by M. C. Beaton
At last she could not bear the suspense any longer. She went out to the landing, moved aside the cabinet, and opened the door to the secret stairway. She walked down it, holding a candle which she extinguished as soon as she reached the garden.
The night was very black and still. She stayed where she was at the entrance to the secret stairway, knowing that the gardens must be crawling with men waiting for the smugglers.
Then she heard the harsh cry of a sea gull far away and the answering cry from somewhere on the beach in the direction of the summerhouse. Silence again. The moon moved out from behind a cloud, silvering the leaves of a bush near her, lighting up the twisting path where she had been struck down. Then she heard faintly the smooth rise and dip of oars. Perdu would be on the beach, waving a lantern to guide the men in.
She could hear men’s voices now, the scrape of a boat’s keel on the sand, an occasional grunt as barrels and kegs were lifted ashore.
Then silence again, a silence so complete that she began to wonder if no one had turned up to arrest the smugglers.
The moon slid behind a cloud again, and all was calm and peaceful.
A great voice shouting “In the King’s name!” made her jump. Then the bushes seemed to be alive with men. Jean backed slowly into the passage behind her and fumbled to light the candle. At last she succeeded and was just about to mount the stairs when she heard the sound of running footsteps. She stayed, frozen, at the foot of the stairs.
Perdu darted into the passage, his face glittering with sweat. He was holding a gun. He saw her and his eyes narrowed. “Not a word,” he snarled. “Not a murmur. Up the stairs with you.”
Jean numbly led the way, cursing herself for her folly. The gun was rammed into her back. When she reached the landing, he told her to go to her room. She thought he was going to lock her in and then make his escape, but he pushed his way in after her and then locked the door. Jean set the candle down on a table, noticing with an odd pride that her hand was steady.
“Now,” he said, “you interfering bitch. I see it all. You poisoned my little helpers with those damned chocolates. You brought this on me. Do you know what I do to informers? I roasted a man alive over a spit like an animal a year ago.” He gave an ugly laugh. All charm was stripped from him. He looked evil and brutal.
“You aren’t French,” Jean said. “I don’t even think you have ever been a dancing master.”
“Oh, I was that, my fine lady, in Dublin some years ago. There’s little that the Irish bastard of some English lord can do for a living.”
“Are you going to kill me?” Jean asked.
“Not now. You will write a note that you will put onto the outside of your door, saying you are sick and you desire to be left alone. I will hide out here while they scour the countryside for me.”
“And if I refuse to write such a note? A shot would be heard, you know.”
“I wouldn’t waste a bullet on you, you trollop. Strangling’s good enough for you. Now, write! And no tricks.”
Jean took out her traveling writing case, wishing it contained a knife or gun or something she could use against him. She wrote: “I desire not to be disturbed. I have the vapors, J. Morrison.”
She passed it to him. He read it and then ordered her to fasten it on the outside of her door, keeping her covered all the while with the gun as he unlocked the door. Jean wedged the note into the fingerplate.
“What now?” she asked.
“Well, now I think we pass the night pleasantly. You can start by taking your clothes off.”
The viscount was cursing the escape of Perdu, the ringleader. They had captured everyone else. He walked into the castle hall, restless and uneasy. He felt he had better check the girls’ room, because the more he thought about it, the more he realized Perdu would try to go to ground instead of fleeing across the countryside.
The twins were fast asleep. He checked under their bed and in the wardrobe just to make sure. He found the duplicate key to their door and pocketed it. Then he walked to Jean’s room, hoping to find the door open so that he could tell her of the night’s adventures. He saw the note and read it. Poor Miss Morrison! He gave a wry smile and turned away. He was halfway down the stairs when it suddenly struck him that Jean Morrison was not the sort of lady to suffer from the vapors. Or even if she did, she would be too proud to say so. And what lady, feeling ill, locked her door?
He ran down to the servants’ quarters, grabbed the spare key to Jean’s bedroom, went to the library desk, took a pistol from the bottom drawer, and primed it, cursing at the time it took. He ran up the stairs.
