by Kruger, Mary
The first thing Quentin did when he arrived in Dover was to register at the Ship Inn. The second was to stroll by the King Theater, idly swinging the gold-topped walking stick that matched so well with his new coat, red velvet with gold lacing at the cuffs. Quite an inspired combination, really, even if the weather were warm for velvet. He had thought of it after studying an army officer’s uniform during one of the attempts to take Woodley. It was well worth the time it had taken in London to be made. Honoria would be—probably was—angry about what she would not doubt see as his failure. Really, it was becoming tiresome, the way Woodley managed to elude him, first at Maidstone, and then, just yesterday, at Canterbury. But now he was certain his quarry was near. This time he would not fail.
Quentin smiled thinly, scanning the theater’s playbill. The Rowley troupe again, they who’d made a fool of him in Rochester. It was unlikely that Woodley, or the woman, was with them, but Quentin suspected that everyone in the troupe knew where they were. All he need do now was acquire that information. Pity that Odette was no longer with them. She had been useful.
A man emerged from the alley near the theater, and Quentin’s smile briefly widened. Ah, Montaigne. Just as Quentin had suspected. When he had had the Woodley troupe arrested he had soon let Montaigne go free, in hopes that he would go straight to Woodley. It was time to see if the ploy had worked.
Leisurely crossing the street, he came up behind Ian and poked him in the back with his walking stick. Ian reacted as any man might; he jumped with surprise and then whirled around, his own stick held high, with a blade protruding from the tip. “Who goes there? By God, I’ll—Heywood.”
Quentin smiled again, faintly, and leaned on his stick. “As you see. Well met, Montaigne.”
Ian’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”
“Enjoying the sea air. Walk with me, dear boy,” Quentin said, grasping Ian’s arm. “Quite bracing, the wind here. There’ll be no crossing the Channel today.”
Ian gave him a sharp look. “It feels rather like rain,” he said, mildly enough.
A worthy adversary. One had to be careful with actors; they could change characters at will. One would almost think Montaigne was indeed just out for a stroll. “I take it, then, that Woodley is still in Dover?”
Ian shrugged. “I don’t know where he is.”
“Oh, but you do, dear boy. You came to tell him of his family’s unfortunate fate.”
“You had something to do with that, didn’t you?”
“Mayhaps. How did Woodley take the news?”
“I don’t know. He’s not here.”
Quentin laughed. “Oh, but I think he is, dear boy, he and the Marden woman. And you are going to tell me where.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Oh, no, no, no, only if necessary. Otherwise ‘tis rather messy.”
“What do you want with him, sir?” Ian sounded honestly bewildered. “What has he ever done to you, that you pursue him so?”
“That is my business. Well?” Quentin said crisply. “Will you tell me where he is, or will I have to force you to?”
Ian swung his sword stick back and forth, back and forth, an apparently idle gesture. “And just how do you propose to do that?”
“Why, by telling what I know about you, of course.”
“Which is?”
“That you betrayed friend Woodley for money.”
Ian glared at him for a moment, and then, to Quentin’s surprise, grinned. “Is that all?”
“All? Sir, I’d think it was quite enough. What will your friends in the theater think when they know? You’ll not go on stage again.”
“You can’t say anything without exposing yourself, Heywood.” Ian’s smile thinned. “Which is exactly the sort of deed I’d expect from you.”
Quentin ignored the double entendre, and the insult. “Ah, but I can. Rumor, dear boy. Innuendo. Let me whisper a few words in the right ears, and soon all in the theater will know. Yes, even the great Garrick, and he’ll not take you on at Drury Lane, will he?”
Ian shrugged. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Oh, will you, dear boy?” They were near the quay now, the wind fresh in their faces. “I think not.”
“And I think I shall.” Ian stepped onto the pier, leaving Quentin no choice but to follow. Curse the sea air; the salt spray would do nothing for his new coat, or for the curl of his wig. Nor did he think Montaigne would be so foolish as to inquire into passage on a ship, not when he was being observed. “Shall we see who is right, then?”
