*
Pierce emerged from the bath in his quarters, feeling somewhat human after shedding what felt like ten pounds of dust and dirt. The clothes he wore in Spain were already on their way to the laundry and had been replaced by a thick luxurious robe. He slipped it on and dried himself with an equally soft towel as he walked to his adjoining dressing room.
Without any instructions, Melrose had laid out his master’s kilt and highland wear, along with the menacing leather hunt jacket. His valet’s attention to detail and foresight continued to impress Pierce. He quickly put it all on and was donning the long jacket when Melrose entered, ready for instructions.
“I’m heading to 1830’s Marseille with the Brown Pack to hunt down Bufford,” Pierce began calmly, surprising himself slightly by his tone. A statement such as this would have shocked Pierce had he heard it in the not so distant past. Not only would it have shocked him, but he would have found it so unbelievable, that he would have ignored it as crazed ramblings. But having heard it come out of his own mouth made him realize how much he had recently changed and made him wonder about what lay ahead.
“Sir?” Melrose asked respectfully, as Pierce seemed to lose concentration mid-sentence.
“Pack a bag with some period clothing,” Pierce continued his instructions seamlessly, ignoring his previous thoughts for the time being. “I’m not sure what I’ll need, but I trust your judgement. I’m heading down to the Brown Pack’s room, so meet me there when you’re done.”
Pierce followed the now familiar path from his quarters high up in the Manor to the Brown Packs Hall on the main floor. The continued inactivity signalled that the hunt in Spain remained on and that the other Packs had yet to emerge from the portal in the North Tower.
His men were waiting for him in their lair as he closed the stag carved door and entered. They were similarly attired in their highland gear and hunt jackets and a collection of weapons were laid out on the large table. Pierce walked over and inspected the collection of 1830 era rifles, pistols, swords, and daggers.
“It’s a shame we can’t bring some automatic rifles and some radios,” Pierce lamented as he stared down the length of a Baker rifle.
“I’ve found something I think you might appreciate a bit more than that,” offered MacDuff smiling. He reached down and lifted up a long black stick with a bronzed handle, throwing it to Pierce in a smooth arc.
“A walking stick?” Pierce asked as he looked it over. The stick was made out of a single piece of ebony, however it felt light in his hand despite its girth. The handle had a few bronze bands that culminated in a rounded head, engraved with a raven.
“A wee bit more than that,” winked MacDuff as he came over to Pierce. “See that small bronze circle on the handle? Push it until you hear a click.”
Pierce did as he was told, suddenly becoming aware of the true nature of the item in his hands. When he heard the click he turned the handle, removing a lethal looking three foot blade with a flourish. The steel glinted in the light as he made a few well practiced sweeps and jabs to the air.
“You look absolutely devilish with that in your hands,” Sean remarked appreciatively.
“You’re right Duffy,” Pierce allowed as he replaced the blade in its innocent looking sheath. “This is more useful to me than a gun. So who’s got an idea on how we deal with Bufford?”
“This time he’s got a head start on us, so we can’t track him as easily,” observed Sean unhappily.
“But we can still track him?” asked Pierce hopefully.
“Possibly, but it will require a lot of time, probably too much.”
“We should have another go at Drummond,” Liam offered as he played with his knife. “He must know more than he’s telling.”
“That’s not an option right now,” Pierce replied sharply. “Come on, you guys have hunted people with the Manor before, this is the same thing!”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“Why not?”
“When we’ve tracked down people in the past, it was on our own time,” MacDuff began answering, intentionally changing hunt to track. “You see we’re given a target and we slowly and carefully track and find them. They don’t know of our existence and it doesn’t end until we find them.”
“And in this case Bufford could have completed his plans before we ever get close enough to him,” Pierce finished, understanding the difference. “Fair enough, so what we need is a clue or two, something to give us a direction once we cross through the portal. But where are we going to get that around here?”
“His pack is with him, so that option’s out.”
“Dr. Cleaver, who probably knows what he’s up to, has disappeared.”
“So who does that leave?” Pierce asked the air as everyone shrugged around the table.
They all turned in unison as the door opened and Melrose entered, carrying a leather and canvas duffle bag. “I’ve packed your bag for the journey sir. You’ll find everything you need for 1830’s Marseille, although knowing the season would have helped me narrow things down.”
“The valet!” everyone exclaimed at once after the appearance of Pierce’s man.
“Of course, how could I be so stupid,” Pierce lamented as he tapped his new swordstick on the table. “Bufford’s valet has got to know what his master is up to.”
