The Ruffian and the Rose

by Colleen French

  "There always are, sweetheart." Gwenevere released Keely. "Now, say your good-byes. The coroner's been called and we've a lot to do before the funeral." Running her palm against her niece's cheek, she smiled then left the room.

  For a moment Keely didn't have the nerve to look at her uncle, but finally, she took a deep breath and turned to face the huge old bed that stood in the middle of the room. The hand-loomed counterpane had been pulled to Lloyd's chin, his hands folded over his chest, his silver-gray hair combed carefully back off his forehead. She smiled, studying his pale, withered face. He didn't appear to be dead; he just looked as if he were asleep.

  "Oh, Uncle Lloyd," she murmured to the empty bedchamber. "Why did you have to go so soon? Couldn't you have stayed just a little longer?" She gripped her hands. "You've left me . . . left me here with him. I know you thought he would make a good husband, but I'm not so sure now." She paused. "I'm afraid, Uncle Lloyd."

  "Afraid of what?" came Brock's distinctly masculine voice.

  Keely spun around in surprise. "Must you sneak up on a person like that?" She shivered, despite the warmth of the room. "I never heard the door open!"

  "Then you must learn to listen, to pay more attention to your surroundings. More than once my life has depended on moving without being heard."

  "Yes, well, I don't spend my time sneaking about and committing treason!" She took a deep breath. "Listen to me. Here I am standing in a room with my dead uncle and I'm arguing with you!" She brushed passed him. "Please excuse me, but I have to dress."

  Lloyd Bartholomew's funeral was a long-drawn-out affair that whittled at Keely's nerves. Following a lengthy service in the chapel at Christ's Church, there were graveside blessings and then the family and what seemed like half the town of Dover returned to the house for food and drink. All through the weary day Keely played the part of the new bride, accepting congratulations and condolences in the same breath.

  Brock played the new bridegroom to the hilt, lavishing attention on his bride and seeing to her needs in her time of grief. He brought her a plate at mealtime, ushered her from room to room introducing her to the townspeople, and insisted she withdraw from the crowd when they became too oppressive. So why did Keely find herself growing angrier with him as the day passed?

  Excusing himself on the pretense of seeing his wife to bed, Brock strode up the steps beside Keely, his hand resting possessively on her hip.

  The moment they turned down the hall, she brushed his hand away. "No one can see us now, you don't have to do that," she said with tired aggravation.

  "Do what?"

  "Act like you give a damn about me!"

  Brock shook his head in incredulity. "Damn, woman, you've got a sharp tongue. What have I done wrong now?"

  "Nothing! You've done nothing wrong. Just leave me alone."

  Brock stopped in the hallway, watching Keely continue on her way. "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and take this to be grief, but I'm warning you, I'll not live like this in my own house. If you have a reason to be angry with me, then you had better tell me or keep it to yourself."

  She ignored him, disappearing into the far wing of the house, and Brock sighed heavily.

  The morning following the funeral, Keely was the last to enter the dining room for breakfast. "Good morning, Auntie." She kissed Gwenevere's cheek, sliding into her seat beside Brock's. Immediately, she sensed something was wrong. "What's the matter?"

  "While you, princess, were sleeping, we had a visit from the authorities." Brock looked up from his teacup, his face grim.

  Her anger with Brock was lost for the moment. "The authorities? You're in trouble?"

  "I could be. But it's Mother they're questioning now. Lloyd's surgeon says Lloyd didn't die of a heart failure. The high sheriff came calling an hour ago."

  Keely stared into Brock's dark eyes. "What? I don't understand."

  "It's nothing to worry about, Keely," Gwenevere told her from the head of the table. "The whole thing is ridiculous. Imagine, me killing the old goat!"

  Brock broke in. "He was poisoned, Keely."

  "Poisoned?" Keely grew sick in the pit of her stomach. "Why would anyone poison Uncle Lloyd? He was dying anyway."

  "According to the sheriff, a woman who did not live with her husband might hurry an old dying man on his way so that her son might inherit a fortune."

  Keely's face grew pale. "They think Aunt Gwen did it?"

  Gwenevere reached for a slice of freshly baked bread. "You would think John Clark would have better things to do these days than falsely accuse people of killing their husbands."

