Jasper was here? Peter’s blood went cold.
Newth nodded. “They went toward where Mr. Holstein’s property meets Mr. Arnold’s. I dispatched two men to follow.”
It was probably technically laughter that came from Arnold’s throat. But it sounded far more like venom would, if it were audible. “They’ll have her by now. And if I don’t come soon to tell them I’ve got the deed to the mill, they’ll kill her.”
No. It couldn’t be—but Peter’s feet didn’t agree. They leapt into motion even as his mind denied the possibility, speeding him over the lawn like the ever-gusting wind, through the wood full of elms and oaks and the occasional cabbage tree that had baffled her so. Toward that corner of the property where his land met Mr. Arnold’s—where the oak with the heart took up residence on the Holstein side. Where, a few minutes’ walk away, one would find the plum orchard he and Gryff had so disastrously robbed as boys.
Toward the woman who could apparently rob much more seriously. Much more successfully. The woman who had entered his life solely to steal his secrets.
He would have given them all to her had she but asked.
But there was no one at the tree. No indication of where she could be. Were he Locryn, he would be able to look at the ground and see intent in the scattering of leaves. Direction in the placement of twigs. He would take a glance and know exactly where she had gone from here.
Peter saw only leaves. Twigs. And the gleam of silver amid the litter.
Silver? He leapt toward it, snatched it up. It was the size and shape of a florin—but of course, not one. No, it was another of those blasted tokens of Mr. Arnold’s Ancient Order.
Footsteps pounded up behind him. Peter swallowed. “They . . . they have her. They really d-do.”
“She can handle herself, Mr. Holstein, I assure you. They may have grabbed her in a moment of weakness, but she’ll make them wish they hadn’t.”
But they had her—because of him.
V was barely breathing hard after his sprint. And he looked around exactly as Locryn would have done, as if he could see something beyond the obvious. Who knew there were really men who could do so?
He nodded to the north. Toward Mr. Arnold’s property. “What lies that direction? Anything that would aid them?”
“An . . . an orchard. A small shed.”
“A likely place to begin, then. But do tread carefully, Mr. Holstein—Jasper is likely livid.”
He started toward the property line—more slowly for the sake of quiet. “You know him?”
“Of him. He is ambitious, which is always dangerous. And a war-monger long before Arnold sank his claws in. You are not the only man of German heritage he has targeted—nor the only family’s records he had stolen from the Archives.” V’s lips, when Peter looked over at him, were twitching. “He will answer for that too. He thinks he got away with it, but he hired amateurs.”
Peter shook his head and faced the path before him again. “Unlike . . . unlike you?”
Rather than answer, V held up a hand, motioned ahead. A racket reached them, muted by distance and the whistle of the wind but quite obviously the sound of someone pounding upon wood. Rosemary, he’d bet, in the shed.
Two policemen came into view within another few steps, hunkered down behind a mass of scrub. They turned their heads when they heard them, and Peter recognized both—local men, though they lived in the next village. They weren’t likely to know the property all that well.
The younger of the two, with ginger hair peeking from his cap, nodded. “Four men, all armed with pistols. The sons of Pomeroy and Foote, that chap the constable said he’d been keeping an eye on, and one we’ve never seen. Well dressed.”
“Mr. Jasper.” V crouched down beside them.
“We saw them put the young lady in a shed. We hoped Newth would send reinforcements soon. Two guns to four didn’t seem good odds.”
“Three to four is doable though.” V drew a pistol from under his jacket and glanced at Peter. “I don’t suppose you have one?”
Locryn was never without his sidearm and machete—Peter could boast only a pencil in his pocket and a folded sheet of paper already half-scribbled upon. Unplanned inspiration was the only emergency he usually faced. “I don’t . . . don’t need one. I’ll be the . . . the distraction.” He met the gaze of the ginger-haired bobby. “You two can . . . can sneak around behind. I’ll . . . confront them. V will . . . cover me.”
