by Burnett, May
The minutes dragged until Hendrickson gave the agreed signal. If it was so hard on him, how must Barnaby feel? His brother might look resolute and confident, but inside he must be suffering guilt and fear.
The attack, when they could move at last, was fast and furious. Jeremy bludgeoned several of the sleepy guards, glad to find an outlet for his frustration and anger. His brother fought like a berserker, not even noticing a heavy stick smashing into his shoulder, and accounted for no less than four of the gang. Jeremy had never seen this savage side of his brother, and hoped he never would again. Of course there were Vikings amongst their very earliest ancestors… Lord Fenton subdued the largest thug but was stabbed in the leg during the struggle. He had to retire to his carriage to have the wound bound up.
The rest of them surrounded and broke into the house with as little noise and light as could be managed. It was a medium-sized building, unremarkable enough. Without Broderick’s information they would never have found it.
One of Hendrickson’s men had a way with locks – Jeremy preferred not to ask where he had acquired this knack – and systematically opened all the doors they encountered with a minimum of fuss.
“There she is! Milla!” Barnaby exclaimed with palpable relief when they opened a first-floor door.
The small square room had no windows. It only contained a cot and blankets, a covered bucket and a pitcher. Milla was dressed in her dark blue half mourning dress, rather creased and dusty; she must have struggled, for the garment was torn at the right elbow, and her hair was in an untidy single braid. She sat up with surprising composure when they crowded into her prison.
“You found me. Good,” was all she said. “Hello, Barnaby and Mr. Hendrickson. Lord Barton.”
Barnaby rushed to her side, tenderly folding her hand in his. “Milla – are you all right? Did they hurt you?”
Leaving his brother to look after the rescued hostage, Jeremy hastened onwards. Three of Hendrickson’s men had cornered the master criminal slumped over a table in a back room. Though awake now he still looked rather the worse for drink – Morris had likely fallen asleep from over-indulgence, otherwise he might have put up more effective resistance. Driven to drink by Milla? Not that Morris looked at all formidable. A smallish, almost delicate fellow of maybe forty, balding on top, he could have passed for a clerk or shopkeeper.
Jeremy pointed his pistol at the criminal’s bleary face. He could hardly miss at this distance. “Where is that document you took from Broderick, Morris?”
Morris shrugged. “I have no idea what you mean.” He yawned in Jeremy’s face. “Who are you, anyway?”
“I am the man who will see to it you are hanged, unless you hand that paper over in the next five minutes,” Jeremy said grimly.
“You have got the wrong man. My lord.” Morris was sneering at him. “I know your kind. All noble and respectable outside, but if people had the least idea what you get up to in your spare time, you would be dancing on the wind yourself.”
Jeremy felt his finger begin to tighten on the trigger, and forced himself to relax. “You don’t know what you are talking of, and I don’t care about your prejudices. The document, Morris.”
Morris responded with a vulgar suggestion that was anatomically impossible to carry out. Jeremy lost his patience, and after careful sighting, pulled the trigger. He directed the bullet into Morris’ left knee, and had the dubious satisfaction of eliciting a strong reaction at last. Morris took his hand out from under the table and launched the knife he had been holding at Jeremy’s chest.
Jeremy tried to dodge, but was too slow. The blade penetrated the muscles on his left upper arm. After a moment, the wound began to itch and burn. Blood sluggishly ran down his sleeve. At least it was not spurting, as it would if an artery had been hit.
Morris could not go anywhere with his shattered knee, but he might be hiding another knife. Heedless of the bleeding, Jeremy took three quick steps towards his enemy and clouted the wounded man on the side of the head with his right fist, putting all his fury into the hit. The smaller man crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
“I heard a shot,” Hendrickson said from the door. “I perceive you dealt with Morris – but you are hurt, my lord! Let me bind it up before you lose too much blood!”
“Thank you,” Jeremy bit out. He sat down on an empty chair, and tried not to groan as Hendrickson pulled off the tight jacket. “I don’t think it is fatal, unless the wound is dirty and I get a fever.”
He remembered how North, his brother-in-law, had very nearly succumbed to such a fever after being shot in that damned duel. But North had ultimately survived, and so would he. Abigail needed him. “How is Lord Fenton? He was also wounded.”
“Nothing to signify.” Hendrickson tightened Jeremy’s neck cloth over the wound in his arm. “Your young brother was very fierce. I would not have expected it of him.”
“Love takes people like that sometimes,” Jeremy muttered. “From what little I observed, Lady Fenton is mostly all right.”
“Yes, she claims her person was not assaulted. I believe her, as she does not shrink from men and seems more angry than hurt,” Hendrickson commented. “When I saw her just now she was cursing like a shrew, but in such a situation one has to make allowances.”
“I should certainly think so. Are we in control of the place, Hendrickson?”
“Until the authorities arrive. Your shot will have been heard by the neighbours, but in this area such disturbances may be rather common. I think we have at least half an hour.”
“We should all be gone by the time anyone official arrives. Help me look for the blasted document that started all this, Hendrickson.”
“Yes, Sir.”