  "Well, it's obviously all a mistake," Keely announced shakily.

  "It's no mistake. He was definitely poisoned. The coroner, Joe Stidhan, was here just before the sheriff. He came to apologize for having to go to him, but he was Lloyd's friend. It would have been unethical for him not to have reported his suspicions."

  "Well, someone did it then," Keely murmured aloud. She gazed up at her husband. Could it have been Brock? The thought was preposterous. . . .

  "Someone, indeed." Brock lifted the china teapot and poured his wife a steaming cup. "Their next suspect, of course, is me."

  Keely gulped. "You?"

  "Everyone knew we were business partners, Lloyd and I. What if I got greedy? First I married his heir and then the old man seemed to get better instead of worse. What if I couldn't wait? What if I'd already agreed to the purchase of another vessel? What if it was being built in a shipyard on the Chesapeake right now?"

  "Oh Brock, you didn't?" Keely breathed. A murderer certainly wouldn't provide his own motive, Keely reasoned. But what if he was such a clever murderer that he did, just to throw everyone off his path?

  "Lloyd was just going to give me the money, but how am I to prove it? There was no written agreement. I'm due to make a large payment at the end of the week." He picked up a muffin and lathed it thick with butter.

  Keely lifted her teacup to her mouth, her hand trembling. "So what are they going to do—the authorities?"

  "For now, nothing. Just questions." Brock looked up. "Don't worry about it. They can't prove a thing. There has to be evidence for an arrest and there's no evidence. Besides I have a lead . . ."

  Keely glanced over at her aunt. She seemed calm enough; of course, she would never suspect her son of such a crime. "Are . . . are they certain he was poisoned? I mean it could have just been his heart, couldn't it have? Are you certain the coroner was telling the truth?"

  "It's Joe, for God's sake. He and Lloyd used to play cards."

  "Oh." Keely's face fell. She had heard the man's name in letters sent from Lloyd when she was still in England. Joseph Stidham's honor was impeccable.

  "Brock's right, Keely," Gwenevere said. "No need to get yourself overly excited about this."

  "No need!" Keely bolted upright out of her chair. "Aunt Gwen! Uncle Lloyd was murdered!"

  "Brock has several suspicions. Let him take care of it."

  "I . . . I think I should talk to the sheriff myself," Keely reasoned nervously.

  "No!" Brock commanded. "You'll stay out of this! I don't want you talking to anyone."

  Keely turned on her husband. "Why?" What was he trying to hide from her, from the authorities?

  "Because I said so. There are too many delicate matters that were discussed behind Lloyd's office doors. There are too many people that could have wanted him dead."

  "Uncle Lloyd! That's absurd, Brock Bartholomew, and you know it. He was an old man."

  He pushed away from the table. "Don't speak of what you don't know. It could be dangerous."

  Threats? Keely wondered. Is he threatening me?

  "Now stay home and keep out of this," Brock went on. "I'll handle it, and I'll let you know as soon as I know something. Now I've got to go."

  "Go? Go where?" Keely was confused and a little frightened. Wouldn't she know if her husband was a murderer? But what did a murderer look like? What did he say? Was he different from any o
ther man on the street who wanted something for himself or some cause he believed in?

  "The ship. To add to this, one of the British prisoners I brought in escaped, and that brig we captured is taking on water."

  "That's what happens when you fire cannon balls through her . . ." The moment the words were out of Keely's mouth, she was sorry.

  Brock shot her a deathly black scowl. "Just be sure your comments remain in this house, wife. I don't want you talking to anyone until this matter of Lloyd's death is settled. Do you understand me?" he demanded harshly.

  Keely nodded her head. She had no intentions of obeying him, but she didn't want to make him any angrier than he already was. After all, once you killed one innocent person, what difference would another make? Wouldn't Brock's life be easier without his English wife in the way?

  Brock looked to his mother, who was still seated. "I've got a lot to do on the ship today so I'll be late, Mother. Don't hold supper for me. If you find out anything concerning what you and I discussed, send Blackie with a message. He can be trusted."