“By all means,” Ian said affably. “Though there is one thing you should know.”
“Which is?”
“I played the role of priest when Simon was on the scaffold,” he said, and reaching out, pushed at Quentin’s shoulder.
Quentin stumbled back, his foot finding only empty air. Cursing and flailing, he fell, splashing into the grease-slicked water of the harbor. For a moment he panicked, striking out with his arms and legs, and then he reached the surface. Air! He gasped with the pleasure of simply breathing again.
On the pier above, Ian looked down, appearing only mildly concerned. “Most clumsy of you, sir.”
“Montaigne, for the love of God, help me.”
“Sorry, dear boy, but I’ve an appointment.” Ian stepped back. “Pity that water ruins velvet,” he drawled, and walked away, swinging his stick jauntily. And all Quentin could do was sputter and curse, until someone on one of the boats fished him out. He’d pay, Quentin thought, stomping away down the pier. They’d all pay.
“I still say this is a fool’s errand, miss,” McNally grumbled, hunching over the reins to the cart. “What you think you’ll find out here, I don’t know.”
Blythe reached up to make sure her bonnet was secure as a gust of wind rocked the cart. It was a clear day, but blustery. Simon would not be crossing to the Continent tonight. “Mayhaps more about how Miller died.”
“Can’t think what a viscountess would have to do with that.”
“I can’t, either,” she admitted. “‘Tis a chance, I know, but one I have to take.”
McNally straightened as the road curved, and a pair of stone pillars came into view. “You don’t even know if she’ll see you.”
“I can only try. Is this Moulton Hall?” Blythe leaned forward, gazing past the gate into a broad, grassy field. “Where is the house?”
“Down a ways, near to the water, I’m told. It’s not too late to turn back, miss.”
Blythe’s stomach clenched. She could turn back, could forget about this particular masquerade. McNally disapproved of it, and so did Katherine, who had helped Blythe with her costume. Simon had no idea what she was doing, but she had no doubt he’d disapprove, as well. Yet, if there were any chance she could learn something to clear his name, she would take it. “Let’s try it, Joseph. The worst that can happen is that we’re run off.”
McNally turned the cart into the drive. “Well, there’s no gate house, so we can get in, at least. ‘Tis what happens at the house that worries me.”
“We’ll deal with that as it happens. Gracious!” This as the cart topped a slight rise, and the land fell away before them, revealing a vista of green fields crossed by stone walls, leading down to the Straits of Dover. The water was deep green with frothy whitecaps; darker where clouds cast their shadows. Blythe could see, just faintly, the outline of shore far across the water. “Oh, how lovely. What a beautiful place to live.”
“Damp during storms, I’ll wager. Ah. I was right.”
“About what?”
“Someone’s coming to see what we want.”
Blythe looked to where he pointed and saw a man on horseback crossing a field towards them. “How did he know we were here?”
“No matter. Can’t go back now, miss.”
“No. We can’t.” Blythe straightened, gathering the elements of her character together within her. She was Leonora Higglesby, of the Seaman’s Benevolent Aid Society in Dover. Miss H
igglesby was a very proper spinster who dressed only in gray or black, and always wore a cap under her old-fashioned coal-scuttle bonnet. That this also disguised the distinctive blond streak in Blythe’s hair was an added bonus. Miss Higglesby was immersed in good works. She arranged fresh flowers for her church every week, and had something of a tendre for her vicar. She also had absolutely no sense of humor, and was a dedicated missionary for the causes she took up.
The man pulled up before them. He was middle-aged, grizzled, dressed in shirt and breeches. “Who goes there?” he called.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” McNally replied, before Blythe could speak. “Would the viscountess be at home?”
The man frowned. “Who wants to know?”
