A Talent for Trickery

by Alissa Johnson

“I believe it. Moreover, we cannot be sure it was the Ferret who shot at us today or came in the house last night. We have no way of knowing who is out there, how he got here, or why he has come, and casting blame about does nothing to improve the situation.”

  Esther slumped a little, but she wasn’t ready to give in entirely. “We’ll not have answers unless we ask the questions.”

  “Yes, but it must be the right questions. For all we know, the Ferret stumbled upon you at the inn by accident. He might have been simply passing through Fisckrem, and there you were. Renderwell’s presence here may have nothing to do with this.”

  “You cannot believe this is coincidence.”

  “I find coincidence more plausible than a betrayal by Owen’s men.” Lottie rose from her chair and slid onto the settee next to her sister. “They have kept the Walker family secrets for twelve years. Eight since we’ve come to Willowbend. They have earned the benefit of the doubt.”

  Esther blinked at her, brows raised. “This is a fine change of tune to have over the course of two days.”

  “It is, I admit, but two days ago I believed Owen had betrayed father, and cheated him out of a hard-earned legacy. I was wrong.” She thought of his insistence that her father had remained a black-hearted scoundrel. “Half wrong,” she amended and brushed off her sister’s questioning expression with a wave of her hand. “Later, I promise. The point is, I never feared he would compromise our safety. Never.”

  Esther’s lips twisted. “It might be compromised now, regardless.”

  “It might.” She wanted to close her eyes on a heavy sigh as the life they had built in Wayton, the future she had imagined in her lovely little piece of Norfolk, faded away.

  If one man from their past had found them, then others might follow.

  Willowbend was no longer safe.

  The knowledge of it broke her heart, but for Esther’s sake, she smiled and reached for her sister’s hand. “There is no sense in borrowing trouble.”

  “Trouble finds us anyway.”

  “If it does, we shall make the most of it. It might be exciting, moving to a new village. Think of it as an adventure, and think of all the new subjects you would have for your artwork, all the new architecture.” Esther had always loved sketching interesting houses and buildings and had often complained of the lack of variety to be found in Wayton.

  “Perhaps.” Esther pulled her hand away and rose. “I have to go. I need to think.” She gave Lottie a smile that was closer to desperate than hopeful. “If I think on it, I might remember something useful.”

  “You already have,” Lottie assured her, but Esther appeared not to hear. She walked away without reply.

  Lottie gave into the sigh as she watched her sister leave. She’d barely finished exhaling when Owen appeared in the empty doorway.

  “Were you waiting in the hall?” she asked, uncertain if she should be amused or annoyed.

  “Eavesdropping, do you mean?” He crossed the room to her but didn’t take a seat. “No.”

  “You needn’t worry about Esther.”

  “Has she revised her opinion of my men?”

  “Doubtful,” Lottie admitted. “But she is not the vengeful sort. Your men are safe.”

  His lips twitched in amusement. “I shall allay their fears directly.” He leaned lightly against the side of a chair and tilted his head at her. “Are you all right?”

  Lottie’s first inclination was to square her shoulders and respond with sarcasm complemented by a strong undercurrent of bravado.

  Naturally, she was all right. She could smile and dismiss his concern with a careless wave of the hand. She was a Walker, wasn’t she? She wasn’t afraid of anything.

  Just the idea of putting up such a pretense exhausted her. Later, she would be strong for Peter and Esther. She would rally and reassure. She would pretend a courage and confidence she did not feel, just as she had always done. But for a few minutes, before all the lying began, she wanted to indulge in the luxury of honesty.

  She slumped against the back of the settee. “We have to leave Willowbend.”

  “No, you don’t. I’ll catch him, Lottie. I promise.”

  “Perhaps, but it changes nothing. Whether or not the Ferret is the shooter, his presence so near can’t go ignored. He saw Esther. He knows we’re nearby. He may have told others by now. He might—”

  “He may have seen her,” Owen cut in. “It doesn’t necessarily follow that he should remember her.”

  “She said he recognized her.”

  “She was a child when they met. Too young to even properly recall his appearance at the inn. It would be difficult for a man to recognize a child he met years ago in an adult he caught a fleeting look at through a window. If this Ferret recognized anything, it was intense interest from a lovely woman. Any man subjected to the stare of a Walker sister is going to take a moment to stare back.”

  Despite her worries, her cheeks warmed at the easy compliment. “She was certain.”

  “She was scared.”

  “Yes. Yes, she was.” And being scared, Esther would have jumped to conclusions. And being a Walker, that jump would have landed dead center of The Worst Conceivable Outcome.

  A sliver of hope worked its way into her gloomy predictions for the future. She struggled to find the balance between allowing that small measure of light and not allowing it to blind her to reality. It was too soon, yet, to draw any conclusions.

  It was not, however, too soon to take precautions. “I want to send Esther and the staff away with Peter. They can visit Scotland, or—”

  “No.”

