by Daria Vernon
Lionel crossed his arms. “How can you inquire about some missin’ lady’s rich family without raisin’ unwanted curiosities?”
“Don’t worry your lousy head about it, Lion. I’ll come up with enough pretense.”
“Besides,” added Harry, “there’s a chance that she was multiple nights from her destination to start with. She may not yet be counted missing at all.”
“Aye, what luck that’d be for us. How convenient if she lived at the other end of the isle.” Lionel leaned across the crate to goad Harry, but Rhys grabbed his sleeve and yanked him back down into his seat. “Sod,” mumbled Lionel.
A long silence was punctuated by the sound of a horse pissing in the next room.
“A husband should take it off her.” Lionel took a gulp of whatever swill was in his mug. “Maybe that’s the better way, and that slippery man on the road had the right idea all along.”
Rhys tightened his fist where it rested on the rough crate.
“Who wants to volunteer for the couplin’?” Lionel looked around the group as he raised his own hand. He pushed his lip out into a mocking pout as his eyes fell on Rhys. “Why Captain, yer hand’s not raised. I thought ye’d want to challenge me. Ah, pity.” Lionel stood and adjusted his crotch with a grin before taking some long, cocky strides past Rhys.
Rhys had him down so fast that there were no intermediary steps. The other two stood to watch as Rhys pinned Lionel beneath him and gripped him by the collar. “You were nearly fed to the filthy hounds at Newgate, and I got you out.”
“But first, ye got me in!” Lionel howled.
Rhys looked up at Solomon and Harry without letting go of the vile creature he sat on. “We’ve had poor luck this winter, through no fault of our own. But we’ve lived through it, and, until recently, we’ve lived quite well.” Lionel groaned and Rhys looked back down at him, giving him a shake. “Lived well on takings that I secured for us. You all trusted me to do that. Now trust me to fix our bad luck. Let me get us out of this blasted winter and even—” He looked directly at Harry, “—out of this life, if we choose.”
With one hard thrust, Rhys dropped Lionel’s collar and dismounted him. Panting more from anger than exertion, Rhys pointed down at the pathetic Lion who was slowly sitting up. “Furthermore, we can do it respectably. We started this to survive, not to cause undue violence. Miss Clarke is an innocent in all this, and I’ll have her remain so.”
“She has to stay untouched anyway.” All heads turned as Solomon contributed. “’Cause her innocence is our bargaining chip. Is it not?” He shrugged and took a drink.
No. No. There is no bargaining. There will be no threats. There can’t be—God—
A horrible chaos was taking Rhys over—the realization that he had no plan—it was settling around him with the weight of a jailer’s chains. That’s where he still belonged, wasn’t it? Suffering in the fetid bowels of Bristol Newgate? It’s what he deserved for subjecting Beth to such a wretched lot. He should have made greater promises to her in the forest. And he should have kept them.
Lionel crept back to his feet and tossed his hands up in mock surrender.
“I’ll not spoil her so long as Captain delivers.” Lionel slumped back onto his stool, not daring to meet Rhys’ eyes. Good. He was cowed.
Rhys raked a hand painfully through his tangled hair and retook his seat. “Can we now talk about how all of this will work?” His men nodded soberly, and their meeting passed an hour longer into the night.
Sunlight warmed Beth’s eyelids, seducing them open. Actual daylight. It streamed through cracks around the drapes, highlighted by all the motes of dust in the thick, abandoned air. The night’s fire had dwindled to faint embers and the room was chilled, but the sunshine that fell on Beth’s face felt like springtime and hope. She basked in it with the ever-silent maenad reclining at her side, as though they were just two girls in a garden.
“I’m very glad to be away from my dreams, maenad. I dreamed of a villain.” Of Desmarais. Memory of the dream was hazy, but it made her wonder . . . Where was the steward now? Had he survived the night? Had he found his way to her father’s doorstep? Had he donned his liar’s mask while he expressed the tragedy of their being accosted on the road?
