The Viscount glanced toward the wagon some yards in front. Drawn by four heavy draught horses, its deadly load was concealed by a tarpaulin stretched across a wooden frame. Four armed outriders waited alongside. Two linkmen stood in front with torches. Looking at them, Marcus experienced a moment of déjà vu. It sent a chill along his spine. This time he was determined the boot would be on the other foot. He turned back to Barstow.
‘Are your men ready, Major?’
‘They are, my lord.’
‘Very well. Let’s get them on their way.’
The Major gave the order and the lumbering vehicle moved off. Marcus waited until he calculated that it and its escort were a quarter of a mile ahead, then nodded to Barstow. At the signal his men doused the remaining torches and a few moments later the column of mounted men moved forwards.
*
Claire had long since given up any hope of freeing her hands and lay still now. Half smothered by the dirty blanket and jolted by the movement of the vehicle, she fought the rising tide of panic that threatened to overwhelm her. Where was Stone taking her? In the conversation about her uncle he had mentioned Helmshaw. Would he risk being seen there under these circumstances? Surely if he took her into town she would be able to attract attention somehow. There must be someone who would come to her aid. Miserably she thought of Marcus. By now he would be at the rendezvous with Major Barstow’s men. When, eventually, he returned to Netherclough she would be long gone. He would have no clue as to her whereabouts. By the time he found out it would be too late. She would never see him again.
Suddenly she became aware that the cart was slowing. Then it stopped altogether. Surely they had not travelled above two miles, not nearly enough to have reached Helmshaw. Before further thought was possible the blanket was thrown aside and for a moment she found herself looking at Stone. She shivered inwardly as he bent towards her. To her considerable surprise he untied the gag round her mouth. She eyed him uneasily.
‘Why have we stopped?’
‘This is where we part company,’ he replied.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You will soon enough.’
He climbed out of the cart and hauled her out after him, setting her down on the track. Then he untied her wrists. Taking a firm grip on her arm, he led her round the side of the vehicle. Her heart lurched. For the first time she saw the dark mass of the waiting coach partly concealed against the trees at the side of the lane. Stone felt her hesitate and his grip tightened.
‘Come, miss. Don’t be shy.’
‘Where are you taking me?’ Even as she spoke she guessed the truth.
‘I’m sure your uncle will be glad to see you again,’ he said in a conversational tone. ‘He’s been most anxious to find you.’
Claire hung back, trying unsuccessfully to break his hold. The grip tightened and dragged her on.
‘Of course,’ he continued, ‘I’d like to have spent a bit longer with you myself, for old times’ sake, but I don’t suppose your uncle would approve of that. In any case I’ve other matters to attend to this evening and other places to be. Still, it’s good to know you’ll be in capable hands.’
She stumbled on down the track beside him, knowing it would be useless to try to appeal to his better feelings. Where she was concerned he had none. Moreover, it was clear he was enjoying his revenge.
A few moments later they reached the coach and a familiar dark-clad figure stepped out. Her stomach lurched. Uncle Hector!
Then they were face to face and the cold eyes fixed her with a gimlet stare for a moment before passing on to Stone. The latter smiled.
‘The young lady, sir. As promised.’
‘You have done well,’ her uncle replied.
He produced a leather pouch from the folds of his cloak and tossed it over. Claire heard the clink of coins. Then he jerked his head to the waiting vehicle. Stone dragged her to the door and, when she tried to resist, lifted her off her feet and bundled her unceremoniously inside. Having seen her safely stowed, her uncle climbed in after. She had a glimpse of Stone’s grinning face in the gathering dusk before the door slammed and the coach moved away.
*
Breathing hard from his exertions, Luke Dobson flung himself down behind a bush, staring at the departing vehicle. Presently Stone and his companion returned to the cart. He watched them climb aboard and then they drove off too, taking the fork in the road that led to the moors. The boy frowned, wondering what could possibly take them up there with night almost upon them. When they were out of sight he emerged from his hiding place, knowing now that he had to get back to Netherclough at all costs. Then he would go to the kitchens and find his mother. She would know what to do.
