“Oh, but you can,” Horace insisted. “Of course you can. And you must.”
At the jab into his back of what was almost undoubtedly a pistol, Max dropped his head back. “What in God’s name are you about, Hubble?”
“Making sure you accept my invitation to rest and take some refreshment,” Hubble said pleasantly. “Then we’ll have to see.”
The ride to The Hallows was indeed short and when they arrived it was the three sisters who ran out, twittering among themselves, and took charge of the horses, while Horace kept his weapon pressed to Max’s back. He kept it there and forced him inside the house.
He was “ushered” into a large, garish drawing room, where the countess and Hermoine waited.
Horace put the pistol to Max’s temple. “Sit there. In the red chair.”
“All the chairs are red,” Max pointed out.
“Don’t attempt to annoy me,” Horace said, “or you won’t see the morning.”
“Just get on with it,” the countess said. She paced, throwing her skirts behind her at every turn, and staring at Max each time she approached him. “We want the journal. The one you stole from the Prince Regent—when he was the Prince Regent, that is.”
Max stared at her, and sat on the nearest chair.
She came close, drew herself up, and smacked his face. “There. I’ve longed to do that from the moment I set eyes on your face. I remember you when you were no more than a nasty little pickpocket in Quick’s band. Not that it matters now.”
Quick’s band? Covent Garden. The dirty basement where the boys and girls returned with their night’s pickings and presented them to Gaston. Gaston took what they stole, fenced it, and gave them a pittance that wasn’t enough to keep them fed.
“Do you hear what I say?” the countess said. “The journal you stole the night you got away? Where is it? You obviously took it with you because you knew it was valuable. I want it. And I want it now.”
“Are they really coming tonight?” Hermoine asked. She actually appeared scared. “Would they come so late?”
“Hold your tongue,” the countess snapped. “Foolish creature. You failed at everything you were told to do. You paid that incompetent Wilkie. For what? What good did he do that we couldn’t have accomplished without him? And now he’s made off with perfectly good baubles, by the sound of it. Those could have been ours, too.”
So, Max thought, Wilkie has been Hermoine’s paid informant and helper. The countess is probably right about the fate of the jewelry .
“And you couldn’t even get a common pickpocket to marry you,” the countess continued, scowling at Max, who assumed he was the common pickpocket in question. “So much for the legendary charms.”
“Very legendary,” Horace said, and chuckled. “Of course they’ll come this late, my love. Not one of them wants to be seen here in daylight.”
“What journal?” Max asked, too bewildered to concentrate fully. “How do you know about Covent Garden?”
The countess threw back her veil, and said, “Now do you know?”
He peered at her. “No.” He didn’t recall having seen her before.
“I was Gaston’s girl then.”
Max peered more closely and said, “That was a long time ago,” and earned himself another sound slap.
Hermoine tittered. “Not so young as you used to be, Gertrude. You’re so old he doesn’t recognize you.”
“Gertie?” Max said. “Dirty Gertie?”
“Oh!” The woman flounced away. “That’s quite enough. Tell us where the journal is hidden, or you’ll die right where you sit.”
A cool, calm sensation settled at his center. He was dealing with inept bunglers. He must take control. “Where is Kirsty?”
“Oh, he’s still worrying about that peasant,” Hermoine said. “You could have had me, you fool, and I’d have found a way to make sure you did very well out of the entire business.”
“How would you have done that, my love?” Horace asked. He amused himself by poking the barrel of his pistol into various parts of Max’s head and neck.
“Well, if we’d married, I’d have looked after him. I’d have shared what I got. After all, he’s very . . . well, he is quite the man, isn’t he.”
Horace very deliberately delivered a blow to the wound on Max’s jaw. Pain made Max light-headed, but he managed to stop his eyes from closing.
“You never were the faithful kind, were you, love,” Horace said. “When would you have told Mr. Quite-a-man that you were already married.”
Hermoine tossed her head. “Oh, that was ages ago, and I thought I was a widow when we started this, remember.”