“Pray excuse my servant, my lord,” Blythe said, leaning across McNally. “I am Leonora Higglesby, from the Seaman’s Benevolent Aid Society in Dover. I am sure you know of us. No? But that is a surprise, my lord. We help seamen in need, those who are ill or—”
“And you want a donation,” the man said.
Blythe pulled her head back. “You are direct, my lord.”
“Don’t ‘milord’ me. I’m the steward.” He frowned, and then shrugged. “Well, you look harmless enough. Go on to the house. They’ll take care of you there.”
“Oh, thank you!” Blythe gushed as McNally set the cart in motion again. “May God bless you for your kindness.
“Coming it a bit too brown, aren’t you, miss?” McNally muttered.
“Miss Higglesby would be absolutely sincere.”
McNally snorted. He didn’t hold with her method of becoming a character, and had told her so. Still, here they were, advancing along the drive and coming into view of a house. “The big house, I’m thinking.”
“Yes.” Now that she was here, now that the moment was at hand, Blythe felt her throat tighten and her stomach pitch. Stage fright, of course, but made so much worse by her choice of theater. For Moulton Hall was enormous, a great block of rosy-red brick facing the sea, a fitting home for a nobleman. Yet it had a comfortable look to it as well, she thought, tidy and cared-for. Under other circumstances she might even wish to live here. Now she wished only that this escapade was over.
McNally drew the cart up under a pillared portico of white stucco. No one came to take their horse; no one opened the door in welcome. Gathering her courage together, Blythe smiled quickly at McNally and then climbed down from the cart. She took a deep breath as she walked to the door and let the knocker fall. So much was at stake.
The door was opened by a tall gentleman who quite literally looked down his nose at her. “Tradesmen go around the back,” he said, icily.
“I am not in trade,” she said, and handed him a card, a prop from the theater that had dictated her choice of name. “I am Miss Higglesby of the Seaman’s Benevolent Aid Society. Might I speak with her ladyship?”
“The viscountess is not receiving today,” he said, and began to close the door.
“Oh, please.” Blythe stuck her foot between the door and the jamb. “If you will just take my card to her ladyship, God will bless you, I am certain of it.”
From around the door the man regarded her suspiciously. “I shall enquire,” he said at last, and pushed at the door.
“Oh, please,” she said again, wincing as the pressure against her foot increased. “‘Tis so hot here, in the sun. Might I just wait inside?”
That same narrow, fish-eyed look. “Will God bless me if I let you in?”
“God will always bless you, sir,” she said earnestly; Leonora would not know she had just been mocked.
“Very well, I suppose you won’t do any harm.” He opened the door, and Blythe stepped into a cool, airy entrance hall. “But just you stay there,” he warned, and went towards the stairs that rose to the left of the hall.
“Thank you, sir,” Blythe called after him as he went up the stairs. “Bless you, sir. And now what?” she muttered, turning about to survey her surroundings. Her first time in a nobleman’s house, and likely her last, as well. She might as well see what she could. After all, Miss Higglesby would need to know enough about the nobility to get money from them.
The hall was square and high-ceilinged, with oak wainscoting and white plaster walls. No carpet covered the wide board floor, and yet everything in the hall spoke of comfort and ease, from the silver candelabra set on a highly polished table, to the red cushioned window seat on the landing, to the paintings on the wall. She knew little about art, but she suspected that these paintings were likely valuable. One was rather dark, of fruit and wine; another showed a stag being brought down by hunters. Shuddering, she turned away, and faced some decidedly cheerier scenes: one of Moulton Hall, against a backdrop of dramatic thunder clouds; and another of the view across the Channel. Someone in the family was an artist, she thought, and turned again.
At first she didn’t quite comprehend what she was seeing, but then a shock ran through her. Dazed, as if in a dream, she drifted over to the painting on the opposite wall, resting her fingers on the frame and staring up at it, dumbfounded.
