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“I mean that Baron Hans von Lunenburg is not who you think he is. He is not a von Lunenburg and certainly not a member of the aristocracy. He is an imposter.”

  Eight

  Stratford snapped his attention away from passing trees by the road just outside of the Syms estate. He set his gaze on Gilbert sitting across from him in the carriage. “An imposter? What are you saying?”

  “How much more plainspoken can I be? The man you know as Baron von Lunenburg is an imposter, I tell you.” Gilbert slapped his knee. The sudden beat emphasized his point.

  “Then who is he?”

  “I cannot say for certain, which is why I chose not to mention anything at dinner.”

  “Let me be sure I understand you.” Stratford crossed his arms. “You say you know he is an imposter, but you do not know who he is. How can that be?”

  “When one is a London solicitor, one is eyewitness to many circumstances.” Gilbert leaned toward Stratford, setting his elbows on his thighs and clasping his hands. “Let me tell you one in particular. A few years ago, I was near the courthouse when I saw him being escorted by police. He was in shackles.”

  “Shackles!” Stratford had trouble picturing the pompous Baron von Lunenburg in shackles. “He was a prisoner? Are you sure?”

  “I studied his face as discreetly as I could during the course of the evening. He has aged a bit since then but not too much. The last time I saw him, he was clean-shaven, but he has since grown a mustache, no doubt to help obscure his real identity. And of course at this point in time he wears superb clothing and smells of soap, whereas prison garb and conditions are not quite so fine. But even with all those differences, I have every reason to believe that he and the prisoner I saw are the same.”

  “What was the criminal’s name?”

  “That I do not know, either.” Gilbert leaned back in the black leather seat.

  Stratford couldn’t keep his irritation concealed. “You seem to be throwing around many accusations, considering you know next to nothing.”

  “I can prove my suspicions are true,” Gilbert declared. “His name will be easy enough to ascertain. A search of that day’s court records will reveal all.”

  “Surely this man was not so memorable that you can recall the exact day you saw him.”

  “Believe it or not, he did stick out in my mind,” Gilbert said. “I remember feeling sorry for him. He looked so lost and forlorn, like a little boy caught stealing in the nursery—only he was just taking an extra cookie for his dear baby sister who was crying.”

  “You do have quite the imagination.” Stratford chuckled in spite of himself.

  “Yes, quite. His expression alone most likely convinced the judge to tread lightly with his sentence,” Gilbert observed. “And from all appearances at dinner this evening, his skill at communicating with people has only improved. I can see how he managed to influence so many men in the parish to part with their money.”

  “And you say you can recall the date you first saw him?”

  “Yes. Christmas Eve.”

  “A time of year when all our senses of compassion are heightened. No wonder you could so easily recall,” Stratford reasoned. “Since he showed no recognition of you, I assume he must not have returned your glance.”

  “No. He kept his eyes averted to the ground.”

  Stratford could understand why. “I wonder what crime he committed.”

  “I was not involved in his case, so I have no idea. But for him to have served his time and been released as a fairly young man, his error must have been minor.”

  “Or perhaps he was on his way to trial when you spied him, and he was hence found to be innocent.”

  “That is a distinct possibility. Still, would you trust your friends and loved ones around a former convict—someone even under the slightest suspicion of having committed a crime?”

  “Everyone deserves a second chance.” Stratford couldn’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth in defense of his rival. He suspected the Holy Spirit’s prodding played no small role in his attitude.

  “You are far too generous,” Gilbert’s voice assured him from the shadows of the coach.

  “Perhaps. But please, tell no one what you know.”

  “Because you do not trust me?”

  “Because I do not trust myself.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. I will be going to London tomorrow to investigate.”

  “Good idea, but only if I can go with you. I know more people in the judicial system than you, and I assure you, my connections will be of great assistance.”

  Since they were nearing the Brunswick estate and the light at the gateway, Stratford could see Gilbert’s features well enough to discern that he wore a conspiratorial smile.