They had not had any luck when Milla appeared, escorted by Barnaby. She carried a lantern, and only threw a contemptuous glance at the unconscious Morris on the floor.
“You are still here, my lady? It would be best if you left immediately, nobody must see you – at least nobody who would be believed,” Jeremy said.
“I am not going anywhere without that document. Morris will have kept it close at all times, most likely in the bedroom.” She strode towards the half-open door, Barnaby at her heels. Inside, Hendrickson was shaking out the sheets and rummaging under the mattress. With a frown, she turned all around, holding up the lantern.
Jeremy had followed but remained on the doorstep; with the other three the room was already uncomfortably crowded.
“You have not been in here before, Lady Fenton?” Jeremy asked.
She shook her head impatiently. “Morris would have liked to bed me, but I managed to hold him off for the time being.”
“I congratulate you on that achievement.” He wondered at her composure. Barnaby was watching Milla in fascination. “Any ideas?”
“That mantelpiece seems rather too ornate for the neighbourhood. Maybe there is a hollow space.” She handed the lamp to Barnaby and began to tap systematically.
From his vantage point at the entrance Jeremy spied a dark leather satchel hidden underneath an armchair. He retrieved it, grimacing at the pain in his wounded shoulder, and began to undo its tight straps.
“What’s that?” Hendrickson approached with his own light. “Ah. That looks likely.”
They found not only papers, but a heavy purse and several sheaves of other documents – mostly letters and I.O.Us. “I daresay Morris was blackmailing others as well,” Milla said. She had abandoned the mantelpiece and eagerly grasped at the thickest envelope. Jeremy held it out of her reach.
“We shall burn these papers right here – why don’t you light the fire, Barnaby? But first I have to see what Fenton wrote, whether this is the original.”
Milla shrugged impatiently. “I already told you. All I care about is that this document can never surface again.”
“I don’t need to see it, though I am curious,” Barnaby said. “But I will hold you to the promise to burn it here and now.”
Jeremy nodded distracted
ly. The light was poor, and he had to squint as he ran his eyes down the lines. The late Lord Fenton’s letters were too big for the available space and tended to run into each other.
“I’ll round up the other men. Should we hand Morris over to the magistrate?” Hendrickson asked.
Jeremy exchanged a look with Barnaby. The man knew too much – but without the papers, would he be believed? How much harm could he still do?
“It would be best if news of Lady Fenton’s abduction did not become public,” Barnaby said in a low voice.
“I don’t care,” Milla declared. “If you let Morris go he might come after all of us, for revenge. Better some temporary scandal than that.”
“But you might have to bear witness, in court,” Barnaby warned her. “It would make you notorious, and make it that much harder to achieve a splendid match. People will assume Morris compromised with you, even if it is not true.”
“I am a widow. The damage will not be as bad as it would be for a maiden. And I find myself caring less and less for what society may say about me. Even though I have only observed them from afar until now, they are just a collection of self-important bores.”
“Merci du compliment,” Jeremy murmured.
“Perhaps not all of them, but you know what I mean. Morris must be punished for the way he kept us dangling, played with us with those taunting letters.”
While they were arguing, Hendrickson had been looking at the other contents of the criminal’s bag. “I believe I have a solution. This diamond necklace in the side pocket has been stolen from Lady Peckling some months ago; every agent in London has received the description, she is inconsolable over its loss and has offered a large reward. It is sufficient evidence to hang Morris, without any need for Lady Fenton to appear in court.”
Jeremy could still see problems ahead. “But how are we to explain that we found it, and where?”
“Leave it to me,” Hendrickson said, “I’ll have received an anonymous tip. The magistrate is unlikely to believe anything Morris may claim, after we present him with that necklace. If I promise to distribute Lady Peckling’s reward among my men and impress the need to protect a lady’s reputation upon them, they will all go along with the story. I brought only men I can trust.”
“That sounds perfect,” Barnaby said.
Jeremy handed the necklace to Hendrickson. Even in the dim light its multiple stones gleamed and shimmered with inner fire. “A pretty piece, I can see why Lady Peckling misses it.”
Once Hendrickson had left the room, he continued to scan Lord Fenton’s rambling testament. There were the signatures of two witnesses at the end, almost illiterate to judge from their awkwardly formed letters. Probably servants at some inn, or seamen in the boat Fenton had hired during his last few weeks.
“Anything you want to share?” Barnaby asked.
“No. No, it is just as Lady Fenton described. A horrible effusion, full of sick hatred of women. I get the impression that he feared as much as hated them at the end. As for what he writes about Susan, the less said the better. All vicious lies.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” Milla said drily. “Although Susan and I are not close, I would not wish an intimate relationship with Fenton on her, or indeed any woman.”
Barnaby grasped the poker. “If you are quite certain that the document is the one we sought, the fire is ready now.”
All three watched the flames devour the paper in heavy silence; Barnaby smashed the resulting ashes with the poker, leaving nothing but dust-sized fragments.
“What of the other papers?” Milla asked.
“I think I’ll have a look at them before we destroy them,” Jeremy decided. “If any others were being blackmailed by Morris, they may want to know the danger is past.”
