“So what did you do?”
“She had taken to bringing the cocoa up and standing over me while I drank it. Only I decided not to drink any more, and told her I felt sick and would drink it later. When she had gone, I threw it out of the window. Within a day, I was able to leave my bed and, well, then you arrived,” Bertie frowned, studying the floor at his feet dejectedly.
“I think then that you need to make your own drinks and we need to keep a careful watch on Madeline,” Simon replied conspiratorially. “I want you to take to sitting in the kitchen while Madeline is cooking and watch her like a hawk while she prepares our food. Make sure you aren’t distracted and she doesn’t send you on an errand that takes you out of the kitchen. If I’m around, I’ll help you. Can you do that?”
“Of course I can, but what do you plan to do?” Bertie positively beamed with a mixture of anticipation and relief.
“I plan to keep a careful eye on Francesca and be here when she receives another visit. I also know someone who can ask a few questions about Madeline’s missing years. Meantime, I think it would be best if we met up here every day so we can exchange notes and decide what we are going to do.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea.”
“I also need your help in getting a message to Launceston. Can you do that the next time you go to Bodmin?”
“Of course I can,” Bertie huffed, clearly miffed that there was any doubt of his abilities.
“I am also going to pay a visit or two to the village,” he added, shooting Bertie a knowing look. “It might just happen to be about three o’clock in the afternoon as well, so I can get a closer look at this carriage and where it disappears to.”
Bertie hesitated. “Are you sure that is a wise idea?”
“I think I need to draw them out a little. I am new to the area, don’t forget, so have no idea what the locals are afraid of. It would help me considerably to know which house they are going to.”
Bertie still looked cautious. “Why are you here, exactly?”
“I can’t tell you that right now, but I can assure you Bertie that I am working for king and country and have nothing but everyone’s best interests at heart. If everything goes according to plan, I can leave here in the not too distant future. Francesca will be safe in the knowledge that she can refurbish the house she can call home, and the villagers can be free to resume their normal, unfettered lives without any threat from new arrivals.”
He sat still while Bertie studied him carefully for several moments, and clearly made a decision. “Then I am pleased you are here, and am happy to help you in any way I can,” he declared, holding his hand out almost officiously.
Simon shook the proffered hand, smiling companionably at the old man as he pushed to his feet. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Aye,” Bertie replied. “Count me in.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Several nights later Simon lay in a thick patch of bracken, trying not to itch. He had been there since dusk had fallen and had to dig deep to prevent himself from shifting against the discomfort that had settled into his joints hours ago. He was fairly certain that something was starting to gnaw on his side, and it was bothering him.
He lay high on the hill top that overlooked the rear of the tin mine, watching the useless guard wander aimlessly around on his circuitous route around the perimeter of the mine. But his eyes were locked on the strange activities going on in the main building of the mine itself. Although nobody had entered or left the mine, a single candle now burned in the window of a small office to the far end of the single-storey building. It had been lit a couple of hours ago. Even through the gloom Simon could see a man bent over papers on a desk. Forging papers maybe? Where he had come from, Simon couldn’t tell, but he was fairly certain nobody was living in the mine. So that left the problem of how he had managed to get inside without being seen. Had he been there all day?
While he carefully watched the night, Simon’s thoughts began to wander, mainly in the direction of the strange goings on in Thistledown. Thanks to Bertie, he now believed that Madeline was up to her neck in something untoward, and she didn’t altogether have Francesca’s best interests in mind. Although the woman hadn’t been overtly defensive with anyone, she had yet to directly answer anyone’s questions about her past, even Francesca’s.
Francesca.
Simon sighed as the mental image of the woman who seemed to haunt him swam before him. He had hardly seen her over the past few days. She had taken to spending her days in the morning room at the front of the house, carrying out her inventory with such intensity that she had started to eat in there rather than joining the rest of them in the kitchen.
On the one hand he was relieved that she had taken to avoiding him, on the other it rankled greatly that she could so easily cast him aside while he, on the other hand, was plagued with thoughts of her morning, noon and night. Where was she? What was she doing? Was she safe? Had she had another visitor? Did Madeline intend to make Francesca her next target? If so, target for what? Had she been sent to Thistledown to kill Francesca, or merely relieve her of the deeds to the house and tin mine by the mysterious visitor who may have murdered James Hillier? Simon shook his head at the complexity of events that were unravelling around him and wondered if he would ever be able to make any sense out of it all.
At the moment though, until he could be certain it was linked to the spy smugglers, he needed to be able to be able to concentrate on the job at hand, and bring about the arrest and detention of the document forgers. At least that is what he kept telling himself – over and over, and over. If only his mind would listen and start to think about something other than Francesca. He had done his best to protect her from anything Madeline might have planned, having agreed with Bertie that neither of them would actually leave Francesca alone in the house with the woman she considered a friend. It gave Bertie something worthwhile to do, and Simon the freedom to leave when he needed to, secure in the knowledge that Francesca had someone watching her back, even if she didn’t know it.