*
Feeling the coach gather speed, Claire’s panic increased. Knowing she must fight it, she drew in a deep breath and tried to think. Somehow she had to get away. Eyeing the far door, she weighed up her chances. If she jumped from the moving coach, she risked a broken ankle or worse, but it was a chance she was prepared to take. There was no other. In desperation she made a lunge towards the door, but a hand like a vice closed on her arm and pulled her roughly back. Then Davenport slapped her hard across the face. She gasped, her hand clutching her burning cheek.
‘Don’t attempt that again,’ he said. ‘There’s no escape for you now.’
Her stomach knotted. ‘What do you mean to do?’
‘What I intended to do from the outset. That is to see you married to Sir Charles Mortimer.’
‘I will never agree to that.’
He regarded her coldly. ‘I rather think you will.’
The knot in her stomach tightened. ‘Please, Uncle, I beg you, don’t do this.’
‘You have made me a public laughing stock and you have caused me to look a fool in the eyes of my friend. I intend to rectify that. Tomorrow you will become Lady Mortimer.’
Anger vied with surprise. ‘That’s impossible. It is at least three days’ travel to Northamptonshire.’
‘You are not going back to Northamptonshire,’ he replied, ‘only as far as Sir Charles’s country house near Barnsley—where you and he will be married.’
Claire paled. ‘Never! I’d rather die than be wed to that disgusting, lascivious old man.’
He slapped her again, harder, across both cheeks this time, rocking her head back and forth and bringing water to her eyes.
‘You will marry him,’ he replied dispassionately, ‘be assured of that. Then I have no doubt your husband will tutor you in the subject of wifely submission. He and I see eye to eye on such things. He will very soon bring you to heel.’
Claire turned cold as the implications dawned. Barnsley was hardly any distance at all. They would arrive the following day. Her stomach churned.
‘We cannot be married,’ she protested, her voice shaking. ‘The banns have not been published.’
‘It is of no consequence. Sir Charles has obtained a special licence. His brother is a bishop and will officiate at the ceremony in the private chapel at Mortimer House.’
Claire paled, her hands clenching in her lap. Her uncle surveyed her with a cold and knowing eye.
‘In the interim you will have my company and, when we reach our destination this evening, I intend to teach you about the follies of disobedience and ingratitude. When I’m done with you, my girl, you will be only too glad to marry Sir Charles.’
*
Marcus scanned the gloom ahead, listening intently, but could detect no sign of human life. They had ridden for several miles now without challenge. In keeping with the plan, the wagon and its escort had been sent along a different road this time, one more open and less susceptible to ambush. He hoped that detail would lend authenticity to the scheme and help convince the wreckers to take the bait. They had to believe Harlston was being extra cautious this time. The information had been deliberately leaked in the appropriate quarter some days since. Marcus smiled grimly. He wished he could have been there, but felt certain that
Sir Alan Weatherby had done a good job.
A staccato crack rang out in the darkness up ahead. Barstow held up his hand and the column stopped, every man there straining to hear. The still air carried the sound of two more shots and then shouting voices.
The Major grinned. ‘I think they’ve taken the bait.’
As he spoke the sound of shouting increased and then there was a crash as of something falling and a volley of shots. He drew his sword. The sound was repeated as a dozen more blades were drawn free of their sheaths. Raising the weapon aloft, he ordered the charge.
The horses leapt forwards and the noise of shots was drowned by the sound of galloping hooves. Barely a minute later, the wagon came into view. By the light of the torches Marcus could see several bodies stretched out around the wagon and swaying figures locked in hand-to-hand combat. The mounted force swept down on the attackers. Seeing the arrival of armed reinforcements, the wrecker crew saw too late the full extent of the trap that had been sprung. Seriously outnumbered and on foot, the survivors of the first deadly fusillade were no match for mounted men and swinging sabres. Some abandoned the fight and tried to run, but were pursued in their turn.