“And it shouldn’t be too hard to get it out of him, if you’ll pardon my saying sir,” Melrose offered helpfully. “The Colonel’s, shall we say temperament, is not easy on his staff. I’ve heard his valet muttering about him before. There shouldn’t be any trouble getting his assistance.”
“Good. You and MacDuff search Buffords quarters for him,” Pierce ordered decisively. “Sean, you and Liam search the servant’s quarters for him. If any of you find him, bring him back here and we’ll have a little chat. If he refuses, tell him it’s by order of Lord Lodge. If he still refuses, knock him over the head and forcibly bring him.” They all nodded with varying degrees of enthusiasm and quickly left.
Left by himself, Pierce wandered the room lost in thought. There was something nagging him about Bufford, but it was an incorporeal mist in the back of his mind. Every time he tried to reach out and grab it, the thought would slip through his mental fingers. It was something Bufford had said when they first met, but he’d been too dishevelled to take notice of the Colonel’s ramblings about horses and Canadians.
After a few minutes without any success Pierce turned his mind to the facts they knew, hoping it would trigger something. He kept asking himself what Bufford was doing with crates of weapons. There were plenty of weapons at the Manor, many newer and better than the ones he’d purchased. Even if he wanted them for his Pack’s private collection, which didn’t make much sense, he had enough in those crates to supply an army.
An Army! The nagging feeling in the back of Pierce’s mind came barrelling out of his subconscious, physically staggering him. It was an old mantra he’d heard many times, but never with the same vehemence and certainty that Bufford had when they’d first met. The South will rise again. Even as he said it, his rational mind fought against the possibility of someone taking world war two weapons and using them in the American Civil War. Only a crazed maniac would think that it was possible…
Pierce’s train of thought was suddenly derailed when the outer doors burst open and bodies came streaming in. Not only had his men returned, but they also brought the valet, a maid, and one of the stable boys.
The three servants stood at attention before Pierce as he sat down at the large table, his fingers drumming his cane rhythmically.
“I assume these two also have information concerning Lord Bufford?” Pierce asked Sean who stood behind the maid and stable boy. Receiving a nod in reply he instructed Sean to take them to the foyer while he spoke with the valet.
Bufford’s valet displayed the same professionalism as Melrose and stood with expressionless rigidity. Pierce realized that a straightforward approach to his que
stions would yield the same results as any trickery or threats.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he began the interrogation.
“I believe you have questions concerning my Lord’s whereabouts.”
“Correct. Colonel Bufford has plotted against Lord Lodge and is currently conducting activities contrary to regulations of the Manor. We have been charged to stop him and you’re going to help us.” Sensing the valet’s inner struggle, he patiently waited for one side to win out. Pierce was eventually rewarded when the valet’s stiff posture seemed to relax slightly and he smiled timidly.
“What do you want to know?”
“What are his plans?” Pierce asked immediately, hoping to confirm his own suspicions.
“I’m afraid he didn’t confide them to me, although I can tell you he’s in league with Lord Cleaver.”
“I see. We know he picked up crates of guns during the hunt in Spain and brought them back to the Manor,” began Pierce again hoping for better results. “What does he need them for?”
“I’m not really sure,” began the valet concentrating. “He didn’t say exactly what they were for.”
“What did he say about them?” interjected MacDuff, sensing the valet had something more to say.
“He said something about the guns being the tools of vengeance or something to that effect,” he answered truthfully.
“That’s a very strange thing to say,” MacDuff remarked, looking to Pierce. However Pierce smiled in reply, in much the same way Lord Lodge would.
“I thought so,” replied the valet to no one in particular. “I dismissed it as merely a statement on guns in general. The Colonel’s known to go off on tangents.”
“What’s he doing in Marseille?” Pierce asked patiently, refocusing the valet. “Is he staying in the city or is he going elsewhere?”
“I can offer something more definite there my Lord,” he answered brightly as he felt inside his inner jacket pocket. He quickly removed a large purple card with glittering silver trim and handed it to Pierce.
Pierce looked it over and then handed it over to MacDuff to inspect.
“An invitation to a Ball?” MacDuff uttered in disbelief.
“Yes sir. This is actually a copy of the original invitation that the Colonel had made. He intended to invite Lord Cleaver, but he never got a response. So he left it blank and forgot about it.”
“Thank you, you’ve been very helpful,” Pierce dismissed the valet, who immediately bowed, and left the room.
“What’s that mad-hatter doing at a ball?” Liam asked from the back of the room.
“Who cares,” retorted Pierce with growing excitement. “Now we know where he’ll be. We can pick up his scent from there.”
Chapter 25
A Malevolent Manner (Patrick Pierce #1) Page 84