  “You know me and adventure; we are attracted to each other as a cat is to chasing a mouse.”

  “What is an intriguing romp to you is a matter of determining a future to me.” Stratford revealed through his tone that he felt mixed emotions about the astounding revelation Gilbert had just shared.

  “Do not be distressed, old friend. I have a feeling this development will bring you nothing but an improved circumstance and increase the esteem Lady Dorothea holds for you.”

  “I hope so,” Stratford admitted. “All right. I will let Dorothea know she can begin your portrait sittings upon our return. If I tell her I am going to London on business, it will not be a lie.”

  Despite his bold assurances, he despised keeping secrets from her. Why did every encounter with Lunenburg seem to result in some sort of deception on his part? Gilbert was right. The sooner he evicted Lunenburg—or whoever he really was—from their lives, the better.

  “She need not know the real reason for the trip,” Stratford continued aloud. “Not until the time is right.”

  ❧

  Clayton Forsythe.

  A week later during the return trip from London, the name made the rounds through Stratford’s mind. Gilbert had been a tremendous help in making the discovery regarding the real identity of the man they had come to know as Baron Hans von Lunenburg. As they had guessed, Clayton Forsythe had served time in prison for a small crime of thievery, then changed his persona after being released. Using wit and charm, he became a confidence man and made a good enough living from his exploits to pose as a wealthier personage than the one he truly was—a product of the London slums.

  According to Gilbert’s sources, Clayton experienced close calls with the law, but by the time the authorities had caught up with him at that point, he had befriended a powerful solicitor who managed to keep him out of trouble. According to another friend of Gilbert’s, Clayton—who was then posing as Sir Gavin Powell—was warned to leave London or face charges.

  After learning this information, Stratford could see why Clayton’s next stop had been the country. And no wonder the schemer had taken on a new identity and approached a fresh crowd for money. Stratford could only hope he wasn’t too late to keep his friends from losing their money to the conniver.

  Stratford had observed Lunenburg. He was good at what he did. So good that he had already gained the trust of his friends. Even though Stratford had known the men for years, his rivalry with Lunenburg for Dorothea’s affections could bring his motives into question. The thought distressed him. Stratford sensed that the conniver relished the sport of love rather than being engaged in serious combat for her heart. He, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than her love. But regardless of each man’s motives, the rivalry was too well known by the parish for Stratford to appear to be a disinterested party. And since Gilbert was Stratford’s friend, even his word could be called into question. He had to expose Lunenburg in such a way that they would believe him without question. But how?

  “What do you think we should do, Gilbert?”

  “I have been wondering the same.”

  “The first person who has a right to know is the real Baron Hans von Lunenburg. Is it not our duty to tell him?”

&nbs
p; “Yes. We should have thought of that before we left London, I suppose.” Gilbert let out a resigned sigh.

  “I was too much in a hurry to let my friends know and to see Dorothea again. I have missed her. More than I ever thought possible.” He pictured light ringlets falling on each side of her softly curved cheeks. He remembered the sound of her voice and the tone of her sweet laughter. He couldn’t wait to see her face once more.

  “There will be plenty of time to visit Lady Dorothea. First, the business at hand must be settled.”

  “I suppose we should send a letter by post,” Stratford suggested. “But even with good information at hand, I feel most reluctant to send a missive to a man I do not even know to tell him that someone here is impersonating him. Why should he even believe me?”

  “Why should he not? You have no sinister motive for making such a suggestion.”

  “Still. . .” He snapped his fingers. “You say you are acquainted with him.”

  “Through a distant family connection. I cannot say I know him as an intimate.”

  “Still, why not invite him to visit you here at my estate? We can lure him here by offering to have his portrait painted by a promising new artist.”

  Gilbert considered the suggestion. “It is worth a try.”