  Just no. Not an offer of explanation, not an invitation to discuss. Just no. Arrogant, irritating man. “If it was not the Ferret who shot at us today, then we’ve two threats to consider. I want them safe. I want—”

  “As do I,” he assured her. “I don’t know what the man who shot at you today wants nor how far he is willing to go to obtain it. It’s too easy to track someone traveling by train, and I’ll not send any of you off in a carriage that can be run down. I’ll not allow him to use any one of you as leverage.”

  “The shooter may be long gone by now.”

  “In which case, there’s no call to run, is there? Are you willing to chance it?”

  She drummed her fingers against the settee cushion as she considered his argument. “No. I’ll not risk it. They’ll stay. But your men are not to continue seeking out Peter’s company.”

  “Very well. Now”—he rubbed the back of his neck—“we’ve another dilemma. Some of the staff have asked whether we should send for the constable, but they’ve not yet insisted upon it.”

  “They won’t.” This, at least, would not be a problem. “No one wants to send for Mr. Barclay. He’s a drunk. We can tell them you’ve wired your former colleagues in London. That will satisfy Peter and the staff.”

  “Excellent. You’ll inform them. And remind them they are to stay inside. All of you are to stay inside. Away from the windows. Drapes remain drawn. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” She took in the overcoat he’d yet to remove and the pair of gloves in his hand. “Do you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you understand the need to stay inside as well?”

  He sighed.

  “I’ll take that to mean no,” she said blandly.

  “I have to catch him.”

  “And if he catches you first?”

  His smile was pure arrogance. “I am not easily caught.”

  “Hubris makes a better target than it does a shield.”

  “I use it for neither.”

  “Then why bother with so much of it?” she grumbled.

  “Because it irritates you.” He grinned at her scowl. “Will you give me a kiss before I go?”

  The attempt at distraction was no less eff
ective for its blatancy. “I…” She cast about for a deflection of her own. “You mean to go back outside right now?”

  “Samuel and Gabriel will return soon. We’ll take shifts, searching the woods, watching the house.” He straightened from the chair. “Come here, Lottie.”

  She might have, but the movement briefly brushed aside his overcoat, revealing that he had not one, but two pistols hidden beneath.

  “You have another gun.”

  He glanced down. “I do, yes. I’ve several.”

  Several? On his person? Good Lord. “Did you have it in the garden?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I asked for one. You refused.”

  “You don’t like guns,” he replied in a reasonable tone.

  “I like feeling useless even less.”

  “Anyone would.” He was quiet a moment before asking, “Will you tell me the reason for your aversion?”

  She found a loose thread on the cushion. “What does it matter?”

  “If you’ll not trust me with the reason, how am I to trust you with the weapon?”

  “It has nothing to do with trust.” She plucked at the string. “I am capable of handling a gun. I practice.”

  “With targets. It is not the same.”

  “I know that.”

  He was silent for a long time, and though she could feel his gaze, she couldn’t lift her head to meet it. “You were shaking.”

  “I was afraid. That doesn’t mean—”

  “It means you were unlikely to hit your target and apt to hit something of value.”

  Bristling at the implication, she abandoned the string and glared at him. “I don’t kill people accidently, either. Were you not nervous the first time you raised a weapon at something other than an inanimate object?”

  “I was, but it was different.”

  “How?”

  “It was war. I had no choice. You had a choice.”

  “I—”

  “You had me.”

  The words were glib, even a little smug, but Lottie heard the hard edge buried beneath.

  “And I am grateful for it,” she said carefully. Did he believe otherwise? “I didn’t mean to imply that I am not grateful, but—”

  “You didn’t.” He brushed her comment away with a short sweep of his hand. “Tell me your secret and we shall discuss your future participation in armed conflict.”

  Discuss, she noted, was not the same as a promise. “It isn’t a secret. I don’t like to speak of it, that’s all. I don’t like to think of it. May we speak of something else?”

  He shook his head at her, and when he spoke, his voice sounded a little strange, as if he was sad, or possibly just annoyed. It was difficult to tell. “You’ve too many secrets, Lottie. And too little trust.”

  “I don’t.” Oh, but she was a liar. Her time as the Tulip might be just one secret, but there was no doubt in her mind it would be one secret too many for Owen. She needed to move the conversation into safer territory. “We’ll not agree on this,” she said and wondered just how long the list of things on which they would not agree had now become. “Haven’t we enough to worry over at present?”

  “We have,” he replied after a moment, then surprised her by jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Where the devil did you acquire that desk?”

  “What? Why?”

  “We’ve enough to worry over, as you said. I’d like this particular concern of mine put to rest. Why would a woman of taste and sense allow that insult in her home?”

  She leaned a bit for a look around him at the carved monstrosity in the corner. His was a fair question, she had to admit. “It is hideous, isn’t it?”

  “A gross understatement.”

  “At last, we are in agreement,” she replied, mostly because it felt nice to be able to say. “It was willed to Esther three years ago by Mrs. Stanway, the vicar’s late grandmother. Esther saved her little poodle from being trampled in the road.”

  He made a face at the desk. “Does Mrs. Stanway have family about who would make a fuss if you sold it off?”