She imagined her father, clasping his arthritic hands together so tightly that they went white. It was what he did when he was worried. An arrow of homesickness lanced through her heart.
As Rhys had said, it was up to her, wasn’t it?
She could just tell them where Greenthorne was. She could ask that Lionel be kept out of any direct dealings with her father. Surely Rhys would be amenable to that. There would be a transaction and she’d be home.
Home. In her room at the upper corner that overlooked the rose arbors in spring. Home. Having breakfast with her father while Mrs. Brimble floated about. Home. If nothing else mattered, then why could she not just get on with it? Just tell him.
But she was nothing if not stubborn. She’d been told as much all her life. This wasn’t the first time her life had been upended by an injustice and, just as before, she was left alone for long hours to reflect on it.
“Rhys does not know what he asks for.”
The maenad just stared back at her, listening with her perpetual smile.
Rhys had mistaken Beth for someone of the aristocratic set. She was surrounded by such people certainly, with aunts on both sides marrying well, but her father? A gentleman. With ancestors in trade. Greenthorne was comfortable and cheery, but it was no Ashecote. It was Dahlia’s inheritance that would ensure Beth never became a burden to her father—unwed as she was and unwed as she thought to remain.
Ten thousand. What was Rhys thinking? Only a handful of people in the entire realm had assets so liquid that they could quickly pay such a sum. But then—
Beth thought back to their breakfast of crumbs. Thought back to Rhys’ absence of a waistcoat and his unusual pairing of a greatcoat and cape. The hints at a past gone horribly wrong. What would such a man know of the difference between one thousand and ten thousand pounds? What would comparing the distance to the moon and the distance to the sun mean if you could never reach either?
Beth stretched her fingers to get some blood into them. Just negotiate. They didn’t have ten thousand, but might she offer two or three? Perhaps they could get by on credit until Ashecote was let?
Yet the notion still tugged at her heart. Her father had done so much to protect her in her life. Was it not her duty to protect him in turn?
She whispered once more to her stony friend. “What do I do?”
“’Haps Bedlam would have you. Since yer talkin’ to yerself now.”
Beth strained her neck to see the grubby creature that leaned against the doorjamb. Lion leered down at her. His hand stroked the hilt of his saber in an unsavory way.
Beth remained still. She didn’t fancy pulling herself upright when doing so would demand squirming against her binds. She would not let him humiliate her.
There was a sound—a distant clanging—from below stairs. The lion briefly acknowledged it with a turn of his head.
“That’ll be the lad fetchin’ yer piss pot.” Lion resumed stroking his hilt, and Beth did everything to avoid looking where he wished her to look.
Lionel’s silence was somehow more distressing than his usual spittle-filled ranting.
Lazily, he turned his back on her. “All roads lead to Rome, Miss Clarke.” And departed.
His words wormed into her. They bore their way through all her strong-held hopes and reassurances. They poked pinholes in her courage, leaving her permeable to doubt. Never before had she heard the expression wielded as a threat.
All roads lead to Lion getting something he wants, he meant, whether it’s coin or—something else.
Beth needed to speak to Rhys.
Unbidden, her shoulders began to shake. Tea
rs surged to the backs of her eyes and began stabbing around, searching for their egress. Fighting them off, she finally struggled herself up into a seated position. But the sobs still sought to erupt.
Floorboards creaked in the hallway. A moment later, it was good, stable Harry who entered.
“Good morning, Miss Clarke.” A chipper greeting, like that of an overfamiliar lady’s maid on her first day of employment.
Beth inhaled sharply, as though she could extract a sense of calm from the air around her. And she flashed as brilliant a smile as she might muster.
“Miss Clarke, are you ill?” He swooped down to his knees beside her. His face of concern was much more theatrical than any of Rhys’ expressions.
“I’m the picture of health, Harry.” Her answer did nothing to wipe the worry from his brow. She sighed and felt a tear find its way to the corner of her eye. “Truthfully? I was indulging in some melancholy.”