Inside her bedroom Jean was backed against the wall, facing her tormentor, who was laughing at her. “You appear to think it a fate worse than death,” he jeered. “Come here!”
Jean, her nerves strained to the breaking point, heard a soft footfall in the passage outside. She turned away from him and looked down at the toilet table. Her eyes fell on a bottle of scent she had bought in St. Giles. She gently removed the stopper. Turning back and holding the bottle behind her back, she smiled at Perdu. “Perhaps we could come to an arrangement,” she said.
“That’s more like it,” he said with a grin. He moved toward her. She heard the key turn in the lock, whipped out the scent bottle, blessing the fact that it had a wide top, and dashed the contents in his face. She darted to one side as he fired blindly. There was an answering report from the doorway, and Perdu fell to his knees, clutching the spreading red stain on his chest as the viscount entered the room.
Jean flew into the viscount’s arms, crying, “He was going to rape me. I did not know what to do. Is he dead?”
He gently extricated himself from her clinging arms and knelt down beside Perdu. “Not yet,” he said laconically, “but any moment now. I may as well rouse the servants and get them to remove him. I have kept them out of this affair, fearing word of our ambush might get out.”
“Do you mind if I leave this room?” Jean asked faintly.
“Of course not. You have been very brave.” He bent once more over Perdu. “Yes, quite dead now. Once we have moved this body, you can go to bed.”
“Here!” Jean squeaked. “In a room in which killing has taken place!”
“Take your night rail and go to my room.” He saw the expression on her face and said quickly, “I shall find another bed somewhere. Did … er … Perdu molest you in any way?”
Jean shuddered. “No, you came just in time.”
“Then off with you. A good night’s sleep is what you need.”
Jean collected her night things, wondering at his calm, why he did not try to comfort her, for she had been through enough to devastate the strongest female. Then with a pang she realized she was a servant now, and servants were not expected to have feelings any more than the beasts of the field.
She went into his room rather timidly, undressed, and climbed into his large bed. She lay wide awake for a few moments, still shivering with fright, and then she suddenly fell asleep.
Amanda awoke suddenly, sat up, and looked around groggily. Memory came flooding back, and she shook Clarissa awake. “What’s the time?” Amanda hissed.
Clarissa struggled out of bed and drew back the curtains. Gray light flooded the room. “Dawn!” Amanda exclaimed. “Too late. Odd’s fish, I still feel like death. I’m damned if I’ll ever touch a chocolate again.”
“Me too,” Clarissa wailed, clutching her stomach.
Amanda grabbed her arm. “Listen! There’s the deuce of a commotion coming from downstairs.”
She pulled on her wrapper. “Let’s creep out and see.” She tried the door. “Not locked. Didn’t bother to lock us in.”
Side by side they went to the landing, then down the stairs, and leaned over the banisters so they could see into the hall. The main door was standing open. The viscount was there, talking to a colonel. As they watched, two soldiers appeared, carrying a body which they dragged outside. A red ray from the rising sun shone full on the dead man
’s face.
“Perdu!” Amanda gasped. “Oh, God in heaven.”
Clarissa began to weep and wail. Alerted by the noise, the viscount looked up and saw them, and his face hardened. “Go to your room immediately,” he shouted.
Amanda and Clarissa, sobbing and crying, stumbled back up to their room. By the time the viscount called on them, their weeping had stopped and they were sitting in sullen silence.
“Well?” the viscount demanded. “And what have you pair to say for yourselves?”
“How did he die?” Amanda asked.
“Ah, I note you ask how did he die, where an innocent person would have asked why. I know you were both in league with Perdu. I gather his name is really Brian Magbee, but we will continue to call him Perdu. He is a murderer and torturer as well as a smuggler. Had it not been for the bravery of Miss Morrison, he might have escaped. Now, then, out with it. Why did you help him?”
Clarissa sniffled dismally. “He forced us to do it,” Amanda said. “He said he would kill us, else.”