  As soon as they arrived home, Stratford didn’t delay in entering his study where he sat at his mahogany secretary and wrote the missive to be sent to London. As he sealed the letter, he allowed himself a triumphant sigh. At last, he was on his way to ridding himself of Baron Hans von Lunenburg—also known as Clayton Forsythe—forever.

  ❧

  A few days later as Stratford scooped up the last of his poached eggs, the butler entered the dining room. “You have a letter, milord.”

  Stratford took the epistle. “Thank you. That will be all.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gilbert, sitting at the other end of the table, sent him a quizzical look. “Could this be the one we have been hoping to receive?”

  “I think so.” Stratford rushed to open it and looked at the signature. “Yes, it is!” He hurried to read the reply from London written in an unfamiliar scrawl. As soon as he scanned the message, Stratford saw his hope dissolve into nothingness. He threw the heavy cream-colored sheet of paper onto the mahogany dining table with a firm whoosh.

  “What is that all about?” Gilbert asked.

  “See for yourself.” He picked up the offending epistle and handed it to his friend, who read it aloud:

  Dear Lord Brunswick,

  I would like to thank you and Gilbert Meara, Esq., for your gracious invitation to join you for hunting and fishing at your country estate and for the opportunity to commission my portrait with a promising new artist. Regrettably, business here prohibits me from making the journey at present, so I must decline.

  I do hope the opportunity will arise for the two of us to become acquainted at another pleasant occasion. Please send my kindest regards to Gilbert.

  Yours,

  Hans, Baron von Lunenburg

  Gilbert tapped the letter on the table and laid it on top of the smooth polished wood. “I am so sorry our plan failed, but I would not let discouragement overtake me if I were you. Clayton Forsythe seems to be having a grand time amid his new friends out here in the country. And until they all run out of money, I venture he will be more than happy to enjoy their fine food and hospitality during his stay here.”

  “Until they all run out of money indeed.” Stratford remembered Dorothea and how she hovered near Helen’s door that first night he spied her. How afraid she looked with no money and nowhere to turn for help but to a distant relative. Having to accept the kindness of a stranger must have been quite a blow. He was only grateful he had encouraged her to pursue her talent so she would not be forced to take on a reduced station.

  The thought of Clayton Forsythe taking advantage of his friends, perhaps putting them in similar peril, made him shudder. Yet if he didn’t make the right move at the proper time to expose him, all would be lost. Gilbert was right; Forsythe was in no hurry to leave. Exposure could happen later. And Stratford would make sure it did.

  Nine

  “You have been quiet all day. Are you not excited about the party?” Dorothea asked Helen as the carriage made its way over country lanes to the event.

  “I suppose.” Helen looked absently out of the window.

  “I have been admiring the Wickford estate ever since I saw it when we passed it the first night I arrived here. Such a beautiful old home, sitting so proudly on top of the hill. How magnificent the house must appear inside!”

  “That monstrosity?” Helen scrunched her nose.

  “My, but you seem to be in a sour mood today, Helen. I have never heard you make such an observation about any of the other estates.”

  “I am so sorry. I am not myself. My stomach has been feeling odd all day.”

  Luke leaned over and took both of her hands in his. “Are you sure you feel quite all right, my dear? We really do not have to attend if you are not up to the task.”

  “Oh, yes we do. I responded last week for all of us, and I would never want to inconvenience Lady Lydia with an uneven number of guests at her dinner table. You know as well as I that such a faux pas would be quite rude and possibly cause us never to be invited to another social event for years to come.”

  “But if you are ill. . .”

  “That is quite all right. I shall sip on tea, and that will soothe my stomach.” Helen clutched her abdomen as the carriage hit a bump. She recovered and turned her face to Dorothea. “You should enjoy this party. Even though Lady Lydia is a dreadful bore, she usually invites interesting guests. I understand she has visitors from Dover who have just been abroad.”

  “How exciting. They should be intriguing.”

  But Stratford will be even more intriguing.

