She gave an impatient little shrug. If it was, she would soon have a chance to miss him, for he and Papa were bound and determined to sally forth in their caravan to, as Papa put it, “Savour the rural charms of our lovely land.” She would miss dear Papa … especially with Francis now so far away. ‘Safely away, thanks to Ligun Doone!’ she thought, and sent up a small and silent prayer for the gallant gentleman who had spirited so many Jacobite fugitives from under the very shadow of the axe.
“Are you sure you won’t come, Fiona?” Torrey was leaning from the window of the coach, shouting to her.
He’d likely not dare maul her again, not with his coachman and footman within call. But the prospect of his close proximity did not appeal. She shook her head and waved him on, then watched the departing coach rather glumly. It was a glorious day, but it was also unseasonably warm and a long walk back to Blackberry Manor. Furthermore, her toes were bruised. At least she had her wide-brimmed hat to protect her from the bright sun. She took it up from the grassy bank where it had fallen when Torrey became so odiously amorous. Tying the yellow ribands under her chin, she started off.
She had gone less than half a mile when a donkey cart came rattling along the lane and pulled up beside her.
Mr. Allard, her father’s gruff steward who had dangled her on his knee when she was a babe and who she knew adored her, drew the donkey to a halt and raised his tricorne respectfully. “’Tis not a coach of state, Miss Fiona, but—an you would care to ride …?”
Already hot and with her toes more uncomfortable than ever, Fiona gave a squeak of gratitude and was duly handed up onto the seat.
Allard drove to a wider part in the tree-shaded lane and turned the cart deftly. “I saw Mr. Torrey come home,” he said noncommittally. “Thought you was with him, miss.”
“I was.”
The steward’s rather small brown eyes flickered to her grim little face and were lit by a spark of amusement. Young Torrey was fairly panting for the girl, but had picked the wrong one to play off his Romeo airs on. Still, she looked dishevelled as well as vexed, which infuriated him. He said impulsively, “If you ever need a—er, helping hand, Miss Fiona. I mean—seeing as Mr. Francis is away, and your papa … er …”
“Regards Mr. Torrey as a second son?” she supplied with a rueful sigh.
The steward had never been very communicative. He looked embarrassed now, but nodded, then said, “I hope you will forgive if I speak out of turn, miss.”
Her heart warmed, she laid her mittened hand on his arm. “You do not. I am most grateful for your interest, Mr. Allard.”
The touch of her hand quite broke down his reserve. He faced her squarely. “Some of us do worry a bit. You—well, you should have a chaperone, or—”
“Or a governess!” She laughed merrily. “Poor souls—they tried so hard to make a lady of me!”
“And did a very nice job of it, if I may be so bold. ’Specially seeing as you was so often drug—I mean travelling about Europe with the master. ’Tis just—well, your papa might not always see what— That is, your being a young lady now, and—” He checked with a gasp of shock as a small but razor-sharp blade flashed under his nose.
“I am armed, you see,” said Fiona with a giggle. “And Mr. Francis taught me how to use it, if I have to, which God forbid. So you must not worry for my sake, my friend.”
Her friend! The steward’s loyal heart soared. What a very dear young lady she was, to be sure. “Showed it to him, did you, miss?” he said, grinning broadly.
Fiona nodded. “Mr. Allard,” she said thoughtfully, replacing the knife in its leather sheath. “If you were my papa—just supposing, you know—would you look upon Mr. Torrey as—as a second son …?”
Allard’s mouth set into a hard line. “No, miss,” he said with emphasis. “I would not!”
Blackberry Manor was a large square, grey brick house of the Tudor style. Mr. Mervyn Bradford had seen fit to Italianize it with much ornamentation on the exterior and great elaborately carved mantelpieces and ceilings inside. Francis Bradford endorsed these “beautifications” as enthusiastically as his sister deplored them, but she had to admit he was probably right, for the “improvements” had caused much local comment and several neighbours had expressed the intention of bringing their own properties “up to style.”