Luckily, Bertie had been to Launceston and arranged to send Simon’s message to Hugo. He was due to go back tomorrow to collect Hugo’s reply. Simon knew that Hugo would leave no stone unturned. If Madeline had secrets, Hugo and his contacts would uncover them. What he would do if she turned out to be the rotten apple in the barrel, Simon wasn’t sure. It all depended on what she was guilty of, and he was fairly certain that she was guilty of something, and how much of a threat she posed to Bertie and Francesca. He was beginning to suspect that she had been trying to get Bertie out of the way to leave Francesca vulnerable, but why? Had Simon’s arrival in the village thwarted her plans to keep Bertie drugged, and Francesca ignorant of her true purpose? One thing he was certain of, Madeline was growing increasingly uncomfortable having either Bertie or himself in the kitchen while she was cooking. Only yesterday she had taken to being outright aggressive in an attempt to get Simon out of the way while she prepared dinner. When he had merely settled back in his chair and engaged Bertie in conversation, she had tried to physically shoo them away, only to lapse into sullen silence when they ignored her, slamming pots and pans with such ferocity that Francesca had come to find out what all the commotion was about.
Watching the guard mosey slowly past for the hundredth time that night, Simon turned his gaze toward Thistledown. The house was essentially dark and uninhabited. It looked so unwelcoming and desolate that anyone looking at the place would consider it had long since been abandoned. Nobody would know that the small group of people who lived there were confined to only two or three habitable rooms at the rear of the house.
He was about to turn away when he noted a dark figure on horseback ride down the road toward the house. Although they were making no attempt to hide their presence, as far as Simon could tell, they were dressed in black and were barely visible in the night. He would have missed them if he hadn’t been watching the guard pass by and happened to be studying the area. It was
the cue Simon needed to crawl backward, over the brow of the hill and half way down the opposite side. Francesca had said to be mindful of the marshes, and as long as he stayed close to the hills, he should be able to avoid them.
He had no intention of allowing Thistledown’s new visitor to know he was there, but it wouldn’t hurt to take careful note of the person who was posing such a threat to Francesca’s piece of mind. By the time he had wound his way across the valley floor, he arrived at Thistledown’s back door minutes after the visitor.
Hidden in the copse, he watched as Madeline opened the door. He could hear very little of what was said, but felt his curiosity increase when Madeline made no attempt to allow the visitor to enter. Even from his hiding place several feet away, they were standing almost too close for strangers. The body language of the visitor leaning toward Madeline was almost personal, raising the question in Simon’s mind whether the visitor was there to meet Francesca, or Madeline. He had his answer moments later when Madeline stood back, allowing the visitor to cross the threshold and enter the kitchen.
Making his way around to the unused portion of the house, he crept into the warmth of the inner corridor and edged closer to the connecting door to the sitting room. Sticking to the shadows, he put his ear to the door to listen.
“I am afraid, Mr Lindsay, that my answer is the same as last time.” Francesca’s voice was firm, if slightly waspish. She was clearly annoyed at having her evening disrupted, especially by someone who apparently refused to take no for an answer.
“But I am sure you will find that my offer is a very lucrative one. You won’t get better from anyone else,” Mr Lindsay persisted.
“I am not looking for offers on this property, Mr Lindsay. I have told you before that it is not for sale. It isn’t really appropriate for you to continue to visit here with your erm, offers,” she finished weakly, starting to feel her blood begin to boil. She had to dig deep not to rant and rave at him, which was uncharacteristic for her.
“I am sure you realise what risks you place upon yourself,” Mr Lindsay began silkily.
Francesca’s brows rose condescendingly. “Can I take it that you are trying to threaten me, Mr Lindsay?” She scoffed almost inelegantly, and rose to her feet. She hadn’t been formally trained in the art of etiquette, but she was fairly sure that a gentleman should rise when a woman rose from her seat. Mr Lindsay, however, didn’t appear to be trained in the art of etiquette either because he merely remained seating and placed one foot insolently on his knee in an almost casual, and arrogant manner. Rather than cowing her, it made her increasingly angry.
Walking almost casually to the fire she began to poke absently at the flames before turning around, poker held aloft.
“I am sure you will understand, Mr Lindsay, that I am not a woman who scares easily.” Her voice was cold and hard.
“Francesca,” Madeline warned from the doorway. She looked slightly nonplussed by Francesca’s anger and lapsed into silence when Francesca merely shot her a dark look.
“Nor do I take kindly to having unannounced visitors so late in the evening.” She slowly walked across the sitting room, poker raised before her, and almost smiled in satisfaction as Mr Lindsay looked at the iron rod warily before slowly easing to his feet. “Please be careful yourself,” she warned softly in her best matronly voice. “The moors are such a dangerous place to be for someone such as yourself. It is so easy to get lost, you understand? Now, I do suggest you leave.” She turned toward Madeline, clearly dismissing the guest. “Madeline, please see our,” she glanced dispassionately sideways at the visitor and raked him from head to toe with her most disparaging look, -“visitor to the door.”
