“There be a back door to the stowage; we’ll hafta go in that way, all of us,” Sanderson muttered.
Anne’s stomach was twisted into knots, fear for Jamey making her feel quite ill. She peered through brush at the edge of the woods, wondering if Grover had seen them, trying not to think about what her poor brother was suffering. He disliked change, and this was certainly a vast alteration in his routine. “Let’s go, then,” she said, anxious to get it done. There was no way to determine if the two men were inside, where inside they were, or what the situation was. The rescue needed to happen rapidly so as not to give Grover any warning.
Hampered by her skirts, she followed the men to the back of the long stowage barn that abutted the square kell, or kiln, section of the oast house. Sanderson and the marquess were about to kick in the rickety door, when Anne hissed at them. “No!” she muttered. She moved forward and lifted the latch quietly.
Darkefell looked sheepish, but the moment passed as she prayed the hinges wouldn’t squeak too badly. Unfortunately they did, obliterating any benefit of opening the unlatched door rather than breaking it down.
“Jamey,” she shrieked, peering past the men and seeing her brother down on the floor.
“Annie!” he cried, lumbering to his feet, lens in hand.
That was when she spied Grover. He swiftly raised a pistol to Jamey’s head, so as the men swarmed into the barn, dust raised from their booted feet drifting in the sunlight leaking through the one window, she grabbed Darkefell’s arm and shouted, “Stop! Everyone!”
Silence.
“Grover, let Lord James go,” Darkefell said, his voice guttural and grim with anger darkening the tone.
“Why would I do that?” he asked.
Anne was shocked by the man’s appearance. He had lost weight, a lot of it, and his belly sagged like a deflated cow bladder the village boys kicked about. He was unshaven, wigless, and wore clothes more suited to a laborer than the country squire he had styled himself to be.
“You will let him go or I’ll kill you,” Darkefell said.
“Not before this young fellow dies,” he said, waving the pistol barrel at Jamey. “I don’t want to do that. I’ve no quarrel with the simpleton.”
Anne stepped forward. “Mr. Grover, let my brother go,” she said, elbowing past Darkefell, who was not, in her opinion, helping any. “He has never harmed you and has nothing to do with any of this.”
“Of course he doesn’t.”
“Then let him go,” Anne pleaded.
Silence. Grover appeared baffled, his brows drawn down over his pale watery eyes. He was shrunk and shaking, the gun wavering in his hand. “I came here looking for you,” he said, waving the gun at her. “But you weren’t here for the longest time. I had to steal food!” he cried. “Outrageous, that a man of my … my stature in the community should be reduced to such … such … scrabbling like a rat for food.”
The men shuffled, wondering what to do, no doubt, Anne thought, trying to figure out the best solution. Her breath caught in her throat and she sobbed, trying to hold it back, but it escaped.
“What’s wrong, Annie?” Jamey asked.
“I watched and watched,” Grover went on, as if Jamey had not spoken. “For weeks! The gypsy camp, those filthy wretches … dregs of humanity.” He drew himself up. “To think that I have had to consort with such filth!”
Anne, her voice trembling, said, “You’re worse than any gypsy, you foul slaver, murderer, killing Cecilia and her unborn baby!”
“Fornicator! She was a fornicator!” he shouted.
“Anne, this is not getting us anywhere,” Darkefell muttered, moving slightly, his boots scuffing on the dirty wood floor. “Grover,” he said gently, “Theo wants you to give yourself up.”
The man didn’t appear to hear the marquess, and went on, muttering, his voice growing louder and then softening as he raved, “I have been watching you for weeks, but there were always people about!”
Anne took in a deep shuddering breath, thinking of all the times she had been alone, on her way to the gypsy camp. A sudden pain shot through her shoulder and she gasped. Was he responsible for the shot at her? Was he her would-be assassin? Thank the Lord he had been so improvident to shoot and graze her, and that in front of others! Otherwise, if he had been a better shot and more patient, she could have fallen and died with no one the wiser. “What did you think, Mr. Grover? Of course there are always people about at Harecross Hall,” she said, casting a glance at Darkefell and shrugging. She would have to explain to him later.
“The idiot’s farm was the only place. And I learned that your brother was the only soul for whom you cared.”