“Well I’m not dead,” Horace said, “and therefore you aren’t a widow. Be grateful I saved you from bigamy.”
Hermoine was married to Horace? Of course, she was. Naturally. What would he discover next on this night from hell? Probably nothing that caused him less disappointment. “Where is Kirsty?” he repeated.
“Locked in the attic,” Dirty Gertie said. “And if you don’t give us what we want, she’ll die in that attic, and so will you. Actually, you’ll die here and be put in the attic with her.”
“Charming,” Max said, automatically looking upward. If they were telling him the truth, he must get to Kirsty.
“I hear a carriage,” Hermoine cried, running to the window. “Oh, my gawd, it’s Wellington again. He won’t go away empty-handed this time. He’s getting out. Beaufort’s with him.”
Max made no attempt to close his mouth.
“They’re all in the journal, you see,” Hermoine said avidly. “All rich and powerful, and they’re going to pay us to get rid of it rather than having it published. Only they won’t pay until they see the evidence, so you’ve got to give it to us.”
“But—” Max stopped himself from saying he didn’t know anything about a journal. If he didn’t find a way to play this out to his own ends, he would indeed be delivered to Kirsty like an animal carcass.
He saw Wellington pass beneath a lamp outside the windows. And Beaufort.
Another coach ground to a halt and shortly, another.
“Lord Bessborough,” Hermoine said, clasping her hands together. “And Palmerston. Oh, my. And Viscount Melbourne. How did he stand being married to that Charlotte Lamb even as long as he did? I’ll never understand it.”
“Apparently she drove Byron to near madness,” Horace said. “Too bad he’s dead. I should like to have heard his opinion of the woman firsthand. And he’s mentioned in the journal, of course—bound to be. There’s Cavendish. That man’s pockets reach his boots. Give it up, Rossmara. We will have the journal before the night’s out.”
“Oh, that journal,” Max said, madly casting about for some way out of this disaster. “That one. Yes, yes, I feel it coming to me. The journal. Where did I put the journal? Kirsty knows part of it, part of where it is. We took it in turns to memorize the steps to the hiding place. Kirsty! Kirsty, where are you? I need you, Kirsty!”
“Make him be quiet,” Dirty Gertie said. “Hit him with the pistol again, Horace.”
“Don’t knock him unconscious,” Hermoine cried. “If he’s unconscious, he can’t tell us where it is, can he?”
“Kirsty,” Max yelled as loud as he could. “Come to me, Kirsty.”
“The fella’s gone off the deep end,” Horace said. “Gone mad from the strain of it all, I should think.”
Max shot his feet out in front of him and stiffened his legs. He rolled his eyes back and managed to drool.
“Oh, gawd,” Hermoine wailed. “He’s having a turn.”
“I want Kirsty,” Max moaned. “Kirsty, Kirsty, Kirsty.” The back of his head and his rear were the only parts of him touching the chair and he slid slowly down until he was stretched out on the floor where he twitched, and jerked up his knees, and rolled from side to side.
These thespian performances used to come so easily when he’d been a great deal younger and less inhibited. At Eton he’d become qui
te the celebrity because of his entertaining “interludes.” Necessity would just have to pull him through tonight.
“We’d better do as he asks,” Hermoine said. “Get that little peasant—if she hasn’t suffocated up there.”
So she was, indeed, hidden in this house. Max threw himself to his back and scooted along the floor in the manner of a worm: stomach up, feet pulled, stomach down, head pushed. “It’s coming to me,” he said dreamily. “Under. The first clue is under. Kirsty! Kirsty, the second clue, if you please.”
“Get her,” the countess ordered. “You put her there, Horace. You bring her down.”
“I’ll do no such—”
“Get her.” The countess aimed her own, very small pistol at Horace, who seemed to have forgotten he was also armed. He hurried from the room at once.
Max went limp and stared at the ceiling—and waited. He must consider how he would fight his way out of here.
“All the gentlemen are in the Puce Salon,” a female voice, one of the sisters, announced from behind him. “And they’re getting very cross. And two other people have arrived. They say they’re barristers or something, and they want everyone together for whatever’s going to happen.”