They made their way out of the criminal’s abode, the satchel heavy under Jeremy’s good arm. The money in it no doubt resulted from serious crimes. Now it would come in handy to pay off Broderick – whatever Barnaby or Milla might wish, Jeremy would hand the purse to the young actor and encourage him to board the next ship to the colonies, under yet another name.
“Thank you for coming to rescue me,” Milla said to Barnaby as they walked. “How did you know where I was?”
“Thanks to the mysterious Chatteris, who turns out to be an illegitimate cousin of the late Viscount. We have him too – if you care to, you can talk to him in due course. But now I will escort you back to my aunt’s house. Abigail has told everyone you were called to a friend’s sickbed.”
“Trust Abigail to think of that.”
“Nobody shall be the wiser.” Barnaby took off his coat and draped it over Milla’s shoulders. “It is cold outside.”
“Thank you, Barnaby,” she said again.
Chapter 30
Milla’s return to Lady Cirrell’s residence was discreet. Barnaby escorted her inside, and Abigail whisked her upstairs before any of the servants could wonder why she was covered by a man’s overcoat, and wearing a torn evening gown in the early morning. The staff were told she had returned from her friend’s sickbed, and ordered to prepare a bath “to ward off any danger of contagion.”
The moment they were alone, Abigail clasped her friend in her arms. Milla was not usually welcoming of such intimate gestures, but she allowed it this time, even briefly returning the hug.
“How bad was it, Milla?”
“Not as terrible as it could have been, calm yourself. I am still a virgin, if you are wondering, just as much as you are.”
Abigail did not correct her assumption. “How did you manage to keep your abductors at a distance?”
“By bargaining with Morris. I have met men like that before; there is a fellow very much like him in the Cornish village where I grew up. They are hard-headed and can be bought off if you make it worth their while, at least for a time.”
“But how exactly? Not many ladies would have known to do so. I suffered agonies of worry.”
Milla efficiently stripped off her wilted stockings. “He expected to find a weeping, unnerved victim. When I refused to cower before him Morris was thrown off his stride. I let him think there was a chance of marriage if he played his cards right, and did not take liberties before we knew each other. When he threatened to ruin me I laughed in his face and told him that a widow could take lovers if she wanted.”
“It sounds like a most unpleasant scene.” Abigail could only marvel at Milla’s cool nerve.
“I think I rather baffled Morris. He fervently hates noblemen but he had no familiarity with ladies, and I used my most aristocratic accents. In the end he sent me away, to consider his options, I suppose, or to let solitude and hunger work on me. At least they provided a pitcher of tepid water. I was already formulating plans for escaping when they finally thought to feed me; but with the number of thugs he kept around, it would have been very risky, so I was relieved when Barnaby and the others arrived.”
“Was Fenton’s will found on the premises?”
Milla smiled, smug like a cat that has just devoured a fat mouse. “Yes, and burnt before my eyes. The fortune I inherited will remain mine alone, without paying any blackmail. My abduction was a small price to pay for that result. It affords me great pleasure to reflect that Fenton was thwarted yet again. He’ll be furious if he should be aware of what happened, in whatever Hell he is currently roasting.”
“Not very likely, that,” Abigail commented. “If Hell is as we are taught, its denizens have more serious worries.”
“Yes,” Milla agreed. Her expression indicated that she was contemplating some of the tortures described by Dante, whom they had read together in Italian the previous year.
“Maybe you could direct some of his money towards helping girls who are victimised by rakes of his ilk,” Abigail suggested. “Servants mostly, I suppose. There are a few societies who do so already, but their emphasis is on repentance and atonement for sinning, which is rather unfair in many cases.”
Milla nodded. “I will consider you
r suggestion.”
Of course, Abigail realised, as Jeremy’s wife she herself would be in a position to do something about it. She knew all too well how it felt to have no escape, no future.
And not only women were treated unfairly, she recalled. “I met Chatteris, Fenton’s illegitimate cousin. He calls himself Broderick now. It is only thanks to him that Jeremy knew where to find you.”
“Barnaby mentioned him, but I gather they are keeping him under guard at Branscombe House. So he is the mysterious B.C.! Tell me all.”
They had to interrupt the tale several times as sleepy servants arrived with hot and cold water, but presently they were left alone, and discussed every detail during Milla’s thorough ablutions. After the bath Abigail urged Milla to rest for a while, but her friend scoffed at the suggestion. “I am not as poor-spirited as that. It is nearly morning, I might as well dress for the new day.”
“Ah,” Abigail said. “Your energy is enviable. If you are wide awake, I might as well tell you my own news. I am going to marry Jeremy, and herewith resign as your companion. I shall always remain your grateful friend. Without the shelter you offered, I don’t know how I would have survived over the past two years. I shall no longer correct or admonish you regarding social behaviour, either. That is all done.”
“Oh.” Milla regarded her thoughtfully out of those luminous blue eyes. “Because I am a hopeless case?”
“No. You are remarkably bright and quick, but the pattern of a conventional society lady is not for you. You are as you are, and a man who wants you to disguise your essential qualities could not make you happy anyway. The same is true for society as a whole. You must get them to accept you on your own terms.”