With that she swept out of the doorway and into the kitchen, yanking the door open and standing beside it, waiting impatiently for Mr Lindsay to catch up. Despite the fact she had just requested Madeline to see the man out, she continued to glare at the man as he meandered slowly through the sitting room and came to stand beside her. Lifting her chin, she glared challengingly into his face. When he took a breath, she broke the increasingly tense silence, refusing to allow him to issue her another threat.
“Goodnight, Mr Lindsay. I suggest that if you have any further offers, you make them to my solicitors in London. They have been issued with instructions on what to do with them,” she snapped, leaving the man in no doubt where he could stick his offer.
“You are making a very grave mistake, Miss Hillier,” Mr Lindsay snarled. “One that I do believe you will have cause to regret.”
“Oh, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself and what is mine, Mr Lindsay. Do not doubt that I have every angle covered,” she snapped. “Not that it is any of your concern. Thistledown is never going to be yours.” With that she physically pushed him out of the door and slammed it behind him, slamming the bolt closed for good measure.
“That was really rude, Francesca,” Madeline snapped, clearly outraged and prepared to start to lecture, when she was abruptly cut off by the slow clapping that came from the doorway behind her.
Francesca almost wept with relief at the sight of Simon standing in the doorway and was shaken by the effect simply seeing him had on her. The past few minutes had been sheer bravado and now that the imminent threat was over, her knees had begun to tremble until she wasn’t sure how much longer they would hold her up.
As though sensing the amount of effort her performance had taken, Simon swept her out of the room and away from the Bertie’s curious gaze. Ignoring Madeline’s outraged stare, he closed the door behind him with a thump and was unsurprised when they had barely gone a few feet before Bertie appeared behind them.
“Go and check,” Simon whispered, relieved when Bertie seemed to understand immediately what was required and disappeared into a side room. Simon wasn’t sure which room it was, but Bertie knew the house like the back of his hand and would know immediately which room had the best vantage point.
“Just what is going on?” Francesca demanded, rolling her eyes when Simon raised a silencing finger to his lips. Taking hold of her wrist, he led them up both flights of steps to the attic room he used as a meeting place with Bertie.
Sensing Francesca’s curiosity, he closed the door behind them and tried to ignore the air of intimacy that hovered around them in such close confines.
“Bertie is just doing something for me,” Simon remarked, aware that she was still waiting for an answer. “I take it Mr Lindsay is the one who has pestered you before to sell this place?”
Francesca nodded, feeling her temper rise once more. She hated to be kept in the dark about seemingly everything that was going on around her own house. If she was honest, she didn’t know whether she was more shaken by the effect Mr Lindsay’s visit had on her, or Simon’s appearance. She had to admit, though, it had been distinctly reassuring to see him standing in the doorway.
“Has he offered the asking price?”
Francesca named an amount that didn’t go even halfway toward covering the house’s true value.
“So, an attempted thief as well as a bully,” he mused quietly. He glanced out of the window toward the dark silhouette of the tin mine standing darkly on the landscape. Glancing down, he spied the flurry of cloak behind the departing Mr Lindsay and wondered if his suspicions were correct. Unfortunately, it was too dark to see whether Mr Lindsay followed the road through Much Hampton and out onto the main road running directly through the moor, or whether he retreated to the house in the village that had a daily carriage visitor at three o’clock precisely. Somehow, he suspected the latter.
“What are you looking at?”
He didn’t need to look to one side to know she was there, he could practically feel her approach him. He wondered when she had begun to have such a profound effect on him. As far as he could remember, he had never been so attuned to anyone in his life. Why Francesca? More importantly, why now? Was it because he hated to see women being bullied and she drew out the protector within him? Or was it because
she was the most achingly beautiful woman he had met for some considerable time?
Although he had done nothing untoward to alert her suspicions over the past few days, Francesca knew he was up to something and it certainly wasn’t drawing. She had yet to see him carry any art supplies and, as far as she knew, not many artists could draw anything in the dark. Yet Simon seemed to feel the need to slip out at all hours of the day and night and would often be gone for hours.
Now, it appeared, he had gone and involved Bertie in whatever he was doing.
“I’m checking to make sure Mr Lindsay has left,” he replied honestly.
“Has he?”
“Just,” Simon sighed, moving to sit on the box Bertie usually used. It did little to ease the growing awareness between them but at least it put him at a distance from her innocent temptation.
“What’s Bertie’s involvement in all of this?”
“He was going to watch to see what Mr Lindsay did,” Simon replied carefully, sensing her careful study of his face. “You know, make sure he didn’t visit the burned out wing, or meet Charlie or Tom in the stable yard.”
“Do you think it was Mr Lindsay who placed the rook on the door last week?”
Simon nodded. “It could have been Charlie or Tom but somehow it doesn’t seem something someone of their intellect would think of doing. They aren’t clever enough. This was done by someone who was trying to scare you.”
“Make me leave, you mean,” Francesca declared sickly. She felt her stomach lurch that someone that sick had been to her own back door.
Simon nodded slowly.
“I’m not going to be scared off,” Francesca snapped, fighting the urge to stomp her foot in temper. “This is my home. The only home I have ever really had where I can be myself. I am not going to be driven out of here by Tom and Charlie, Mr Lindsay or anyone else.”
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