  Gwenevere waved a hand, dismissing her son. "Go on and don't worry about this. We'll get to the bottom of it."

  "I hope to God you're right." He swept his hat off the sideboard and left the room.

  The moment Brock was gone, Keely ran to her aunt's side. "What did you discuss? What was he talking about? What doesn't he want me to know?"

  Gwenevere heaved an exasperated sigh. "Keely, there are things that have gone on in this house that he doesn't want you to know about. I'm not saying that I agree with him or what's happened, but that's the way it is. The truth is that I trust his judgment and you're going to have to as well."

  Trust him, Keely thought. Trust him so thoroughly that you wouldn't know if he killed your own husband for monetary gains? Vowing to keep her thoughts to herself and not alarm her aunt, she nodded in submission. "Maybe you're right." She went back to her seat and sat down, picking up her napkin.

  "I am. Brock is a good man. He'll find Lloyd's killer."

  I hope it's not him, Keely prayed fervently. But if it is . . . I'll see him hang for it.

  After Gwenevere had retired for a nap, Keely slipped on her cloak and went down the back staircase and through the servant's quarters out into the late afternoon sunshine. Going directly to the barn, she waved to one of the stable hands. "I'll be needing a carriage, now."

  "Now, Mistress Keely, without an escort?"

  "What's your name?" Keely asked the young mulatto boy. He was not more than fourteen and dressed comfortably in homespun breeches and a coat.

  "Samuel, ma'am." He twisted his hands behind his back, staring at the clean straw that covered the floor of the barn.

  "Well, Samuel, as you know, I'm the mistress of this house now, so that means I can request a carriage when I want one."

  "Yes, ma'am. But Master Brock, I don't think he'd be wantin' me to let you go alone."

  Trying not to seem overly anxious, Keely went on patiently. "Did Master Brock instruct you not to let me leave?"

  "No, ma'am. But Master Brock, he always says he wants us to have a little sense of our own. He says we've got to make our own decisions about what's right and what ain't right." He wrinkled his nose. "And this ain't right, not with Master Lloyd just being dead at the hand of some murderer."

  Only in this house would servants be giving orders, Keely thought irritably. "Samuel, just do as I say, please. Master Brock will never know I was gone. He's going to be at the docks until late, but if he does find out, you can tell him I told you it was an order."

  "Yes, ma'am." Samuel nodded his head, but stood his ground.

  "Samuel!" Keely raised her voice. "Get the carriage!"

  "Yes, ma'am!" The boy scurried off and in a few moments time he brought around a two-seated open carriage drawn by a handsome chestnut mare. "This is Sally Mae, ma'am. She's old, but she's a good'n."

  Keely rolled her eyes heavenward. How was a person to go on a secret mission to investigate a murder in an open carriage driven by an ancient horse? "Thank you, Samuel," she murmured, getting into the carriage. "Now give me the reins and let me be on my way."

  The boy begrudgingly handed the leather reins to his mistress. "Don't you want to tell me where you're goin', just in case someone asks?"

  "No, Samuel, I do not." Keely clicked to the horse, giving her free rein, and the carriage creaked forward.

  Though it had been nearly ten years since Keely had been about Dover, she found herself easily recalling which roads led where. Without too much trouble she located the sheriff at his home. Though John Clark was pleasant enough, he refused to discuss Lloyd's case with Keely, except to say that he was unready to make an arrest yet. Within ten minutes of speaking to the gentleman, Keely realized her attempt to get information was futile, and so she left.

  Seated in her carriage on the edge of town, Keely watched the lamplighter as he moved up the street. The September sun was just setting in the western horizon, casting an arc of bright orange over the frame houses that lined the paved street.

  Though her visit with the sheriff was less than revealing, Keely was undaunted. If the investigator in charge would tell her nothing, she would go straight to the most frightening suspect—her husband. Her first idea was to go to the Tempest, but then realizing how foolish that would be while he was aboard, she devised a new plan.

  What of the King's Head, that patriot tavern he was always having those meetings in? What if she just had dinner there, giving the illusion to be on an assignation? Many ladies certainly did so these days. Who would bother her? She could sit quietly in a booth and eavesdrop on conversations. Everyone who frequented the tavern knew Brock—someone was bound to speak of him, considering his latest victory at sea.