The second officer peeked over the scrub. “Is there cover in that direction? We hesitated to venture beyond this point, not knowing what is past that rock outcropping.”
He could tell them, but it would be just as simple to show them. And so he motioned for them to follow him and led them at ninety degrees from the shed, through the bit of woods stretching from his land and then into the plum orchard.
Here the trees were neat and orderly, their golden fruit hanging a week or two from ripeness. Thanks to the slope of it, they could easily remain out of sight of the shed and make their way around, then head to the path that led up the hill from the Arnold house, toward the shed.
Rosemary’s banging was louder here, and punctuated with a stream of Cockney-flavored threats more creative than crude. Male curses stained the air too as Cornish voices told her to quiet down.
Peter motioned toward the path. “Give me . . . a few minutes. To get their atten . . . attention.”
They nodded and proceeded toward the shed, careful to stay out of sight. Peter turned back the way he’d come. And paused at the last tree in the orchard. When he’d been six, the limbs had seemed impossibly high. He’d had to climb up on Gryff’s shoulders to steal those unripe plums.
Today he had only to lift his arm and pluck one. He hadn’t known as a child that he’d no need to steal them—Mr. Arnold had told his family they could have whatever they wanted. Had always, always made himself seem to be such a good friend to the Holsteins.
And why? When all this time he suspected the worst of them? Hated them because of the country from which they hailed?
The plum he pulled off was beautiful, its flesh golden and dappled with red. But it was hard yet. It would be as sour as those stolen ones. He slipped it into his pocket along with the silver coin and hurried back to V.
He was greeted with a lifted brow. “What exactly is your plan, Mr. Holstein?”
Peter didn’t bother hunkering down again. He rather stepped past the scrub, back on the deer trail that would lead more or less to the shed. “Simple. Let them . . . think they’ve won.”
V drew in a long breath. “Be careful. England can’t afford to lose you.”
When this was over, he needed more of an explanation than that from the man. But for now, he had to free Rosemary from that dark little prison. He started forward with a whispered prayer, stepping on every twig and leaf he saw to warn them of his approach. Still, he doubted they could hear him over the din she was making.
They spotted him, though, the moment he cleared the rock outcropping and came into view. He held up his arms, away from his sides—even so, two of the four men promptly pointed their weapons at him. Jasper and his grey-haired lackey. The two local boys were occupied holding closed the door that shook with every pound from within.
Months had passed since Peter had last seen Jasper’s sneering face, and he’d rather hoped a few more would go by before he saw it again. The fine suit of clothes, the expensive hat that couldn’t cover the darkness in the man’s eyes. “Stop right there, Holstein!”
Peter could barely hear him over Rosemary, but he made it out well enough to obey.
Jasper turned his head just a bit, toward Foote. “Get her out of there so she’ll shut up!”
“But—”
“You heard me.”
Exchanging a wary look, Foote and Pomeroy obeyed. Slowly. They let off the door, flipped the latch. Rosemary came hurtling out, obviously not expecting the door to have moved. The men caught her by the arms, holding her so tightly it would no
doubt bruise her arms.
Though to be fair, both men had a nice collection of scratches on their faces, proving Rosemary had not gone into the shed without a fight. He would bet their shins were sporting bruises as well, and any other place she’d managed to land a kick.
But she went silent and still when she spotted him. And perhaps the weapons aimed at him. Proof that she cared? Or that, like her employer, she thought him valuable to the country somehow?
His nostrils flared. “You have what you . . . what you want, J-Jasper. I gave . . . gave Arnold the deed. To the mill.”
Jasper snorted and shifted from one foot to the other. The pistol, gleaming silver and deadly, looked out of place in his hands. He was, despite his behavior just now, a gentleman, city-bred. His shoes weren’t built for tromping through the countryside, and perspiration darkened his jacket. He was a man with money, with power enough to make Peter’s life miserable in London. Why had he decided to focus it where he had?