Marcus reined in, looking swiftly about him as the militia mopped up the remnants of the rebel force. As he did so he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his head in time to see a dark figure emerging from the shadow beyond the wagon. And then the man called out.
‘Eden!’
Just in time Marcus saw the pistol aimed at him and flung himself sideways as the weapon discharged in a spurt of flame. He felt the breath of the passing ball on his cheek. A moment later he hit the ground and rolled, coming to his feet in time to see the dark form retreating into the darkness. Marcus raced after the fugitive figure, rage lending wings to his feet. He heard the sound of a heavy thud and a muffled curse that told him his enemy had stumbled and fallen. A second later he was on the man and they rolled, locked in a deadly struggle. In the process the other’s hat fell off and moments later Marcus’s clawing fingers ripped off the handkerchief round the face but even before he saw, he knew who it was.
‘I hoped I’d catch up with you, Stone.’
‘I’ve looked forward to it too, Eden.’
A second later Marcus felt a fist connect with his jaw and returned the blow with interest. He heard the other man grunt in pain. But Stone was tough and fighting for his life. He came to his feet, facing his enemy, breathing hard.
‘I thought I’d killed you before.’
Marcus smiled grimly. ‘You’re not a good enough shot.’
He ducked the punch aimed for his head, but took one in the midriff. For a moment he staggered, caught off balance. Stone laughed.
‘I promised you’d get yours, you bastard, and I mean to deliver.’
Without warning he bent and drew the knife from his boot, lunging forwards in one fluid movement. Marcus leapt back to avoid the blade, dodging and weaving to evade the savage edge. However, Stone was fast and dangerous and several times it passed close, slashing fabric. Marcus set his jaw, waiting for a chance. In desperation he feinted, pretending to stumble. Stone saw it and lunged for his breast. A moment later, Marcus’s hand closed on his opponent’s wrist and twisted hard. He heard sinew crack and then a muffled expletive. The knife fell. Before Stone could recover a boot came up into his groin with brutal force, doubling him over in agony. As he slumped forwards Marcus’s knee caught him in the face, snapping his head up and pitching him backwards. Stone fell and lay still, groaning. Breathing hard, Marcus lifted his arm and wiped blood and sweat from his face with the sleeve of his coat.
Then he became aware of other figures approaching and looked up to see Major Barstow and four of his men. As the latter moved in to secure the prisoner, Barstow eyed Marcus.
‘Are you all right?’
The Viscount nodded. ‘I’ll live.’
‘The rest of the Luddite gang are dead or taken,’ said Barstow. He glanced toward Stone and then at his men. ‘Sergeant Carter, put this one with the others.’
‘Yes, sir. At once.’
As the sergeant moved to obey, Marcus held up a hand.
‘One moment. There’s something I want to know first.’
‘You’ll not learn anything from me, Eden,’ said Stone.
Marcus stepped in closer. ‘Who killed David Gifford?’
A flicker of surprise registered for a moment in the other’s face. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Who killed him?’
Understanding dawned in the other’s face. ‘You’re another bloody government agent.’
‘I am many things.’ Marcus paused. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘Nor shall I, since I’ll hang either way.’
No sooner were the words out than Stone gasped as a powerful hand closed round his tender privates. A second later the point of a blade pierced his breeches and punctured the skin beneath. Sergeant Carter, face thrust close, favoured him with a winning smile.
‘The gentleman asked you a question, you murdering bastard. Either you answer him or I cut off your balls.’ The blade moved a little deeper.
Stone yelped. ‘All right! All right!’
‘So talk, scum.’
‘It were Sir James Wraxall—he shot him in t’back.’
For a moment there was silence. Marcus fixed Stone with a cold eye.
‘Why?’
‘He knew Gifford were working for t’government to find out who were behind t’machine breakin’.’
‘Wraxall is a magistrate. Why should he work against the man who was trying to stop it?’