Tears welled up in her eyes as she watched that damnable wavering gun, so close to her poor brother’s head that it brushed his wispy hair. “But why me at all, Mr. Grover?” she cried, her breath catching in her throat. “What do you want?”
“You are the cause of my downfall. If not for you—”
“Shut up, Grover, and deal with me,” the marquess growled.
“Darkefell, stop it,” Anne muttered. “You’re not helping!”
Grover grinned and did a mad little dance on the wood floor. The gun wobbled in his hand, the walnut butt soiled on the handgrip, the brass barrel gleaming dully in the sun.
Anne, shaking with fear that he might press the trigger and shoot wildly, turned to her driver. “Please take your men out of here, Sanderson, so I may speak with Mr. Grover. Darkefell, why don’t you go with him?” She didn’t expect him to listen.
It surprised her more than a little when he grimly said, “All right. But Grover, if you hurt a hair on either one of their heads, I’ll kill you with my bare hands, and I mean tear the flesh from your body strip by strip.”
Jamey cried out in horror.
“Darkefell, just leave!” Anne cried, tears threatening her steady voice. Her brother was easily alarmed by violence and she would spare him if she could.
Darkefell herded the other men out. She had a sense that he had some plan, so she hurried to say, “Mr. Grover, just tell me what you want. If you want money and a way out of England, I will gladly provide it for you.”
“Annie,” Jamey said, his lens trembling in his hand. “Annie, the gentleman said he was a friend of yours from the north, and he said he’d show me a rare species of moth that was only found in Yorkshire. But he didn’t.” He looked puzzled and scratched his belly. “He didn’t. But I found an odd beetle on the floor, here and I wondered—”
“Shut up, you imbecile!” Grover shouted.
Anne started forward as Grover’s hand wobbled, holding the heavy pistol, but he steadied. “What about my offer, Mr. Grover?” she gasped, fearing his tenuous hold on both reality and the gun. “Money. I have a lot of my own. And here in Kent we are near the shore. I will arrange for you to leave, to go anywhere you want: France, Italy, the Low Countries, anywhere.” She paused. “Just let my brother go!”
“Annie? Don’t cry,” Jamey said, his gray eyes wide with the beginnings of fear as he saw his steadfast sister trembling.
Anne heard faint noises coming from the kell, and knew Darkefell was planning to ambush Grover. She had to keep talking, to drown out the noises. “Jamey, dearest, I’m not crying. I’m fine. I’m just talking to Mr. Grover.” She turned her gaze to the other man. “Please consider my offer, sir. I can give you enough to guarantee a life of ease in Italy or some other nation. I know you’ve been to Italy … you could live like a prince there! I have jewels. I’ll give them all to you, just so you free my brother. You can trust my word. Please!”
As she spoke, the gun drooped in Grover’s hand; Anne saw the door to the kell move slightly. There was no time for hesitation if she was to have any control over this frightening situation, so she dove forward, knocking the gun out of Grover’s hand, and Darkefell led the other men in an assault on Grover. He tackled him, throwing him to the ground as Anne grabbed her brother’s hand and led him to the far corner away from the fray, hugging him t
o her.
Grover wrestled like a wildcat, wailing in impotent anger, but finally he was subdued by Darkefell and Sanderson. A coil of stout rope in the corner was employed to good use, and the marquess snatched the gun up off the floor, cocked the hammer and pointed it at Grover. “I ought to kill you this minute and save the crown the trouble of hanging you.”
“Stop, Tony,” Anne cried. “Don’t! Let justice take its course.”
Grover was cowering, but as the marquess raised the gun away from pointing it at him, he smiled, eerily calm.
“What do you have to grin like a jackanapes about?” Darkefell growled.
“I would never face you without a plan, for you have thwarted me for the last time, Darkefell,” Grover said, straining at his bonds, his face grimy from the struggle.
“What do you mean?”
“If you kill me, something far worse will happen.”
Anne, her arms around her pudgy brother, said, “Has he planned some kind of trap, Tony?”
“Pathetic weasel,” Darkefell said. “He’s just lying to try to get free!”
