Page 24 of Secrets of the Heart

“Yes, well, the Armisteads are all a bit odd. All of them have peculiar names.”

“Biblical.”

“Well, I suppose one can hardly blame them for that, but it does seem to me that their parents could have had a bit more consideration. I mean, Matthew is all right, and Ruth, but it seems to me that to name a boy Job is asking for trouble, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I guess so, but that isn’t the point. What I’m trying to say is that Michael’s friends and correspondents are eccentric in that way, but I wouldn’t expect them to hire someone to pretend to be a highwayman and warn Michael of some danger or other. Even if they are pranksters, what would be the jest of it?” Rachel leaned forward earnestly, all the doubts that had been simmering in the back of her mind spilling out.

“I don’t know,” Sylvia replied doubtfully. “It doesn’t seem particularly funny, does it?”

“And if the man is a lunatic, why did he choose Michael to trouble with his lunacy? It was not random. He spoke of him by name. He recognized the crest on the side of the carriage. He acted as if he knew him. But wouldn’t you think if Michael had met someone as mad as that, he would have recognized him by my description? By what the man said? He even told me that his name was Red Geordie. Don’t you think you would remember someone named Red Geordie?”

“He sounds rather unforgettable,” Sylvia agreed. “Do you think that Michael really knew who he was and that he lied to you about it?”

Her friend’s words brought Rachel up short. “No,” she admitted, frowning. “I would not think that Michael would lie to anyone, much less his wife.” She hesitated, then added, “But when he said he didn’t know who the man was, he—he looked away from me. And suddenly I just felt that something was wrong. That he was…maybe not lying, but that he was not telling me the entire truth.” She looked at her friend, troubled. “Do you think he is hiding something from me?”

Sylvia shrugged. “Sir Ian hides things from me all the time.”

“Really?” Rachel stared. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

“No, not especially. Sometimes it is because he fears I will scold him. The doctor told him to stop drinking port—the gout, you know—and sometimes, when he comes home from his club, I know he has been drinking it, but he pretends he hasn’t. And sometimes he thinks I wouldn’t understand something. Men think we are silly creatures, with nothing but clothes in our heads.”

“Michael is not like that,” Rachel said positively. “He has talked to me about philosophy and science—and sometimes, frankly, it was too complicated for me, but Michael didn’t treat me as if I were stupid.”

“Then I would warrant that he is doing it to protect you,” Sylvia answered promptly.

“Protect me? From what?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the fact that he is in danger, that the man was telling the truth, no matter how unlikely it seems. Maybe he doesn’t want you to worry.”

“Well, I would worry, but it would hardly be fair of him to hide it from me. And, besides, that means he’s been doing something that would get him into danger, and that would have to be something else I know nothing about.”

“Probably something from his past,” Sylvia said with a wise look. “Before he met you. Men always get involved in some sort of pecadillo or other when they are young, even someone like Michael. He would be embarrassed to admit his youthful folly to you.”

“You really think so?”

Her friend nodded her head emphatically, sending her golden ringlets bouncing. “Oh, yes. And if you want to find out what it is, I know just the thing to do. Come with me to Lady Tarleton’s soiree tonight.”

Rachel raised her brows skeptically. “And how will that help me?”

“Lady Belmartin is sure to be there. She is great friends with Harriet Tarleton. And Lady Belmartin knows all the gossip there is to know about everyone. If anyone knows whether Michael was involved in something shady in the past, it will be she.”

“I can’t go about asking people if they know anything bad about my husband!” Rachel protested. “Honestly, Sylvia, how would that look? Nothing would be surer to set everyone gossiping.”

“We won’t ask her outright, silly! One doesn’t have to prod Lady Belmartin to gossip. Indeed, it’s hard to get her to stop. We’ll just start talking to her, let her get warmed up a little, and I shall say something, oh, something like there being nothing bad that one could say about Westhampton.”

“Won’t she think it’s odd?”

“Heavens, no! She will just take it as a challenge. If there is anything bad to be said about Michael, she will do it.”

“With me standing right there in front of her?”

“You obviously don’t know Lady Belmartin well. She would be eager to see how you would react. It would be more grist for her gossip mill.”

“How horrid!”

“She is, rather. She is bosom friends with Ian’s mother—there is another one with a tongue like a serpent—so I have had a lot of experience at dealing with her. I ply her with flattery and let her think I am the silliest thing ever, and I feed her bits of gossip. Just look awestruck at her knowledge of every on-dit for the last twenty years and she will be pleased with you.”

Rachel had not really planned on going out that evening; she had felt tired and listless all day. But she thought of spending the long night alone in the Westhampton mansion, and the prospect was immensely unappealing.