The Moonless Night by Joan Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

disapproval at such irregular behavior.
    “What on earth is he come for?” Biddy inquired.
    “He was caught in Plymouth with no place to stay, like Mr. Benson, and remembered that I live nearby.”
    “Are you acquainted with him then, Henry?” Biddy asked, fully expecting more signs of displeasure that a man should be so careless of the proprieties as to come barging in in the middle of the night, unannounced.
    “Certainly I know him well. Met him any number of times in London when I was with the Admiralty. Of course we are not close friends. He is a young fellow, a Whig in fact, but Bathurst’s godson. I could hardly turn him away in the middle of the night. He is to stay a few days. We must show him some hospitality—an earl, after all.”
    Any cohort of Sir Henry’s from the Admiralty promised to be a dull dog, and the youngsters immediately lost any interest in him. Their only impatience for his arrival at table was due to his holding up their trip to the telescope. For half an hour after they had finished eating, they sat sipping coffee that became increasingly bitter as it aged. Biddy could not abandon her avocation for so long. There were preparations to make for her brother’s latest attack of gout, and there were her leeches to be seen to. She went to the reservoir, but the rest of the party was still intact when Lord Sanford sauntered to the table at ten o’clock, yawning into a carefully manicured hand, and bowing almost imperceptibly to everyone.
    He was tall and lean, with an aristocratic face, eyes that were half closed due to either fatigue or boredom, a well-sculpted nose, and a lower jaw that would have been described as lantern-jawed had it been a fraction of an inch longer, and might soon be anyway, if Lord Sanford proved to have a disposition to match his expression. It was clear at a glance that he was every bit as dull as she had expected, Marie decided. As he took up a seat beside Mr. Benson, she had an excellent opportunity to compare them unhindered, for neither of them glanced at her. There was interest, sensitivity, intelligence on the face of their spy, but Lord Sanford looked along the table with very little interest, settling in the end for only coffee. He was stiff, formal, did not give any impression of wishing to make himself loved in any quarter.
    “You would know Mr. Benson I expect, Lord Sanford?” Sir Henry asked.
    “We have met before I think,” he replied, with a bare nod to Benson, who nodded slightly in return.
    “We are neighbors,” Benson mentioned, causing the table to wonder at such lukewarm greetings between neighbors.
    “Are you, indeed?” Sir Henry asked. “I knew you were both from Devon. Well, this is a coincidence.”
    Nothing whatever was said by either neighbor to this marvelous coincidence. In fact, upon a closer scrutiny, Marie took the idea they were each unhappy to find the other there.
    “Are you come to look at Bonaparte, like the rest of the world?” Benson asked, being obviously the more polite of the two, and feeling some further talk between them was required.
    “Actually, I am on my way to my residence on the Isle of Wight for a holiday, but as the world is come to Plymouth, I decided to take a detour here and travel back along the coast to Portsmouth, where I keep my yacht for the crossing to the island. I hadn’t realized the place had become a circus.”
    Anyone with the full use of his brain would have realized it of course, but no one said it aloud. “What kind of a yacht do you have?” Sir Henry asked with some little interest.
    “An excellent one,” was the lord’s obtuse reply.
    “He means, what type?” David explained.
    “Oh, a schooner,” Sanford replied, with such a pained face that no further details were sought.
    “If you are interested in yachting, you will want to come to the docks after breakfast. We have seven yachts there, ready to run,” Sir Henry said.
    “Ours ain’t ready to run,” David mentioned,