Strange Capers by Joan Smith

news. What I saw was a sharp frown, and what I heard was silence.
    At last Rachel spoke. “If he’s so badly dipped that he has to sell something, he can’t be high enough in the stirrups to rebuild that shambles. I wonder what he’s really up to.”
    “It’s only a temporary shortage of funds. I have the feeling he acted precipitately in going to Roundtree and that he regrets it already. Give him the book you bought in Folkestone, Rachel, and let us see if we can’t kindle his interest in restoring, instead of selling,” I urged.
    She gave an annoyed tsk. “I told you that book was all damp and spotted. In any case, it says very little about Thornbury.”
    “Well, perhaps there is something in the library to do the trick,” I offered hopefully. I wondered what was keeping Aiglon so long abovestairs. When Willard shuffled in a little later to speak to Rachel, he told us his lordship had some letters to write.
    “He’s probably writing to inquire whether he did actually kill that Kirkwell person he shot in the duel or only maimed him for life,” Rachel commented.
    I was coming to resent Rachel’s attitude toward her cousin. It was more likely he was writing to London urging the forwarding of arms for the militia, as he had more or less agreed to do. But that’s the way it was with Rachel. When she took someone in dislike, she saw no good in him.
    “If he means to poke and pry through the library tonight, I had best make sure it’s clean,” she said, and went off in that direction, leaving me alone.
    It was nearly time for dinner when Aiglon finally came belowstairs and Rachel had returned to the saloon.
    “Ah, Aiglon, there you are!” she exclaimed brightly. “Did Constance tell you the dreadful news? I’m afraid you’ve been found out, my lad. The Runners were in Folkestone this afternoon. Naturally I tried to spread the word I hadn’t seen hide or hair of you, but after your visit to Captain Cokewell this morning, it was no use. Rather unwise of you to have sallied forth, was it not?”
    Aiglon subjected his cousin to a long, thoughtful gaze that held much derision. “You must be mistaken,” he answered mildly. “I had a note from a friend left at General Delivery in Folkestone this morning informing me that Kirkwell is alive and well. They must be after some other villain. Or villainess,” he added in a meaningful way, still regarding her steadily.
    Rachel’s reaction was not at all what I expected. She didn’t bridle up in righteous indignation, or laugh, or do anything but return his steady gaze. Some undercurrent flowed between them, some message relayed by Aiglon and assessed by his cousin. My liveliest conjecture brought forth nothing but the larcenous nature of Rachel’s housekeeping, and I didn’t think this could possibly be a matter for the Bow Street Runners.
    “That is good news that you didn’t kill Kirkwell, Aiglon,” I said, very much relieved to hear it.
    I heard Willard’s shuffle approaching, heralding the announcement of dinner. Already fumes of poached cod filled the house, killing my appetite. The entire fish, including the head and dress of scales, had been poached and placed on the table. The eye had turned milky and stared at us accusingly as we took our seats.
    “Give Lord Aiglon the head,” Rachel said to the footman.
    It was done, and accepted without a murmur, though I noticed Aiglon immediately reached for the sauceboat and covered the whole thing in the cream sauce that unfortunately accompanied any fish at Thornbury. He picked reluctantly around its edges, occasionally lifting to his tips a forkful of sauce, eked out with mashed potatoes. The sauce was of a consistency that didn’t object to a fork. About nine-tenths of the fish was soon removed from the table and replaced by mutton, which was slightly more appetizing.
    “I expect you’ll be going into town this evening?” Rachel asked Aiglon as we ate.
    “No, Constance and I plan to do a little