A noise outside drew their attention. As Anne looked toward the door she was astonished to see Osei. He burst in and glared down at the man on the floor. “Have you told them?” he asked, seemingly of Grover.
“Mr. Boatin, what do you mean? Has Grover told us what?” Anne asked.
“My lord, I have information about Lord Julius,” Osei said, turning to his employer.
“Ah, the dog comes to lick his master’s boots,” Grover said, ridiculously defiant given his position, encumbered by ropes. He rolled around in the dirt and wedged himself upright by a support beam. He coughed at the dust rising in a cloud, then said, “Heed what your accursed servant says, Darkefell. If you kill me, your brother will die a terrible, long, lonely death.”
“What?” Anne gasped.
“I suspect, my lord,” Osei said, “that this villain has Lord Julius secreted somewhere.”
Grover chuckled. “It’s true. I told you I would not face you without a plan. That fool, Lord Julius, is hidden, tied up, helpless; worse than I, as he is friendless, but I … I at least have a neatly worked plan.” The humor died from his voice. “Listen to me,” he grunted. “If I die, he dies. If I am taken to Yorkshire to face trial, he dies. If I choose never to tell you where he is,” he said, pausing, staring up at the marquess with a look of pure hatred on his face, “he dies.”
Twelve
Silence, and the dust began to float down to settle on the floor. Anne stared at Grover, while hanging on to her restless brother.
Osei, his eyes concealed by the refracted light in his gold-rimmed spectacles, said to his employer, “My lord, I went to Hawk Park and found out Lord Julius had been there. He retrieved some of his clothes from years gone by and visited some of his old haunts, a tavern or two, an old friend. After explaining what had happened in Yorkshire, he told one of those childhood confidants that he was certain he would be able to trap Mr. Hiram Grover. He has not been seen since.”
Darkefell strode over to Grover and kicked him. “Where is he? Tell me, or I swear I’ll kill you.”
“Darkefell, stop that!” Anne cried.
He experienced a savage spurt of anger and whirled. “I have had it! You tell me not to order you around, but have no compunction ordering me. Enough, Anne!” The hurt look on her face brought him to ground with a thud. “I’m sorry,” he said immediately, and stepped toward her.
But she put her arm around her brother’s shoulders and, her chin up, said, “I’m taking Jamey back to Farfield Farm. Come to me when you figure this out!”
“Anne—”
“No! Tony, I understand,” she said. Her expression softened. “It’s your brother,” she said, rubbing Jamey’s broad shoulders. “I understand, truly, and I have not taken offense. I will be at Farfield Farm, then Harecross Hall. Come to me when you’ve figured it all out. This is your business now, not mine, and I promise to interfere no further, now that I have Jamey back.” She turned to her coachman. “Sanderson, take us back to Farfield Farm.”
She left and Darkefell turned to Grover, glowering at him. “You should have taken Lady Anne’s deal, Grover, for I’m not likely to leave you alive. I am no compassionate woman and I’d have no compunction about killing you.”
“I don’t care if I die, for your brother will die, too,” Grover said, then spat some grime onto the dust floor.
Darkefell drew his boot back to kick him again and the man tensed in his rope bonds, his gaze slipping to the left and right. The marquess stopped, deciding against savagery. Anne thought he was better than that, more civilized, though he felt no civility in his blood that moment. What made him pause was a conviction that hurting Grover would not help find Julius, and that must be his sole focus.
How best to handle the man? He didn’t doubt for a moment that Grover was telling the truth. He had tricked Julius and trapped him, but he could not have done it alone, surely.
“I do not for one second believe that you have done such a good job of imprisoning Julius as you imagine,” Darkefell said, pacing toward the other man while Osei stood watchfully by. “Do you want to know how I know that?”
Grover didn’t answer, but he kept watching his opponent.
“Because, Grover,” Darkefell said, stopping inches from the other man and glaring down at him. “You’ve never done anything competently in your whole life. Every step you’ve taken has been a misstep.”
“You don’t know that,” Grover muttered. He was sweating, beads of perspiration slipping down through the dust on his sagging cheeks and making muddy little trails down to his filthy neck stock.
“Everything. Every damned thing. You’re a failure. You failed as a merchant, you failed as a father, you failed!”