Having no wish to encounter Freemon Torrey again, Fiona entered the house by a rear door. She felt dispirited as she made her way along the cool hall, taking off her hat and attempting to tidy her hair. The ornate gilt mirror that hung opposite the large dining parlour showed her a flushed face and a shockingly disarranged bodice. The hat had crushed her hair on top, and the fallen curls were tangled and untidy. “Frightful Fiona,” she advised her reflection.
An instant later she heard her father’s voice from the book-room she had just passed. “… seeking me, Freemon, but we must not be interrupted again! Come.”
He sounded stern and Fiona felt a pang of anxiety. Papa had been quite shattered when Freemon’s father, his closest friend, had died very suddenly a little over a year ago. Less than a month later her brother had gone rushing off to fight for Bonnie Prince Charlie. Mervyn Bradford had long despised the House of Hanover, so it was no surprise that his son should have enlisted in the ranks of the Scots rebels. Papa had hidden his worries under his customary carefree manner, but Fiona knew how deep those worries had been. They had both been frantic last April when word had come of the shocking Scots defeat on Culloden Moor, and the subsequent brutal hunting down and slaughter of Jacobite fugitives. Her brother had fortunately had the foresight to volunteer under an assumed name, so they had been protected from the dreadful reprisals taken against families of known Jacobites, but for months they’d been unable to discover whether Francis was alive or dead. With typical rashness, Papa had determined to go in search of his son, and several times it had been all that Fiona could do to dissuade him from so dangerous and forlorn an endeavour. Then, tales had begun to drift down to the Southland about a mysterious individual named Ligun Doone, who had set himself to rescue as many as possible of the hapless fugitives. It was a ray of hope, but long weeks had passed before Torrey had brought word that Francis had indeed been helped by Mr. Doone and was at last safely in France.
It had been a nerve-racking year for Mervyn Bradford. For the first time his blithe and unconventionally adventuresome spirit had begun to wilt. Fiona had been shocked to come upon him one day without his wig, a look of despair on his fine face and new streaks of grey in the close-cropped brown hair. He had laughed at her anxieties, but she had not been deceived and for the first time had realized how deeply caring was the impulsive, rather pompous and often irresponsible gentleman who had fathered her. She loved him dearly and would move heaven and earth to protect him from more sadness. And it would both sadden and infuriate him to learn that the son of his old friend was not above mauling a reluctant girl.
Just now, his voice had sounded stern. She could only hope Torrey had not been so unwise as to confess his improper behaviour. Even so, if Papa saw her in her present state, at the very least his suspicions would be aroused. She must not let him see her. She could not hope to return to the back stairs before the study door opened, nor reach the main stairs in time. Desperate, she darted into the small red saloon. This had been a charming room until Papa had installed a massive fireplace that was much too large for so small a chamber. He had not admitted his mistake, choosing to avoid the embarrassment by never again entering the unfortunate saloon. Convinced she had found a sure haven, Fiona swung the door closed, and waited, listening breathlessly.
“This saloon will do nicely,” said Bradford. “She’ll never look for us in here.”
Fiona could have wept. Brisk footsteps were approaching. She flew to the tall corner windows, but her attempt to open one was foiled; the handle turned, but the seldom used casement might as well have been nailed shut and resisted her strongest efforts. Swinging around, realizing she must offer some logical exp
lanation for both her appearance and her presence in this room, she gave a gasp of relief. The jut of Papa’s ridiculous great fireplace left a deep recess in the corner beside it which would afford excellent concealment. She pressed back against the wall and pulled her skirts close, convinced that unless the gentlemen walked across to the windows, she would be out of sight.
The door opened and then closed. Chairs scraped. Bradford said, “Keep your voice low, for God’s sake, for this is high treason, and our very lives depend upon secrecy.”
Fiona’s breath froze in her throat. She almost announced her presence, but she had mothered her wild and lovable brother, and her handsome, volatile father since she’d left the schoolroom, and it came to her that whatever these two were plotting it might well behoove her to learn of it before Papa ran his head onto the block. She closed her lips angrily and waited.