“I saw you together, and you were very merry. I would judge you both doted on the scoundrel. I will try another tack. How long have you been engaged in helping the smugglers? No lies now.”
“A year,” Amanda said sulkily.
“And how did they pay you? Chocolates?”
“Things like that,” Amanda said, having no intention of telling him about the gold they had been paid.
“Before you go back to sleep, you will both accompany me to the schoolroom,” the viscount said, “and you will write statements to say that you have been involved in smuggling and you will sign them. I will keep them. I will then decide on your futures. I can do as I wish with you, for one bit of trouble from you and I shall send your statements to the lawyers.”
“Stop weeping and moaning,” Amanda snapped when they returned from the schoolroom. “We must think what to do. We must get revenge on him and above all on that Morrison creature for killing poor Mr. Perdu.”
Amanda then fell silent, remembering the first time they had met Perdu. He had been strolling on the beach and had fallen into conversation with them. He had flattered them and teased them, and then had introduced them to the smuggling haunts. As they were allowed to roam where they wished, Amanda and Clarissa had enjoyed the vulgar company, and subsequently the bribes of money for their services. Both had been in love with Perdu.
“There’s one person who must be interested in harming Hunterdon,” Amanda said slowly. “Mr. Devenham. If anything happened to us, he’d get the estates and fortune.”
“But what can we do?” Clarissa dried her eyes. “Hunterdon will just send those statements to the lawyers.”
“Will he?” Amanda looked at her. “Think on’t. The lawyer would inform the authorities, as is his duty, and the authorities would want to know why he kept it quiet. He’d be an … an accessory. That’s it. Without us he’d stand to lose everything.” She smiled slowly. “I wonder if Mr. Devenham would settle for half of everything.”
“I don’t understand,” Clarissa said plaintively.
“Look! We disappear. We arrange with Devenham to keep us somewhere. We send a ransom note demanding half of what the Courtney fortune is worth. He has to pay or lose all.”
Clarissa looked at her doubtfully. “Wouldn’t he just pack up and leave? Why would he want us back?”
“No, he loves this place now, the house and the peasants. And precious Miss Morrison would get the blame for not taking care of us. And if we get Devenham on our side, we’ll get him to spread it around that she’s Hunterdon’s mistress. Ruin her!”
Clarissa looked at her sister in awe. “I don’t know how you think of such wonderful things. I don’t, really.”
Jean, dressed in her nightgown, cap, and wrapper, emerged sleepily from the viscount’s bedchamber just as the departing Lady Conham and her daughter, Eliza, were making their way downstairs. Lady Conham stopped stock-still and raked Jean up and down with a freezing glance. “Disgraceful!” she said, and then with a toss of her head she walked on while Eliza followed, drawing in her skirts as she passed Jean as if any touch might contaminate her.
Jean said after them, “It is not what you think.” But both ladies, their backs rigid, descended the stairs.
It was too bad, thought Jean miserably, that she should have been close to being murdered the night before and have to endure being damned as a trollop the morning after. She went to her room and looked in surprise at the clock. Two in the afternoon!
She washed and dressed and went to the twins’ room, but it was empty. She hurried to the schoolroom, praying that they had not escaped, but that was deserted as well. Then she heard the faint sound of the piano from the drawing room and hurried downstairs.
She hesitated, her hand on the door. Highland and superstitious, Jean had a sudden dread that she would open the door and find the ghost of Perdu seated at the piano.
But when she went in, Amanda was seated at the keyboard with Clarissa behind her on the long stool. Amanda was playing a simple tune with her right hand that Jean had taught her. Both girls were neatly dressed and their hair was braided.
Jean closed the door. Amanda stopped playing. Both girls stood up and faced Jean.
She saw their downcast faces and the purple shadows under their eyes, and thought, “I had forgotten. They are little more than children.”
“Do you know what happened last night?” she demanded.
“Yes,” Clarissa whispered, still mourning for Perdu, but her sister was made of sterner stuff.