“I did not fail!” he shouted hoarsely. “Theophilus … he’s a good man. Going to be bishop someday.”
“No, he’s going to have a hanged murderer for a father. He’ll never be bishop with that stain on his life.” Make him angry, Darkefell thought. If there was one thing he knew about, it was fighting, for he had done enough of it in his school days, dirty fights in the dust with anyone who wanted to go a few rounds. If you made your opponent angry, it threw them off their fight.
“My boy … he’ll rise above … triumph …” He gasped like a landed fish.
Relentlessly, Darkefell paced and dug at the murderer. “Every single thing in your life you have botched, from your marriage—I remember your poor wife, Grover, how desperate for human contact she was, how much she loathed you—to Theo, who now despises you, as he rightly should.”
“That is all because of you!”
“Right down to losing all of your money—”
“Because of you!”
“To bungling even getting me hanged by killing that poor girl, Cecilia Wainwright!”
“Because of you!” he screamed, spittle flying from his flabby lips. He struggled in his ropes and stamped his feet on the wood floor. “Because of you … you and … and that son of Canaan,” he said, pointing his chin toward Osei. “And your doxy. Her fault, too!”
“Don’t you dare speak of Anne,” Darkefell said, kicking Grover. The man howled in pain. “Everybody’s fault but yours, eh?” Darkefell said, restraining himself from kicking the murderer again. “Untrue, Grover. It is all your botched job, from start to finish. So why should I think you could successfully keep Julius from escaping? I don’t believe it for a moment!”
“You know nothing! Nothing. I have help, a guard, a stout fellow loyal to me only. And two other fellows …” He clapped his mouth shut and appeared alarmed.
A guard? And two other fellows? Who would he possibly be able to influence? But Darkefell could not pause, could not lose the opportunity of keeping Grover off balance. “Liar! If you think I’ll let you free simply because you say you have Julius imprisoned, then you’re mistaken.”
“But I do have him imprisoned!” Grover said, his face reddening
and his eyes wide with anger.
“Bullshit! I have seen no proof of that beyond Julius not being here this minute.” He kicked Grover again, taking savage pleasure. “Knowing my brother, he’ll turn up somewhere unexpected and prove you to be the liar I know you are.” If Darkefell could have risked it, he would have let Grover free so they could fight. But it would not have been a fair fight, and Darkefell would likely kill him. He was no murderer, not like Grover, who had preyed on Cecilia Wainwright and slew her so brutally. “I’m taking you back to Yorkshire tomorrow. You’ll stand trial for murdering Cecilia and I will see you hanged, you lying, murdering bastard!” He felt Osei’s tension, but ignored him.
“Then your brother will die,” Grover said. He hung his head and refused to say another word.
***
As Anne and Jamey hopped down from the cart, which was pulled up in front of Farfield Farm cottage, Mr. Jackson hobbled forward and hugged the larger fellow. “Thank the Lord in heaven you’re safe, Master Jamey!” he said, patting the younger man’s fleshy cheek. Water stood in his eyes, but he blinked, knowing how his charge hated tears.
Jamey took Anne’s hand and led her into the cottage, saying, “Come with me, Annie, I have something to show you.”
Anne followed, oohed and aahed over Jamey’s latest fascination, a type of weed he grew for the benefit of a caterpillar that made it its home and used it to turn from larvae to pupa, then left him to it. He was safe and sound, thanks to her own actions and those of her dearest Tony, and it was best not to hover over him. Returning Jamey’s life to normal was the best antidote to the fright he’d had.
Dorcas had made tea, so Anne took a cup into Mrs. Jackson’s dim chamber. “It’s terribly dark in here, Mrs. Jackson. Would you not like some sunlight?”
The woman nodded and took a deep draught of the dark liquid. Anne pulled back the curtains and let in sunlight, but noted that the windows were grimy. The couple was getting far too old to take care of everything by themselves. It truly would be worthwhile to have Dorcas and her sweetheart to help with the heavier work, while the Jacksons were kept on as companions and the stability Jamey needed in his life. She talked with Mrs. Jackson about it, and suspected that the tears in the woman’s eyes were tears of relief at thinking she would not need to work so hard.
Lady Anne 03 - Curse of the Gypsy Page 14