“Gawd,” Hermoine said. “They’ve brought law with them.”
“Calm yourself,” the countess told her. “Posturing is all it is. Just posturing. Have the barristers wait in the small study, Zinnia. Tell them we’ll be there shortly. Where is Horace? What’s taking him so long? Oh, there you are. Good heavens, what has happened to you, girl?”
Max flipped to his stomach, raised his head to see Kirsty—a very dirty, bedraggled, but apparently healthy, Kirsty—and began to laugh and pound the floor with his fists. He also began to pray his childhood friend hadn’t forgotten his penchant for theatrics.
“He wants the next clue,” the countess said. “Shut the door, Horace. Use your head. The next clue, girl. To finding wherever the journal is. He said, ‘under,’ now you have to give the next bit.”
Max fell silent and waited.
“Deep,” Kirsty said.
“Long ago,” Max cried at once, overwhelmed with gratitude that Kirsty had risen to the occasion. “All so long ago I won’t remember. I just know I won’t remember. We hid it so long ago. Under.”
“Deep,” Kirsty said.
“Under.”
“Deep!”
“Gawd,” Hermoine muttered.
Zinnia came in again, her face flushed. “You’ve got to come now. At least come and say something to keep them quiet. They say they’re coming to find you.”
“Give Zinnia your pistol, Horace,” the countess said. “You and Hermoine come with me. Zinnia, you’re a capable girl. Keep these two here until we come back.”
Left alone with Zinnia and Kirsty, Max remained still. This was likely to be their best, if not their only chance for escape.
Zinnia’s frantic, pained “Ouch!” rang out, followed by another “Ouch,” and another and another. Horace’s pistol shot across the floor and Max trapped it before leaping to his feet to watch Zinnia fleeing Kirsty, who was much more fleet, and the large pair of metal pincers she chased her with. She chased, and repeatedly caught up—and repeatedly clamped the evil-looking device shut on whatever part of Zinnia’s anatomy could be reached.
With the pistol in one hand, Max captured Zinnia with the other.
Kirsty held her pincers aloft, and said, “Meant for pullin’ out teeth, I think. They were from a case filled wi’ nasty-lookin’ things. I almost made it away up there, but the handle was old and it broke off. Just as well it did, or it’s a pretty fix ye’d likely still be in.”
Max decided he would wait for an interpretation and bundled wailing Zinnia into a convenient cupboard with no means of being opened from the inside.
Listening to Zinnia’s muffled shouts, he and Kirsty looked at each other. He went to her, touched her face. “I thought I’d lost you. You’re hurt.” Her unbound hair had hidden a bright purple bruise on her cheekbone.
She caught his hand and kissed his fingers, and said, “I’m hurt all over. I’m no’ the best climber, and I’ve taken a few wee falls today.”
Max wanted only to hold her, to carry her away to safety. He couldn’t do either unless they got out of here. “They’re in a room on the other side of the vestibule,” he told Kirsty. “With some luck we can slide out of the house without being seen and make it away.”
“What journal are they blatherin’ about?” Kirsty asked.
He shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’m supposed to have stolen it from the Prince Regent when I was a boy in Covent Garden.”
Kirsty’s eyes grew very round. “The fat one who came t’Scotland when I was a bairn? My father spoke o’ him.”
“The same,” Max said. “We have to get away from here.”
“Where’s that garden place the countess talked about, then? Ye stole things there, Max?” She looked part incredulous, part amused.
“Later,” he said. “I’ll tell you all of it later.”
A covert check of the vestibule revealed it as empty, although a considerable noise came from the salon, where a great many of England’s most famous men were gathered— and a few from other parts.
Holding Kirsty’s hand, Max slipped from the drawing room—just in time to see Dahlia and Wisteria heading for the front door with large valises in their hands.
Kirsty and Max managed to hide behind the staircase that rose from the center of the vestibule. They nodded at each other, knowing they had best wait until the two “sisters” had left.