It was a portrait of Simon.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Simon paced the length of the attic room once more, stopping to look, unseeingly, out the grimy window onto an unimpressive view of streets and rooftops. Another lodging in someone else’s house. Sometimes it grew tiresome, this business of traveling, even when he had been able to come and go as he pleased. Sometimes he wished he had one place to stay, to come to. A home.
Matters were worse now. Since arriving in Dover yesterday he’d spent most of his time hiding in the office at the theater, until he’d been smuggled last night into this room, which he shared with Ian. He was disguised as an old man again, a somewhat more detailed disguise than the one he’d used in London, but as subject to discovery. Anyone who gave him a close look would realize that he was not as old as he appeared.
The door behind him opened, and he turned, grasping the cane that served as both prop and weapon. “Peace, friend,” Ian said, closing the door behind me. “‘Tis only me.”
Simon lowered the cane. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Then you should be more alert. I made enough noise.” Ian rubbed his hands together as he pulled off his coat, slinging it onto the bed. In public there was no one more fastidious; his clothing was always clean and fashionable, his hair faultless, his manners impeccable. In private was another matter. “Damned cold out there. Feels more like autumn than summer.”
“No chance of crossing the Channel today, then?”
“No, unless you swim. And ‘tis damned cold for that.”
“What?” Simon asked, seeing Ian suddenly smile. “What have you been up to now?”
“I could answer that several ways.” Ian settled into the comfortable bow-backed chair, fingers steepled. “Arguing with a man about his taste in clothing, teaching him to swim—any number of ways.”
Simon waited. From long experience he knew that Ian had a tale to tell, and was working up to it as dramatically as possible. “What man?” he asked, mildly.
“Quentin Heywood.”
“Good God!” Simon stared at him. “He’s here?”
“Aye.” The laughter had left Ian’s eyes, and his mouth was grim. “You’d best sit down, Simon,” he said, gesturing toward the bed.
Simon didn’t move. “Does he know where I am?”
“No, not yet, but he knows you’re here. And I suspect ‘tis my fault.”
“Why?”
Ian stared at his fingers. “‘Tis possible he followed me.”
“Ah.” Simon nodded. “So that’s why you were set free from gaol. I should have guessed. Why is he chasing me? Do you know?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“What do you mean?” Simon demanded.
“Have you never wondered, Simon, why Miller was killed when he was?”
“I don’t know. Coincidence, I thought. Or—”
“Or?”
He f
rowned. “Someone wanted me blamed for the killing. That’s occurred to me, though I can’t think who.”
Ian looked up at him. “Can’t you?”
“My God.” Simon dropped onto the bed. “You know.”
“I suspect.”
“Who?”
“Heywood.”
“Good God! Why?”
“Why, I don’t know. As to the rest—”
“Have you known this all along?”
Ian stared at his fingers. “Yes.”
“Bloody hell!” Simon jumped to his feet. “I could have been hanged! I spent months in prison and I’ve been on the run since, not to mention what I’ve done to Blythe. And all the time, you knew.”
“There was no proof,” Ian said, simply. “Even now, I’m not sure.”
“Why?” Simon turned from the window, where he’d paced. “Why did he do it, and why didn’t you tell me?”
“I told you, I don’t know his reasons.” Ian kept his gaze on his fingers. “The rest is more difficult.”
Simon crossed his arms. “I have time.”
Ian winced. “Well. They say confession is good for the soul. We shall soon see. Simon.” He looked up, his face serious. “Heywood knew you would be at Miller’s because I told him.”
“And just why did you do such a thing?”
“Gambling debts.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Gambling debts. You may not recall, you were in some difficulties yourself, but I had managed to run up a substantial sum. It had to be paid, or course. A matter of honor.”
“Gambling debts. And the price of redeeming them was—”
“Information about you.”
“I hope you gave fair value for your thirty pieces of silver.”
Ian winced again. “I deserve that.”
“You do,” Simon said grimly. He was so angry, so stunned, that he was numb. Ian, feckless and unthinking, had used people in the past to get himself out of his own messes. This went beyond anything, however, that Simon had ever known.