It was a puzzling conversation at first, but gradually it began to make sense. They were discussing the great treasure that Prince Charles Stuart had gathered to finance his fight to restore his father to the throne of England. Jacobite sympathizers had willingly contributed their gold and precious articles to the cause of the handsome young prince. From the hushed words of the two men, Fiona now gathered that Prince Charles had tried to smuggle the treasure to France, where it could be used to buy arms and foreign mercenaries. Vigilant English troops and the unceasing naval blockade of the Scottish coast, had thwarted his plans. In desperation, Stuart had sent his priceless hoard to England instead, reasoning that it should be easier to ship to France from there, since such a move would be unexpected. Then, the so hopefully begun Uprising had failed, and bloody Culloden Moor had sounded the death knell to all Stuart ambitions.
‘Good heavens,’ thought Fiona, her eyes very wide indeed. ‘Do these two simpletons mean to go on a treasure hunt, then?’
“The thing I cannot fathom, sir,” said Torrey softly, “is—how we are to find it.”
Bradford’s deep and beautifully modulated voice responded, “A man is coming from France. I’ve no knowledge of his identity, save that he was a highly placed officer on the prince’s staff. To him have been entrusted the locations of all three hiding places of the treasure.”
“And we are to gather it together, eh? But—surely ’twould be best left where it is?”
“Apparently not. ’Twould seem the hiding places had to be selected in haste, and now are considered unsafe. The Committee—you know of them, Freemon?”
“They are the group who initially gathered and guarded the treasure, I think?”
“Correct. They also handled the shipment to England, besides doing whatever they might, with Ligun Doone’s help, to protect our fugitives. At all events, they’ve now found a permanent and secure hiding place where the treasure is to be stored until it can be returned to those who contributed.”
“A tremendous undertaking, sir!”
“Aye. But one that will save many lives. Have you any notion, lad, of how many families of the men who fought are now dispossessed of home and lands? Of how many are starving? You and I stand to regain funds of course, but ’tis a matter of life and death to those poor souls.”
There was a brief silence through which Fiona stared blindly at the picture of two hunting dogs on the opposite wall, her thoughts rioting. This then was the reason behind the “jolly caravan holiday”! She might have known, for certainly the pattern had repeated itself often enough!
Once, while they had been in Spain, brigands had stopped their coach. Ignoring the odds, Papa had fought them, been badly beaten, but almost at once had gone haring off with a few ill-equipped men in pursuit of the villains. He’d come back, triumphant, but with a pistol ball through his leg and a chill that had developed into the pneumonia. A fine time she’d had, fighting for his life! And all over Mama’s pearl necklace which she very seldom wore! There was also the matter of the sermon to which he had taken offense and stood up and argued his case in front of the whole congregation, so that the vicar had never since been able to address him with a smile! And that dreadful scene in Drury Lane when Papa had fancied himself a great actor and, having somehow inveigled his way into the play, had left the stage on opening night to plunge into the pit and do battle with the young gallants who’d booed him! A charming riot that had caused! One must not forget the boundary dispute with the irascible Sir Gavin Brack, which might yet be resolved with swords, for all her desperate attempts to avert such a calamity. And other fiascoes—oh, too numerous to count—that she had somehow contrived to deal with!
Faith, but she’d only to turn her back for an instant, and the impossible creature was at it again! Rushing blithely into a treasonable scheme with no thought of the possible hideous consequences to himself, and all of them! She closed her eyes. Why, oh why, did gentlemen have to be so utterly foolish?
Torrey broke the silence to ask slowly, “How are they to know who gave what? Sworn testimony?”
“I think our prince was more canny than that, m’boy. Ninety-nine out of a hundred would take no more than their due. But, human nature being what it is, there’s always the occasional charlatan. So Prince Charles had a list kept of all contributors and their contributions.”
