Hareton Hall: Richard and Rose, Book 6

by Lynne Connolly

  I was relieved that it was just overconfidence, not superior knowledge or a different plan to the one we knew about. I supposed we would muster somewhere between fifteen to thirty Thompson’s men, although they had a way of fighting none of their rivals knew about, one that usually gave them a superior edge. Gervase had written him about it from India. “Fight and run” he called it, a quick, surprise attack and a quick retreat, not allowing the enemy a chance to regroup. It needed a good knowledge of the surrounding countryside, but as many of the people he would call on worked hereabouts, that would be provided. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  “And after it’s all over, you’ll let us go?” Steven busied himself peeling a hothouse peach, probably a gift from Hareton.

  “Ah, now. That’s the interesting part.” John picked up his glass and drained it of the sweet dessert wine, and then reached for the port that stood on its tray close to his elbow. He didn’t say anything until he poured a glassful and passed it to Steven. Steven pushed his wine away and filled a glass with the port. I refused it, and Steven passed it back. It never returned to our part of the table.

  “It’s a long story, but not without interest,” said John. “It starts seventeen—no eighteen years ago. A lifetime, you might say, if you were unfortunate.” He watched us. I used the trick I’d learned from Richard and concentrated on setting my features into an expression of polite interest. Not enough indifference to provoke him into that dreadful temper, not enough interest to encourage him to tell us more than he wanted to. Not yet, at any rate.

  “A pretty young dairymaid was seduced by the master’s son,” he began. It would be that. “An ordinary enough occurrence, you might say, but he promised her marriage. He was only fourteen, but adult enough to seduce the poor girl, so in my eyes at least, adult enough to marry her.” He paused and poured himself another drink. “But he doesn’t. Instead, his mother discovers them—how shall we say?—in the act. She sends the dairymaid away. A shame. But the dairymaid was already pregnant. The family don’t offer to look after the babes, don’t even give the poor girl enough money to take care of them, but marry her off and send her, with her new husband, to France.

  “This, my friends, is where I come in. I am born in France with my sister Susan not far behind me. Twins. Apparently, that family is susceptible to them. In fact, my father was a twin. My stepfather, the man I was taught to call father, was a drunken brute. He’d a good position, steward of an estate. Just as well he had an absentee landlord or he would have been dismissed within a year. But he got his lord the income he demanded, one way or another, and that was all that was asked of him. He beat us both, seemed to resent us. Hardly surprising really, but he’d known about us before we were born, so he shouldn’t have been surprised. We hid from him. At least we didn’t want for food on the table, or clothes on our backs. And I learned French.” He paused. “It’s not pleasant, not knowing if your father will beat you or love you, but we learned to live with it. It was bearable.

  “Then he died. He drank himself into an early grave, so at the age of ten we were left destitute. From a comfortable competence, we had nothing. He hadn’t saved, hadn’t even stolen for us. We were evicted from the house, and Mama, not knowing what else to do, came back. She came to London.

  “She was met off the coach by a bawd. Women often are, you know. But she found a position as a housemaid. She found us positions too, close by, so we saw each other often. But I hated it. From comfort to this. I’d to rise early, scrub pots and turn the spit in the kitchen. When I was old enough, they said I might make a footman.” He twirled the liquid in his glass before knocking it back and reaching for the bottle again. “It nearly drove me mad. I knew I was meant for better things, but I couldn’t see how or why. Then my mother told us.”

  He took a deep breath. This part had to be painful for him. “I was twelve before she told us about our parentage. We didn’t believe her. She had letters, sent her by Lord Strang, promising all sorts of things. I believed she had an affair with him, but not that she’d had us as a result. She’d always hinted that we were better than the man she married, but I thought it was daydreams, a way of getting through her miserable life. Still, I was intrigued enough to do some research of my own. I thought the letters might be useful, provide some extra income, but my mother wouldn’t hear of it, and when I saw this lord, I didn’t think he’d care very much.”