  “No. Esther insists we keep it.”

  “She likes it?” He looked positively astonished by the very notion.

  “God, no. Who would? Aside from Mrs. Stanway, apparently. But Esther liked the poodle and Mrs. Stanway. Possibly in that order.” She leaned again for another look. “I don’t mind it, really. It is a nice reminder.”

  “Of a woman and her dog?”

  “No, of a good deed. A selfless act.” She shrugged, but it was stiff, and she knew she came off less like a woman who didn’t care and more like a woman who was trying very hard to look as if she didn’t care. “Rarer than diamonds in the Walker house.”

  He tapped his gloves lightly against his leg. “I’ve seen generosity in Peter and devotion in Esther.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Only days ago, you despised me. And yet you allowed me into your home and agreed to work with me because you wanted justice for a woman who was, briefly, kind to you when you were young. If you do not see the good in the Walker house, then it is a result of your own willful blindness.”

  She wasn’t convinced by his staunch defense of her family—of her in particular—but she was touched. “I shall endeavor to open my eyes.”

  “See that you do.”

  He came to her then and bent his head to press a kiss to her forehead. As he straightened, his eyes flicked to the door and back. The movement was quick, but she saw it.

  He wanted to leave, she realized. He was edgy and restless, refusing to sit, fiddling with his gloves. Was that what she’d heard in his voice earlier? Irritation? The desire to be away from her? Surprise and hurt lasted only as long as it took for common sense to intrude. Of course he wanted to leave. He was making conversation in the parlor while his men were out working. The inactivity had to be eating at him.

  Yet he made no move to go.

  When he stepped back, she studied him, much as she had in the garden, but this time she looked beyond the appealing surface and beyond the obvious layer of arrogance. There was, she thought with some amusement, probably more arrogance under that initial layer, but there was such patience in him, as well, and a vast selflessness she wished, with all her heart, she had remembered eight years ago.

  Owen frowned a little under her watchful gaze. “What is it?”

  You’re a good man, Owen Renderwell.

  She bit back the words. She wanted to offer them, but it wasn’t the sort of thing one could just blurt out. Even if it was, it wasn’t the sort of thing one could blurt out without the expectation of a conversation to follow, and she’d kept him in the parlor long enough.

  “Nothing. You should go.” She waved her hand at him when his frown deepened. “Go. I need to make certain Mrs. Lewis and the rest of the staff understand what’s to be done.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I am. I promise. Go.”

  He was already moving. “I’ll return soon,” he promised over his shoulder. A second more, and he disappeared out the door.

  Two seconds later, he, and the frown, reappeared. “You’ll stay inside. Away from the windows.”

  “I will.”

  One brusque nod and he was gone again.

  No doubt he had wanted to leave almost from the start, but he had stayed. He had taken the time to settle her fears about leaving Willowbend, ask about her aversion to guns, and speak with her about her family. He had taken the time to make sure she was all right.

  Because the words still wanted out, she whispered, “You’re a good man, Owen Renderwell” into the still room.

  Maybe too good, the little voice said.

  Too good for the likes of you.

  Eleven

  For two days, family and staff remained indoors, and a tense and heavy
gloom fell over a house that was essentially under siege.

  Owen and his men took turns searching the surrounding woods and countryside, going out one or two at a time, and returning every few hours to switch off, eat, and rest. They had little to show for their efforts but the occasional discovery of new tracks, dousing what hope Lottie had that the shooter had left for good.

  The man was still out there, drawing close to the house at times but never leaving the cover of the woods. There was no sign or word of him in the village, and his tracks always led through the backwoods and out to a busy crossroad, where they were lost among the signs of other travelers. He was camping in the woods on the other side of the road, that much could be assumed, but there was no telling how far he traveled down the road—or in which direction—before disappearing into the trees once more.

  Eventually he would need to emerge for supplies, or he would be apprehended on approach to the house, or the tracks leading off the road would be discovered. Eventually, Owen would catch him.

  In the meantime, there was nothing for Lottie to do but worry and wait.

  She passed the long hours by keeping busy, spending every free moment she had studying the letters and small stacks of journals she secreted into her room at night. Some of those journals had pages with corners turned down and little notes from Owen tucked inside, asking her for clarification or for an explanation of some diagram or encryption. She wasn’t sure where he found the time or energy to sift through her father’s work. She could only assume he spent some of the hours in his room reading instead of sleeping. He had to be utterly exhausted. And still he was working to find Mrs. Popple’s murderer.

  The remainder of her time was divided between finding work and amusement for the staff and fulfilling her regular household obligations.

  Esther helped with the chores as needed but spent her free time isolated in her bedroom, refusing all offers of company.

  Lottie wished Peter would take it upon himself to follow suit. Alas, he chose instead to air his dissatisfaction with the current state of affairs publicly. He skulked from room to room, mumbled and snarled his way through conversations, dragged his feet about the house with an uncommon amount of noise, and took advantage of every opportunity to glower at Owen and his men, who had, it would seem, plummeted in his esteem.