‘Because it were Wraxall as were behind t’attacks. When t’looms were smashed, some of t’mill owners couldn’t sustain t’financial loss and went under.’
‘And then Wraxall bought up their mills for a song,’ said Marcus.
Stone nodded. ‘He’s made himself rich.’
‘Yes, with your help.’
‘What were we supposed to do? Wraxall paid well. You can’t feed a family on eight shillings a week.’
‘So you turned to murder.’
‘Those men took their chances.’
‘Yes, and so will you, you bastard. At the end of a rope.’
‘Aye, he’ll dance to a different tune, my lord,’ said Sergeant Carter.
Stone frowned and glared at Marcus. ‘My lord? Who? What’s he talking about?’
‘A matter of identity. Mine, to be precise.’
‘Lord Marcus Edenbridge, Viscount Destermere,’ Carter explained.
For a second Stone didn’t move, his expression registering first incredulity and then anger. Then both were hidden behind a slow smile.
‘Viscount Destermere?’ he said. ‘Well, well, who’d have thought it, eh?’
‘Life’s full of surprises, isn’t it?’ Marcus replied.
The insolent smile widened. ‘Oh, yes, my lord, it certainly is. More than you know.’
With that he began to laugh. Marcus regarded him with disgust for a moment and then turned to Carter.
‘Take him away.’
The soldiers led Stone off to join the other prisoners. Barstow looked at the Viscount.
‘There’s something else I think you ought to see, my lord.’
He turned his horse and led the way back toward the wagon onto which his men were lifting the injured. The bodies of the slain lay where they had fallen. It was beside one of these that Barstow eventually stopped. Then he turned to Marcus.
‘See for yourself.’
The Viscount turned his attention to the corpse and found himself looking down into the face of Hugh Wraxall. A round, dark hole in the forehead told how he had died, the eyes still wide with sightless astonishment. Suddenly sickened, Marcus turned away and met Barstow’s gaze.
‘He’s paid a heavy price for his part in all this.’ He glanced across at the prisoners. ‘When all is said and done these men were just pawns in a larger game. I think it’s time we went to
find the main player.’
Chapter Fourteen
When Marcus and the militia arrived at Wraxall’s mansion they were met at the gate by Sir Alan Weatherby. Then they went in to confront Wraxall. As Marcus had expected, he first denied all knowledge. Then he blustered for a while and finally, on learning of his son’s death and the destruction of all his plans, fell into a tight-lipped silence. Weatherby stepped forward.
‘Sir James Wraxall, you are under arrest.’
‘For what crimes?’
‘For murder, among others.’
‘Murder? Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I accuse you of murdering the late Viscount Destermere and of being instrumental in the deaths of at least half a dozen other men.’
‘Viscount Destermere died in an accident. It’s common knowledge,’ Wraxall replied. ‘Besides, I never laid eyes on the man in my life.’
‘Perhaps you knew him better as David Gifford,’ said Marcus.
For a moment the cold eyes widened a little.
‘I see you know the name.’
‘I…it is familiar to me.’
‘I know it is. When you discovered he was working for the government, you promised him your support to help break the Luddite group.’ Marcus paused. ‘Later, when he got too close to the truth, you lured him to a remote spot and killed him.’
Wraxall licked dry lips. ‘You can’t prove any of it.’
‘We have proof and to spare. Not all your underlings were killed tonight. And when they’re offered the chance to save their necks they’ll testify against you, enough to hang you several times over.’
‘I had no part in it. It was all my son’s doing.’
Marcus surveyed the cold reptilian face with disgust. ‘I have long thought of the moment when I would be face to face with my brother’s killer and could run him through. Now it has come and I know I will not dirty my sword with you. Let the law take its course.’
As Wraxall was led away Marcus let out a long breath. His godfather regarded him in silence for a moment, understanding something of the thoughts behind that impassive face.
‘So it ends,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ Marcus met his gaze. ‘Wraxall will hang, but what of the others?’
The Wayward Governess Page 21