Harry deflated. “And here I come in, chirping like we’re about to sit down to a holiday dinner.” He bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Clarke. I know that this . . .” He gestured around himself and said no more, but his final word was as heavy as lead.
“Why do you do it then, Harry? How did you end up here? You don’t seem the sort.”
He sat back on his haunches, taking her question seriously. “Indeed, I’m not the sort, but sometimes . . . sometimes dishonest people take others down with their lies . . . then the people they hurt have got to do some dishonest things to survive.”
It was as poetic as it was simple. She understood it.
“You need the money, then?”
“We only needed the bits and bobs from your carriage to get us through the month, but more would let us retire from the roads.”
“Which you want?”
He nodded. “Aye, and which Captain wants. Quite badly.” Fiddling his thumbs in his lap absently, he inclined his head toward the door. “Can’t you tell why?”
Beth nodded. “Yes.” Apart from Lionel’s prowl, she’d heard the shouts from the night before. The anger, boiling up from the ground floor, had kept her awake.
She’d not heard everything, but words like her and innocent and respectable had floated up from downstairs. Rhys’ words. He’d fought for her.
But she’d heard Lionel’s words too.
“I confess that the dynamics of your chosen family puzzle me.”
Harry threw his head back in laughter. “Chosen? No. Not.” He shook his head as his fit died down. “This was all fate. Dumb destiny. Not unlike your situation. No, it wasn’t chosen.”
Like her situation. Like being rescued from one kidnapper by another.
Harry moved to the nearly dead fire and knelt down to stoke it. “I’ll fix this up, then get you some food.”
Beth watched the young man’s back as he turned over wood and tossed kindling on.
She tried to speak, but every thought she wished to verbalize was so different from the last that she couldn’t land on any one thing. Harry’s talk of fate had burdened her some, making every word feel heavy on the path to her future. But there was no better time than now.
“Harry?”
“Hmm?”
“Let me go.”
He cast a tortured look over his shoulder. The I can’t was plainly written in his blue eyes. She spared him by moving to a request more easily met.
“May I see Rhys?”
The relieved boy turned back to the fire and tried to be light in his voice as he delivered another disappointment.
“He isn’t here.”
Never had she considered that any of them might leave. Particularly Rhys.
“Where’s he at?”
Even with his back turned, Beth could tell from the way he slumped that she would not like the answer.
“He went into town to discover where your Greenthorne is.”
Beth’s mouth fell open. All of this time, her secrets and information had been her leverage, her power. It had somehow never occurred to her that it might all be undercut by some light espionage. She didn’t know where they were in the country, but a village could be nearby, and she’d have no idea.
“I thought I might go with him, but he suggested I remain to take care of you.” He switched his voice to a whisper. “And after last night, I think that’s wise.”
She repeated his words in dazed agreement, while staring at the drawn curtains, narrowing her eyes at the sliver of sunlight that escaped them. An idea took her—
“At least there’s some sunshine today. I’ve missed it terribly, Harry.”
“Yes, I’m very glad for it too, Miss Clarke.”
Harry fussed again with the fire. He’d not caught her meaning.
“Your captain will have a pleasant ride today. I wish I were out there, on horseback.”
“Do you like to ride?”
She had to make him think it was his idea . . .
“I do, Harry. I love the outdoors. I get quite depressed when I cannot feel the sun.” She looked wistfully at the darkened windows for effect. At last, Harry saw her and cocked his head sympathetically. He strode to the drapes and heroically cast one open. The sun cut through the cold room like a gleaming sword.
“Is that better, Miss Clarke?” Pleased to be useful, Harry smiled radiantly.
And so did Beth—because it worked.
Soon, the fire was glowing again, and Harry unleashed her from the maenad to repeat their routine of food and freedom. He stood by the door, pistol in one hand, apple in another, while they chatted, and she stretched her legs.