  "Excuse me, excuse me, sir," Keely called the lamplighter just passing by.

  "Me?" The bowlegged little man looked up with surprise. "You callin' me?"

  "Yes. Might you tell me how I could find the King's Head tavern?"

  The man's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "King's Head, is it? And what would you be wantin' there?"

  "I'm to—" she cleared her throat—"I'm to meet a gentleman there in an hour and I'm not certain where it is."

  The old lamplighter broke into a grin. "I knew you was one of us, the minute I set eyes on you!" He slapped the patched knee of his breeches. "Meetin' some young patriot feller, are you?"

  Keely smiled prettily. "I assure you, sir, it's nothing of the sort. Now could you point me in the right direction?"

  He nodded, chuckling. "Yup, yup, I can tell you. Just follow this here street through The Green and make a left turn past the apothecary on the far edge. Can't miss it." He looked up at her, his face changing to one of concern. "But shame on that man of yours expecting you to come alone, and it being near dark!"

  "I'll be quite all right. Thank you." Keely signaled the old mare to move forward and the lamplighter swept off his beat-up three-cornered hat as she passed him.

  Locating the tavern with little trouble, Keely jumped out of the carriage just as the sun set. In the dim light of dusk she tied the old mare securely to a hitching post behind the wood-structured establishment and reached for her drawstring reticule on the carriage seat. Adjusting the hood of her woolen cloak, she started around toward the entrance of the King's Head.

  Bright light and men's laughter spilled from the back door as a kitchen girl in a mob cap threw a pan of soapy water out onto the ground. Sidestepping the puddle, Keely hurried along the side wall of the two-story building, ignoring the sound of footsteps behind her.

  "Hey there, little lady," came a drunken voice. "Why you in such a hurry?" There was laughter and the sound of added footsteps.

  Walking faster, Keely mentally counted the separate voices. There were at least five or six men to her guess. Stiffing the fear that threatened to overwhelm her, she gripped her reticule, taking care not to lose her footing in the damp grass. Up ahead she could see light from a lantern she guessed hun
g at the front door.

  "Come on, missy," came the gang leader's brash voice. "Don't ya know to speak when you're spoken to? We ain't gonna hurt you, just want to talk, that's all."

  Again there was raucous laughter. The instant the man came after her, Keely was running. Twice he caught the sleeve of her dress and she wrenched free before he tripped her with his foot. Hitting the ground, Keely instinctively rolled over to face her attacker. Above her loomed a burly sailor in a short military jacket and red breeches.

  "Need a hand?" The sailor stood with his foot on the hem of her cloak. In the dim light Keely could see broken teeth in his leering smile.

  Refusing his dirty hand, she scrambled out of her cloak and onto her feet, leaving her reticule and the cloak on the ground. "Take it," she offered, backing up slowly. Behind the sailor were six more hard-faced men, forming a semicircle behind their leader. "There's . . . there's money and not that white paper patriot stuff, real money."

  The man laughed. "Money's not what we're lookin' for, love." With one clean jerking movement, he caught the bodice of her gown and ripped off the front panel.

  Screaming, Keely whirled, ducking the sailor's fist, and raced around the corner of the building. Hollering as loud as she could, she threw open the door of the King's Head tavern, nearly colliding with the huge form of a man.

  "Keely?"

  She stopped short in the doorway. "Brock?" Her hand flew to her mouth just as the sound of the sailor's voice came from behind.

  'Hang on to her, will you, mate? Paid good money for her and suddenly she's unwilling."

  Brock's iron grip settled on Keely's shoulder and he pushed her behind him, into the tavern. "She's mine now," he answered gruffly. "Be on your way."

  "Oh, no," the leader argued, slipping a knife from his belt. "Ain't that easy, mate, 'cause me and my friends, we got a good look and we aim to see more, so hand her over before someone gets hurt."

  Taking a step back into the tavern, Brock glanced over his shoulder at the men who stood behind him. "Rig for a squall," he shouted.

  Chapter Eleven

  A group of gentlemen and several sailors leaped to their feet at the same time that Keely felt someone tug on her arm. "Jenna!"