  I swallowed, but I don’t think he saw my tension.

  He stared at me, to see my reaction to his next remarks. “I saw him with a woman the first time, at the theatre. I asked someone to point him out. She was a whore, but one of the sort that like to call themselves courtesans, the sort that take one man at a time. She was expensive, I know that. But a whore, the same as my mother.

  “I didn’t know my mother had started whoring until I saw her at Vauxhall on her night off in the company of other women of her kind. I couldn’t bear it. It was something I could hardly watch, my mother, painted and tricked out, and letting men pay her for—” He broke off and took a few deep, quick breaths before he poured yet another glass. Steven, by my side, clenched his fist then slowly opened it again. “She still had her respectable job, but went out in what spare time she had. She was saving for us. I told her not to bother, I wanted none of it. I didn’t believe her protestations that it was all her own choice. It was all she knew and my father never concerned himself with putting her right. So I left.”

  He looked up. “And here we are.” I nodded. Another glassful. “When I finally made my fortune, I decided to see what else was happening in the world, and what do I find? My father has married, to a woman he forsook all others for, although society believes he will return to his old ways after a time. But for now, he is happy. I didn’t see why he deserved that kind of fortune, and I was curious to know what kind of woman would be happy with a man like that. There was nothing to keep me in Whitby anymore, so I decided to come south, to see for myself. And then my visit is—expedited by certain people. I read of the forthcoming society wedding so—why not? I’m a gentleman now, to all intents and purposes. Before I left Whitby, I wrote to my sister, to let her know I was well. She wrote back. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that my father had encouraged and even financed her career as a whore.” He paused, stared at me again, more aggressively this time. “He seems to like whores.”

  I kept my hands down and my face clear. He wanted to provoke me to a response, and I determined to beat him.

  Steven made a protest, but I murmured, “No, Steven. Another time.” He subsided.

  “And this other man, this one you call by his first name so familiarly…” John paused, eyebrows raised, and looked at Steven, “…has corrupted my sister to such a point that she would accept such a career.” Relieved he’d turned his attention away from me for the time being, I hoped Steven would respond in the same way. “I’ve researched you, as well. You’re so full of dark secrets it would be a relief to find a virtue.”

  Steven said nothing.

  “I’d planned to kill my father, you know, that day on the road. You remember—when you lost your watch?” I nodded. “Or at the very least, rape you in front of his eyes, but I decided to wait. That was the first time I’d seen him close up, and it was only then I decided to exact a somewhat fuller revenge.”

  He smiled, the like of which I never wanted to see again. So like Richard’s, but so unlike. “I want to kill you, Rose, and see his reaction, close up. Whatever he might feel in the future he loves you now, and I want to bring him the same kind of misery he brought to me.” Steven’s hand covered mine under the table. I didn’t push him away. He must have felt me tremble. “Only then will I kill him. I don’t see why he should hurt anyone else that way. And, of course…” he turned to Steven, “…you’re an added bonus.”

  Hardly a tremor marred Steven’s voice. “How do you intend to accomplish that? And not get caught?”

  “As to the how—you’ll have to find out when it happens. B
ut soon, very soon. Then I can dispose of your bodies in the general melee tonight. And I don’t think I’ll abandon my pursuit of your sister,” he added. He was smooth, perfectly in control, but thank God, with all the cocksureness of extreme youth. His overconfidence could prove his undoing. “I might marry her, after all. I’ll have to pretend to be a few years older than I really am for the foreseeable future, but it’s a small sacrifice, don’t you think? I do find her attractive, and I could teach her things, tricks shall we say, that would make her a more entertaining companion. Yes. It seems to solve all my problems, doesn’t it?”

  How could he possibly imagine that his secrets died with us or he could escape detection? I could only presume that his rise to success had been so easy for him, he thought he was invulnerable. I thought back to the way I’d felt at seventeen. I’d been so sure. I was on the brink of my come-out, full of excited anticipation about the admirers I’d have, the life ahead. It hadn’t turned out like that, but I wasn’t to know that then. And after a hard start, everything had fallen into place for this young man. He found a lover, a fortune and a source of power and income. Also, admittance to the society he craved to join.