Beth took a turn about the room and paused at the tall window. The sun really did feel nice. She basked in its glow, as much for herself as for the benefit of her current warden. But her mind was moving like a mill’s wheel as she reduced the beautiful view to sheer information gathering.
Do the woods seem to go forever?
They do.
Does smoke rise somewhere in the distance?
It does.
Chapter 8
The unpaved parts of Cobton Dale were pure mud. Rhys’ faith in the sale of a hackney horse on such a poor market day was feeble, and yet, he’d managed to offload the sturdy mare. A merchant without scruples had taken the beast off his hands for a mere four guineas. She’d been worth ten, but the purchaser, no doubt, recognized the elegantly bred creature for the stolen good that she was.
Rhys rattled the gold in his palm and pocketed it. His next errand would be far uglier. Cobton Dale wasn’t a bustling place, but it was just small enough and dull enough to possess a healthy network of gossip. A few carefully placed questions might lead to the whereabouts of Greenthorne.
Rhys had dismissed Harry’s idea that Beth could have come from very far away. That gray old snake that kidnapped her would have wanted to stop as little as possible. His plan wouldn’t have worked very well if they’d had days of travel ahead of them—not with a woman so cunning in their midst. Besides, Rhys could catch the subtle Yorkshire accent in the undercurrent of Beth’s low, sometimes breathy, lilt. It was there in the way she shaped her mouth when saying her Os. She was local enough.
And now he couldn’t stop thinking of her mouth . . .
Rhys looked down the road toward an alehouse, wondering how else he might procrastinate. He pulled his muffler higher. He’d left his cape back at the folly, opting for a jaunty, if threadbare, knit green scarf. The idea had been to make himself less noticeable, less menacing by eschewing his highwayman’s garb, but now here he was, surrounded by everyone else in layers of black with their hats pulled low. He pulled his own hat down and took not a full step toward the street when a man rounded the corner and slammed into him.
The hasty man—with a spray of brown, wiry hair coming out from beneath his Quaker hat—steadied himself against Rhys’ arm and quickly gripped his brim in
apology. Rhys returned the gesture, but the man was already scurrying away on his original path.
Rhys returned his eyes to the signs of the local establishments, trying to jog his memory of what he’d been about to do when his thoughts had been so startlingly knocked askew. Something wasn’t right.
His thoughts swirled until they dropped into his stomach like an anchor. His pocket—it was lighter.
He whipped his head in the direction of the miscreant. Gone.
The length of Rhys’ greatcoat trailed behind him as he sprinted around the corner to where the man had disappeared. Footprints deep in the mud led him quickly to another corner, where they disappeared onto the pavement.
Frustration swelled within him as his eyes snapped up to take in the street scene. Market stalls were more prevalent on the opposite side of the road, all the better to conceal someone’s flight. Rhys crossed the street and put his back to a wall. His keen eyes hopped between the faces of shopkeeps and their patrons.
As he made his assessments, he absently felt around in his pockets for what was missing.
Sorrow grabbed his heart like a talon. Beth’s necklace and little book were gone. The guineas from the sale of the horse were safe in his other pocket.
His eyes paused on the mobcap of a woman selling hot cider from a vat. She was ignoring her fragrant concoction and staring down the adjacent alleyway. She turned into Rhys’ stare and the eye contact alarmed her so that she looked quickly away, pretending never to have seen it. Calculations were made in seconds—a thief knowing a thief—and soon Rhys was pounding through the mud of that little alley.
He slowed down at the end of the narrow corridor and peeked around the corner. The street behind the buildings was much more open and quiet, and down the avenue, in front of the chapel, he spotted a familiar mat of hair jutting from beneath a Quaker hat.
Rhys unbundled his distinctive muffler and tucked it beneath his coat. Lowering his head, he fell into a calm and distant pursuit. The ignorant man ahead walked with an almost happy rhythm, unaware that the necklace dancing around in his pocket was about to bring a monster’s wrath upon him.