“We didn’t know we were doing anything wrong,” Amanda pleaded. “There’s a lot of smuggling going on along this coast, and everyone takes something from the smugglers, tea or silk or wine. Mr. Perdu, he made it all seem like a game.”
The fact that Amanda was speaking carefully and precisely should have warned Jean that this was a rehearsed speech, but she did so want to believe them, and besides, it was beyond her comprehension, despite all that had gone on before, that two such little girls could be other than sadly misguided.
Amanda remembered Perdu and gave a convincing sob. “We’re most terribly sorry, miss, and we’re afeard of the hangman.”
Jean rushed to them and gathered them in her arms. “There, now. Do not cry. You have been very wicked, yes, but I blame your father for not having controlled you. You have been punished enough. Now Lord Hunterdon wishes to send you away. But surely if you study hard and behave well, he will come about.”
Amanda kissed Jean’s cheek. “Thank you, miss,” she said in a broken voice. “Oh, thank you.”
“So,” Jean said briskly, “the sun is shining and you are both pale. Put on your bonnets and we will go for a walk.”
The viscount met them in the hall as they were leaving. “Where are you going?” he asked Jean.
“Just for a walk. The Misses Courtney are in need of fresh air.”
“The Misses Courtney have nothing up with them that death and mutilation would not cure.”
The twins threw themselves into Jean’s arms, crying, “Save us!”
Jean held them close and stared defiantly over their heads at the viscount. “They were misled, my lord,” she said, “and they are truly penitent.”
“Miss Morrison, I am very tired,” he said. “I am going to bed. But you will not go anywhere without a guard.” He saw Dredwort standing in the shadows, listening with interest. “Dredwort! Two of the grooms, Harry and John, to accompany Miss Morrison on her walk, and that lady’s maid, Betty, too. In future, she and the young ladies are not to go anywhere unescorted.” He turned back to Jean. “I shall talk to you further when I awake.”
When he at last settled his head on the pillows, he realized they smelled faintly of rosewater. Of course! Jean Morrison had been in his bed last night. He should have commended her on her extreme bravery. He should have asked after her health. But before he could think of any of the other things he should have done, he had fallen fast asleep.
&nbs
p; Jean walked steadily along the beach, the two grooms and the maid behind her, making it very clear it was the governess they were protecting and not her charges, while the twins walked ahead, talking in low voices.
“I think they know about the secret staircase,” Amanda whispered, “and we’re going to be closely watched. We have to get a letter to Devenham. He’s probably still at Pembertons. Wait a bit. A letter might fall into the wrong hands. Damn that poxy, murdering governess. Scotch seed of a whore.”
“Face like a twat,” Clarissa said, and they both sniggered.
“I think I’ve got it,” Amanda said. “We’ll behave like model misses, but we have to be ever so affectionate with Morrison. Get her to think we love her and that our bad behavior was caused by lack o’ love. She’ll fight him to keep us here and he’ll do what she wants ’cause he doesn’t care much one way or t’other as long as he’s left in peace. Then when everything’s settled down and we’ve got her eating out of our hands, we’ll say tearfully that locking us in at night shows a lack of trust—a lack of love. Then we’ll be able to sneak out, take a couple o’ horses from the stables, and ride over to the Pembertons.”
“Big place,” Clarissa said. “We won’t know where to find him.”
“True.” Amanda kicked a pebble viciously. Then her face brightened. “The Pembertons’ butler, Sanderson, he took tea and wine off of Perdu. Wouldn’t want that known, would he?”
“No,” Clarissa said. “But we wouldn’t want it known that we knew that, and Sanderson might be sharp enough to realize it.”
“You’re getting mightily clever, sis. Right. Try again. We tell Sanderson we’ll have a new source. He likes buying cheap, charging his master dear, and pocketing the difference. We’ll tell him we’re spoony about Devenham and ask him to take a note to him. In it we’ll urge Devenham to meet us somewhere between here and St. Giles.”
“But will he come?”