“That’s what Mr. Arnold wanted—but not me. I won’t be happy until you’re out of England, Holstein, where you can’t fill the king’s ear with your peace nonsense anymore.” He relaxed his arm for a moment—or seemed to. But then he simply swung the gun around and pressed it to Rosemary’s temple.
Peter lunged forward a step, then stopped when the grey-haired man chuckled. As if inviting him to come farther, to test them.
Jasper’s lips twitched. “Here’s what you’re going to do. My man Fisher here is going to accompany you back to your house, where you will have ten minutes to pack a bag. He’s going to see you to a train, and then to a boat. I don’t much care where you go, but it’s going to be away from England—and there will be no point in your coming back. With the documentation I have against you, you’d be shuttled off to an internment camp, at the best. Imprisoned for espionage at the worst. So you will send me a wire as soon as you arrive in your new home. Knowing that each and every day you don’t, beginning tomorrow, this little woman here is going to lose a finger. And then we’ll move on to her toes. And if we run out of those—”
“Idiot.” Rosemary stood tall, straight, not struggling against the ruffians nor flinching away from the barrel of the gun. She managed to look defiant, proud as she turned his sneer back on him. “Do you really think he’ll give up his home to save me?”
Jasper pressed harder, forcing her head to angle. “I think he’d give it up to save anyone, even that stupid pickpocket in the village jail. Isn’t that right, Mr. Holstein?”
He wanted to glance past Jasper, to assure himself that the bobbies were as close as he thought they were. He caught only a glimpse of uniform, but surely he wouldn’t have seen even that if they weren’t in position. “Of . . . of course I would. A life . . . is worth more . . . than a house.”
“A noble sentiment that I’m afraid you won’t have the opportunity to prove.” V’s voice came from a good ways behind Peter—no doubt he’d just stepped out from behind the boulder.
Fisher’s aim shifted to V, Jasper’s to Peter.
The two policemen stole along the sides of the shed.
Peter met Rosemary’s gaze. He didn’t have the time to read anything within it. Only to widen his own, to yell, “Down!”
Then it was a blur. A shot from Fisher. Another from behind Peter. The policemen charged forward, tackling the local boys to the ground. Rosemary dived away.
And then Jasper moved again, swinging that arm back toward her. Pointing his gun at her again, and this time Peter knew he meant to fire. To hurt him however he could before he went down, and no doubt knowing it would hurt worse to shoot Rosemary than Peter.
He had no time to think, just to act. To pull the plum from his pocket and lob the unlikely missile at Jasper. It couldn’t do much damage—but it hit him squarely, hard, and made him flinch.
His shot went wild. And then in the next second Peter’s feet carried him forward, shoulder down much like young Tim’s had been when he’d rammed him in Mr. Arnold’s front hall.
Perhaps Jasper hadn’t brothers—or friends—to wrestle with as a boy. He oomphed at the collision, stumbled back, fell. The pistol went sliding out of his hand, and then slid farther still with the help of Rosemary’s half-boot.
“I suggest you stay right where you are.” V edged into Peter’s periphery, his pistol extended.
Though his lip curled, Jasper obeyed. “Defending him is futile. Even if he stays in England, he’ll end up relocated. He is a German.”
V’s lips curled up in a mean little smile. “You are as ignorant as you are amateur, Mr. Jasper. This man is a more loyal subject than you could ever hope to be.”
Footsteps pounded their way from the direction of Peter’s property—Newth must have dispatched more men to come and help them. Peter spared only a glance over his shoulder to verify and then straightened.
His gaze snagged on Rosemary again. Her hair was more down than up, the green linen of her dress stained brown by dirt and struggle, and shadows ringed her eyes.
Should he be angry with her? Disappointed, betrayed? He could feel none of that just now. Only profound relief that she was well. And so when she flew at him, his arms opened and then closed around her.
He held her close. Breathed in the lemon scent of her hair. “Are you . . . are you all right?”
She clung to him. “Thanks to you. Did you really save me with a plum?”
He chuckled, holding her tight and wishing this moment could last forever. Even as part of him knew it was a fool’s wish. “It’s . . . it’s all I had handy.”