  Steven and I refused to respond to his taunts. I feared another physical assault; I didn’t want to give him any reason to do that again. My face still felt sore, although it hadn’t swollen up, thanks to the speedy application of the cold, wet cloth.

  John got worse the more he drank. We sat and listened, mainly in silence, to his diatribes on fortune, inequality and the abuses heaped on the poor by the rich. It became incoherent, loud, and I tried not to listen. It went on for another hour, at least, before he finished the port and fell asleep, leaning askew in his chair.

  Steven and I exchanged glances and quietly got to our feet. Steven went to the window looking out over the courtyard. This was the first floor; we could perhaps jump or climb down. But he shook his head. It must be occupied, still. He came close to me so we could murmur. “We can’t get out that way. He must have people outside. We have to go to the bedroom and try to talk there.”

  “Yes.” I, too, saw no alternative.

  I turned my head and studied our captor, now snoring gently in his high-backed chair. “Wait.” I thought rapidly. “If we go back, he may expect us to get into bed together. If we do that, he’ll undoubtedly kill us there and show our bodies to Richard and Julia tomorrow. Don’t you think?”

  “My God, yes! He wins either way because he can kill us and then put our bodies in bed. Oh Christ.” Not oaths I’d have expected from an ex-clergyman, but Steven never had a vocation in that direction. Only the need to earn a living.

  “Sshh.” When he realised the danger, his voice rose. I wasn’t worried that he would awaken our drunken host, but he might arouse the guards who must be waiting outside the door. He quietened, and the only sounds for a minute or two were our breathing, the crackle of the fire and the snoring of John Kneller. “Do you think he’s very drunk?”

  Steven glanced across at him. “No. He only had two glasses of wine and one small bottle of port. Hardly enough to put a gentleman under the table. But he’s young, and it might affect him more than it would someone else.”

  Without warning, I bent and lifted the skirt of my riding habit. “Rose?” Steven said, not without amusement.

  I pulled at the cord of my petticoat so it fell to the ground. Under my ornate silk petticoat, I wore a practical flannel one to protect me against the weather. I stepped out of it and bent to pick up the red fabric. Pulling at the drawstring, I soon had a length of cord in my hand. “Tie him up. Quick, before he wakes up.”

  “What good will that do?” asked Steven, not yet with me.

  “He’s the leader. Everything revolves around him. So, we take him. It’s the only opportunity we have—do you really want to waste it? I’m sure he’ll want to kill us before the run, now he’s made up his mind. I don’t think reason will work with him. We’ll take him, and then send for Richard and some reinforcements.”

  “By God,” Steven said quietly. “You’re right.”

  Without further words he took the cord and crossed the room.

  Looking about me for something else, I saw the cords which, during the day, held back the heavy curtains, looped around a hook in the wall. I snatched them off and ran across to join Steven.

  Kneeling, I fastened the young man’s legs to the legs of the chair he sat in while Steven trussed his arms behind. He still snored, but moved a little when Steven viciously tightened the cord. “Not too tight,” I whispered. “If you tie it too tight, you’ll damage his hands.”

  “You think I care?” he said in a low voice, but loosed the cord a little. “Come here and stand with me. If they come in and capture you, we’ll be back where we started. Or worse.”

  I saw the sense in that and joined him behind Sir John’s chair. Sir John sat opposite the only door in the room, so he was between us and the door, stopping anyone approaching us.

  I reached into my boot and drew out one of the stiletto knives. “Here. Take this.”

  Steven was eyeing the cutlery left on the table, just a collection of dessert knives and forks, but when he saw the knife, he drew his breath in surprise. “You did come prepared, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but they got my gun,” I reminded him. “Have you checked Kneller for them?”

