nefarious business with Longville? It was possible. I nipped around to the front of the house, waiting for Harcourt to come out. He didn’t, but not much later I heard the sound of hoofbeats and the jingle of a harness, and saw Harcourt cutting across a field from the direction of the barn. Naturally, he had stabled his mount when he came calling. I knew no letter had been passed to Harcourt for delivery, so I forgot about him and returned to Sir Herbert’s window.
    Miss Longville was with her father now. She wore her mulish face, Sir Herbert one of frustration. His arms flailed and his lips moved angrily. Whatever he said threw Nel into a fit of tears. She pulled out a handkerchief, raised it to her eyes. Then she lowered it, said something in a bold way, stamped her foot, and stalked from the office. Sir Herbert mumbled and poured himself another glass of smuggled brandy. It wouldn’t take a genius to realize the father had been urging her to marry Harcourt.
    Poor girl, I could feel sympathy for her predicament. How perfectly wretched to be shackled to a dull sheepfarmer for life, especially after a taste of London excitement. If time allowed, I might try to help her after we caught the traitor. In fact, I doubted Harcourt would be so eager to have her once her papa was revealed for the villain he was. They do say every cloud has a silver lining.
    Sir Herbert was an extremely uninteresting villain, insofar as his activities that night went. He wrote another letter, put out his lamp, and left the office. If he was going to meet with the spies, this was the time for it. I rather thought Kestrel might join me, preferably with his pistol in his hand. I crept back to keep an eye on the barn and the rear of the house; for it seemed unlikely spies would enter by the front door.
    For fifteen minutes I skulked in the shadows, feeling quite