“Locryn would be proud.”
And that was what made him a fool. She knew—had to have known, to have told Mr. V. And that couldn’t go unanswered. He set her back, stepped away.
And the light in her eyes went dim. “Right.” Her arms slipped back down to her sides, and she looked over his shoulder, toward where the sound of feet crunching over last year’s leaves filled the air.
The bobbies taking the thugs away. It took them a long moment to do so, to haul up the bleeding Fisher, the growling Jasper, the silent local boys who were no doubt wishing they’d chosen their side with more care. But eventually they were all tromping away, into the wind and over the leaves.
Except for one set of footsteps that came nearer instead. Peter didn’t have to look to know who it was. He kept his gaze leveled on Rosemary.
She lowered her chin and rubbed her hands against her soiled skirt. “What did you tell him, sir?”
V stopped somewhere behind Peter. “The truth, Miss Gresham. That you were here at my behest. For the good of England.”
The good of England. He said that so easily. “What is it . . . exactly . . . that you want me t-to do, V?”
“What you’ve been doing, Mr. Holstein. Write novels.”
Now he had to turn, to look the stranger in the eye and try to make sense of that. “I . . . planned to.”
V’s lips curved, just slightly, toward a smile. “Unless you decided you must sign up in some way or another. But we can’t allow that. The country—the world is going to need your words. Your stories and novels and novellas. They need Locryn James to show them the way to be a hero.”
Peter shook his head. “But—”
“You’re not the only one we’ll be asking. We’ll be approaching Wells, Conan Doyle—all the popular novelists, especially those with a strong readership in America.” The curve turned up a bit more. “We’re likely to need them, before this is all over. We’ve got to make them think now that it’s a cause worth dying for.”
Peter shifted from one foot to the other. “You mean t-to . . . to tell me what to write?”
V chuckled. “No, nothing so restrictive. We just may ask you, from time to time, to include a certain theme. The nobility of fighting for one’s country, for instance. Or, in the case of the females who cannot, of sending off their men to do it. If you are willing.”
Peter looked at this near-stranger opposite him. Glanced at the bedraggled woma
n who had become so much more. Listened to the ever-fading sounds of policemen advising villains to behave themselves and many footsteps leading them away.
And he sighed. “I would have . . . would have done . . . it anyway. With . . . without all this.”
V took a step back, hands clasped again behind him. “Well, we had to be sure of that, didn’t we? And now we are.” He took one more step back and pivoted halfway away. “Someone will be in touch, Mr. Holstein. And Miss Gresham—if you rethink your stance, do let me know. I hate to lose you.”
Lose her? Peter waited until he had vanished, until the sounds of everyone’s departure faded away entirely. Then, only then, did he turn to face her. “I believe . . . I believe you have something to tell me.”
Rosemary walked beside him, a foot away. She had thought perhaps it would be easier if they were moving.
She was wrong. Sighing, she rubbed her hands on her skirt again and fastened her gaze on the long, spiky leaves of the Cornish palm. She would miss this place when she was gone. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“I have f-found the . . . the beginning is often a g-good place.”
He was stuttering. Because of her. Rosemary turned her face away, not daring to look at his. Not now. “The beginning. I suppose that’s when I was eight. When my parents died and left me an orphan.”
How could he make one little exhale sound so . . . disappointed? “What ab—bout . . . all those siblings?”
She snapped off a twig as they walked by it, just to give her fingers something to worry. “I found Pauly first. Or he found me, rooting through his rubbish when I was nine. His wife wouldn’t let him take me in. So he left me a meal every day, when someone else didn’t steal it first. Then he found Barclay. Willa. We decided to stick together.”
He made no response, not that she could hear. Just kept walking beside her with steady, measured steps.
She might have cried again had she any tears left in her. “He helped us get a flat. It worked, for a while, until the building burned down. Lucy and Retta were both orphaned that night. So they joined us. Then the others over the years, as we found them. They are my family. Just . . . not by blood.”
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