“We were solicitors to the late King George IV,” a deep voice announced in the salon, where the rumble of angry voices had faded. “We traveled from England at the request of one of you—who shall remain nameless for his own protection—one of you who is aware of the contents of this letter.”
“Who?” someone shouted. “Show yourself.”
Max made to leave their hiding place, but Kirsty held him back. She pressed a finger to her mouth and shook her head. She wanted to listen, the minx. He grinned at her. He wanted to listen, too.
Squeals sounded at the front door, squeals that were quickly cut off. Max took a speedy look and hid himself again. He hid and drew Kirsty into his arms. “McCrackit. And several men from the village. They’ve got Wisteria and Dahlia and they’re keeping them quiet.”
“Hush,” was all Kirsty said.
“I have,” droned the deep voice, “to read this in its entirety, but since it’s very short, it should not overtax your patience, gentlemen.”
“Nothing of a personal nature, one hopes,” a man shouted.
“Pass the thing around,” said another. “We’ll read it for ourselves.”
“My friends,” said the first man, with no note of uncertainty. “That is how the letter begins. ‘My friends, my old and dear friends, members of The League of Jolly Gentlemen: We were jolly indeed, weren’t we? My, what extraordinary entertainments we shared. We shall all miss them although I have faith in each of you that you are carrying on our noble pursuits.’ ” The reader cleared his throat. “His Highness continued, ‘I am aware that you were told about a certain journal, and how I explained the manner in which it was lost to me. No doubt you have all suffered considerably as you wondered when and where this journal would reappear, and who would learn of our escapades.’ ”
“Don’t read details aloud,” someone said inside the salon.
He was ignored. “There is very little more. He finishes thus, ‘Fear no more, dear friends. There is no journal. There never was a journal. Just my little joke. A jolly good joke for some jolly good gentlemen, what?’ He signs himself ‘HRH, etc.’ ”
Chapter Thirty-one
A mid the confusion of stories told, and retold, to those who had searched, then waited out the night at Kirkcaldy, Max gradually pulled Kirsty from the chattering throng that included pompous Constable McCrackit. While he held forth about the manner in which
he’d been retained by “a famous London gentleman and two barristers from that town,” she followed Max through the castle and out into the early sunshine of a perfect high summer’s morning.
“I’m sure you’re too tired to take a walk with me,” he said. “You must want to wash and sleep.”
“I’m too tired not t’walk first,” she replied. “Are ye too tired?”
He looked at her and smiled, and she had to smile back. Tears prickled in her eyes, but they were tears of gladness. Whatever happened now, she thought they would always be friends—and they were safe, and in the place they loved the best.
“I’d like to go over the hill and down to the valley,” Max said. “Then through the trees to the river. You used to like that very much.”
Kirsty said, “I still do, or I will wi’ ye. I have no’ been quite that way since—well no’ for some time.”
“Neither have I.” He held out his hand, broad palm and long fingers flat. “Not since I went with you.”
She placed her hand on his, laced her fingers into his, and laughed. “The same for me. But I was a very clean girl then. I’m a disgrace today.”
Max wrinkled his nose, and his green eyes held the old impishness she so relished. He said, “You’re perfect to me.”
Swinging their joined hands, they climbed the hill. At the top they paused a while and squinted toward the valley, and the trees. The sun rose higher, and climbing had made Kirsty hot. “Some would say we’re mad,” she said, “out here when we’ve no’ had a decent sleep in days.”
“And they’d probably be right,” Max told her. “But they’d also be jealous. I’m not tired anymore.”
“Neither am I. I’ll race ye t’the bottom of the hill.” She shaded her eyes and watched his face. When she ran from him and down the hill, it was as much to give her time to deal with all the feelings she had as to race. He’d win anyway.
The smile had left his mouth back there. He’d watched her as if he wanted to hear her very thoughts, and for her to hear his. He watched her like a man with shadows inside him, shadows of questions unanswered. She wanted those questions to be there, but she wanted them to be the right ones.
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