“Good God!” Torrey’s chair went over with a crash. “Where a plague is the damned thing? ’Tis a veritable death warrant for all those named!”
“Be at ease, boy! ’Tis en route to us now, and has been guarded well, I dare swear.”
“How was it brought out of Scotland?”
“By a courier. A brave man, and cruelly hounded, poor fellow.”
“And he is safe? The list is delivered?”
Bradford laughed and said fatalistically, “If ’tis not, our risks may well be for nought, Freemon. But the courier will win through or destroy his message, you may be sure.”
“Sure—hell! If he is taken every man or woman named on that list will be very dead and in no need of the return of valuables! For my part, I’d as lief have my head, thankee!”
“Aye—well, we’ve no choice in the matter. Now, I’ve told Fiona we leave on Tuesday next. But I fear she may decide to go with us, so we must instead get away at dawn tomorrow.”
“What if she catches us, sir?”
“Then ’twill be too late for her to pack. You know how women are—they’ll never move without all their frills and furbelows and creams and fal-lals.”
They both laughed, but might not have done so had they seen Fiona, who stood fuming, her hands tight clenched and sparks glinting from her narrowed eyes.
“She has no suspicions, sir?” asked Torrey.
“Gad! Don’t even think such a dreadful thing! One whiff merely and you may be sure she’d try to spoil our fun!”
Fun! Incensed, Fiona fairly sprang out from behind the fireplace. “You are too late, Papa!”
With a faint scream Mervyn Bradford leapt to his feet, his handsome features blanching, “Oh—my God!” he gasped.
“The devil!” exclaimed Torrey, even whiter.
“Neither,” snarled Fiona. “Papa—how could you sneak and plot and connive behind my back?”
“I … I …” stammered Bradford, and then blustered feebly, “What the deuce are you about, child? Listening by stealth to … to private conversations that you’ve no right to—”
“No right? My dear brother has been forced into exile! You are all I have left,” she raged, heartlessly disposing of several dozen aunts, uncles, and cousins, to say nothing of her formidable but much loved grandmama. “You must not attempt so mad a venture, Papa! The roads and by-ways are fairly clogged with troopers hunting Jacobites. Do you not recall all the posters and uproars and alarms because of the coded messages they sought?”
“I do. And that is quite done with, for the cyphers are all safely delivered, praise God!”
“Praise God, indeed! And a ghastly time of it the couriers had, getting those deadly rhymes through! A poem is a very small thing, sir, easy of concealment. Do you seriously think to stuff yo
ur silly caravan full of gold and drive it through the military patrols? You’d not get a mile!”
Torrey, his face troubled, murmured, “She has come at the heart of it, I think, sir. The chance is slight indeed.”
Mervyn Bradford drew back his shoulders. He was a tall man, well proportioned, of most striking appearance and commanding personality. His dark eyes flashing now, he looked magnificent as he said with the drama he loved to employ, “’Tis a chance we must take. Brave men have given their lives to guard and return the treasure to the rightful owners. Gentle ladies who have lost their loved ones and their homes to the Cause are dying and watching their children die of exposure and starvation. The return of the valuables they gave so willingly might at least put a roof over their heads and would likely spell the difference between perishing or a new life! Can you truly ask me to turn my back, Fiona? To … let ‘the other fellow’ attend to it?”
“We have lost our dear Francis to this horrid rebellion, Papa! Is that not enough to give?”
“He is alive—thanks to Ligun Doone, a man who risked death a hundred times to help our people.”
“He was one of us, and—”
“No, child,” interrupted Bradford softly. “He was not!”
Torrey gave a shocked gasp. Staring at her father, Fiona felt as though the ground had been cut out from under her.
“He was an Englishman,” said Bradford. “A soldier in the service of King George. He was badly wounded, but retained sufficient humanity to be appalled by what he saw in Scotland, and felt obliged to do what he might to make amends. Because of his compassion for his enemies, my son yet lives. But for him, Francis’s head might even now be rotting atop Temple Bar!”
Dedicated Villain Page 2