  When Dorothea and her party entered the large hall of the Wickford manor house, she took in a breath. The Wickford coat of arms greeted the guests, an impressive display indeed. Burgundy velvet draperies adorned each window, and the Chippendale-style furnishings looked to be as costly as those she had seen in London’s finest homes. The wallpaper showed a bucolic scene, the figures outlined in burgundy against cream. Expensive curiosities that appeared to have been collected from travels to exotic places decorated tables, walls, and shelves. Not a speck of dust was to be seen. Everything gleamed.

  Dorothea hadn’t thought such a feat was possible, but inspection of the banquet tables demonstrated that Lady Lydia managed to serve even more varieties of food than Helen had offered at Hans’s birthday party. The treats emanated scents as pleasing to the nose as their appearance presented a feast for the eyes. The offerings had been positioned on the table in such a way that the colors blended well. Varieties of pastries were emphasized by creative decorations of various colors of icing—red flavored with cherry juice and orange with marmalade. Still, the stuffed oysters wrapped in bacon strips and covered in white cream were her finest delicacy and the topic of every conversation that focused on food.

  “Delicious, is it not?” Dorothea asked Helen as she bit into a cheese turnover.

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  Helen’s agreement seemed halfhearted, and Dorothea knew Helen well enough by that time to realize that her cousin’s stomach wasn’t the source of her distress. Dorothea suspected she seethed at the idea of the variety and bounty of her buffet being thought of as less grand than Lady Lydia’s. She decided to find someone else with whom to converse before Helen’s ire could be stirred into a frenzy.

  Soon Dorothea spotted Stratford. As it always did, her heart beat with joy when she drank in his appearance. She desperately wanted to draw closer to him so they could speak together, but she knew that to make her way over to him would appear much too bold even though their fondness for one another was known among their friends. Helen was always chastising Dorothea about presenting to the world the ideal image of womanhood: obedience and subservience t
o men, meekness, reticence, and a still and quiet beauty. She wasn’t certain as to the degree of her success in any of these factors, but for her cousin’s sake, and for the sake of her dear mother’s memory, she tried.

  She made herself content to speak with the other women. By now, she felt more comfortable in her ability to recall their names at short notice and could remember enough details about their lives to make intelligent queries for updates. All in all, she really was feeling more like the social butterfly Helen had earlier described her to be.

  Finally, near the conclusion of the party, Stratford came up beside her. The clean smell of citrus emanated from him in a subtle and pleasing manner. “This has been a lovely party, has it not?”

  “Indeed.” She waved her fan.

  “I am in need of fresh air. Would you care to take a walk in the garden?”

  Dorothea waved her fan. “Yes, I would enjoy the opportunity for fresh air. And I am eager to see the formal gardens. I understand they are magnificent.”

  “Yes, especially since the first flowers of the season have already bloomed. No doubt Lady Lydia has made certain there are plenty of torches burning to allow us to see her garden as well as it can be seen in the dark.”

  “Based on the exquisite attention to detail that I have witnessed so far at the Wickford house, I suggest you are right indeed.”

  “Then let us see for ourselves.” He took her by the elbow and escorted her out of doors in a discreet manner. They walked through the garden, ignoring a few other couples who had also taken refuge from the crowd. The more they progressed, the more distant the sound of the voices and music of the party sounded. Though she had enjoyed the activity, Dorothea found that at present she welcomed the comparative silence.

  “So, does the foliage measure up to your expectations?” Stratford asked her.

  She studied the immaculate pathway of crushed stones defined by a tall, sculpted boxwood hedge. Flowering shrubs were strategically placed to add just the right amount of color among the green. The night air mingled with the gentle scent of the flora around them and smelled fresh with promise. Dorothea noticed larger-than-life statues of various gods and goddesses of mythology, each lit by a flaming torch. She couldn’t understand the love of false idols that spurred the rich to include their likenesses in their gardens, but she was not their judge. She only knew that her parents never adorned their gardens with such, and neither would she.