  “Not yet.” I held the knife while he rifled through Sir John’s pockets. Eventually he gave an “Ah!” of satisfaction and stood up, showing me the pistol he’d found. “That makes things a little easier.”

  “Only one shot.”

  “That’s all I need.” He pressed the barrel gently against Sir John’s temple to demonstrate. The youth grunted, but snuffled his way back to slumber. I sighed and went to sit down, careful to keep the table between me and the door.

  “What are you doing?”

  I pulled my necessaire from my pocket. “Writing Richard a note. We’ll have to send somebody for him.” I found the little enamelled case which held the writing tablet and pencil, then I scribbled a brief note.

  We have Sir John Kneller in the dining room. Come and get us NOW—Rose.

  There wasn’t much room for anything else on the scrap of paper. I restored the expensive toy to my pocket, glad it was good for something.

  I went to stand behind Steven again and at last he called out, “Hi!”

  Nothing. We waited, tensely. He called out again. “You out there!”

  Silence. Then the doorknob turned and a man came into the room. He almost sauntered, perfectly unaware of the drama that awaited him inside.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The man stared at us for one short moment then waved to someone outside. Another man came in. Alerted by his compatriot, he stopped just inside the door.

  “If any more people come in, I’ll kill him,” Steven said. The second man glanced outside the room and waved someone back. Steven lifted the pistol a fraction, making sure everyone saw it, and Sir John Kneller woke up.

  It took him a moment to shake some of the alcohol away from his system, but suddenly he became wide-eyed and alert. He moved, and the chair jerked. Steven put his arm around Kneller’s throat and held the pistol firmly to his left temple. “You’re going to send someone to Hareton with a note.”

  “Or?” Sir John’s voice held the clarity of sobriety in it. That must have been an effort.

  “Or I shoot you.”

  “What if the gun’s not loaded?”

  It hadn’t occurred to us to check that, but we weren’t without other resources. “I’ll cut your throat.” Without obscuring Steven’s view of the men by the door, I held my knife to John’s throat to demonstrate. “Is it loaded?”

  He sighed. “Yes.”

  By mutual consent Steven and I exchanged weapons. He held the stiletto to Kneller’s throat while I examined the pistol. It was loaded. I gave it back and received the knife in return. All the while, I watched Kneller, and Steven watched the men by the door.
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  Kneller sighed. “You’d better do as they say.”

  “Get the girl who served us tea,” I told them. “If she can ride, she can take it.”

  It seemed like an age, but we waited in silence until she arrived.

  Eventually she came in, dressed for riding. That is, she was breeched. She could probably ride faster like that. It took practice to gallop sidesaddle.

  Cautiously I went around to the other side of the table and gave her the note. “Answer any questions he might have for you.” Then I turned to the two men by the door. “It won’t take her more than half an hour to get to Hareton, even in the dark. The road is good. An hour, then, for the journey there and back. We’ll be generous and allow you an hour there. For each fifteen minutes after that, he loses a finger.” I motioned the knife in what I hoped was a threatening way at our prisoner.

  He met my gaze unflinchingly. “You wouldn’t.” As if he stated a fact.

  “Try me.” I didn’t look away.

  After staring at me he shrugged. “Let the girl go. Give her a fast horse.”

  The maid left without another word.

  For what seemed like an age we all stood, me holding the knife, Steven the pistol to Kneller’s head, and the two men on the other side of the room, their hands by their sides to keep them in view. Nobody spoke for a good ten minutes, until we heard the sound of a single horse galloping away. Nobody followed. Steven glanced at me. “Do you think he’ll come?”

  “If the message reaches him, yes.” With more men. And, hopefully, a plan to get us out of here alive.

  We waited. I found my watch, the one Gervase had given me. Half an hour had elapsed. I motioned to Steven. “I’ll take over for a while.”

  He didn’t bother to argue. Carefully we changed places. “She’s a very good shot,” Steven informed Kneller.

  “I don’t need to be, at this range.” We waited. “What were your plans, after this?” I asked Kneller after a while.