Rough Gentleman

by Maggie Carpenter

  “You want him to show up at your country estate? But Malcolm, isn’t that dangerous?”

  “I have something else in mind,” he replied hastily, pulling on his gloves and picking up the bag. “There’s no time to explain. Go into the foyer and wait for me there. I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t we have to leave?”

  “Connie, do as I say and wait for me in the foyer,” he said firmly, hurrying to the door. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  * * *

  Connie had complete trust in Malcolm, but she knew how busy the city streets were and she was worried they’d miss their train. To her great relief it was only a few minutes later he joined her, though he seemed slightly out of breath.

  “Time for you to go to the servants’ quarters. Remember, Connie, keep your head down when you go out on the street, stay close to Mrs. Melville and Baker, and make sure your bonnet is tied tightly so the wind can’t blow it off.”

  “I’m suddenly nervous.”

  “I’ll only be a few steps away watching from the corner of my eye. If anything should happen I’ll be there in an instant, but it won’t.”

  “May I take that for you, sir?” Corbin asked, stepping forward and reaching for the bag.

  “Not this time, Corbin, but thank you.”

  “Very good, sir,”

  “Are you ready, Connie?” Mrs. Melville asked, entering the foyer from the servants’ door.

  “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Try not to worry. You’re just going out a door and into a coach.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right. That is all I’m doing.”

  “The footman and Baker will be there too. We won’t have any problems.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Melville,” Malcolm said gratefully. “Goodbye, Connie. I’ll see you at the train station, but we probably won’t speak until we reach the house. I hope your journey is enjoyable,” then pausing, he added, “It should be. You have a great deal to occupy your thoughts.”

  “Uh, yes,” she replied, her eyes sparkling as she looked up at him. “Have a safe trip.”

  * * *

  As he watched her walk away with Mrs. Melville, Malcolm felt his heart swell. He didn’t want to lose sight of her for an instant, but his plan to have her travel in disguise would keep her safe. No one would think the maid leaving with the housekeeper and valet was Constance Clifford, the daughter of the deceased Baron Clifford of Cloverdale, and the only witness to his brutal murder.

  Like a bolt from the blue, it hit him.

  “Witnesses,” he mumbled under his breath. “That’s what’s missing! Why were there no witnesses?”

  “Sir? The carriage?”

  “Sorry, Corbin. I was distracted for a moment. Please have this delivered this afternoon,” he instructed, handing Corbin an envelope.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “And remember, no one is to come into this house while I’m gone, except the man doing the locks.”

  “He’ll be here shortly, sir,” Corbin replied, opening the door for him.

  Striding outside, Malcolm spied Mrs. Melville, Baker, and Connie already climbing into their coach. Glancing across the street he didn’t see anyone loitering, but he didn’t expect to. Hackworth would be in the shadows.

  “Make sure the doors and windows are locked at all times,” Malcolm continued, walking to the carriage holding the bag protectively against his chest. “I don’t want any of the staff to go out alone. That includes you, Corbin. If the intruder returns, though I don’t think he will, don’t confront him, but do try to get a good look at him. Only if it’s safe, mind! I don’t want you in any danger.”

  “Yes, sir, but this house will be as secure as the palace, sir,” the butler assured him, opening the coach door. “If someone does wish to break in, they’ll have an extremely difficult time doing so.”

  “Thank you, Corbin. I know I can count on you. Oh, one last thing. I want the upstairs cleaned from top to bottom, except the Red Room. I don’t want our guest to feel anyone has been prying.”

  “Very good, sir,” Corbin said as Malcolm climbed into the cab. “I’ll telegram should anything arise.”

  “Yes, do, but don’t go to the telegraph office by yourself.”

  “I understand, sir,” Corbin replied, closing the door and signaling the driver to leave. “Have a safe journey.”

  Letting out a sigh as the horses walked on, Malcolm leaned back and placed the bag next to him on the seat. His head raced with myriad thoughts, the lack of witnesses foremost in his mind.

  One of the servants in the Clifford house must have seen or heard something that horrendous night. Had they been threatened into silence like Holly? Then there was Lord Mountbatten and Roger Witherspoon. Learning of their close relationship also raised questions. They were obviously in league, but were they partners in crime, or part of a larger den of aristocratic thieves? Had their mutual love of Egyptology drawn them together, or did that come later?

  Though the train station wasn’t far, when the carriage rolled to a stop Malcolm found it hard to believe they’d already arrived. Glancing out the window, his suspicion was confirmed. There was a commotion up ahead that had caused the driver to pull up.

  His heart leapt.

  Moving quickly away from the window, he glanced down at his bag and prayed his ruse had been believed.

  The coach door opened.

  Before Malcolm could even turn his eyes, a man wearing a handkerchief over his nose reached in, snatched the bag and took off.

  Malcolm grinned with victorious delight.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Watching the badly disguised Hackworth dash away and disappear into the crowded street, Malcolm wished him safe travels.

  “Please don’t get caught by a policeman on your way to wherever you’re going,” he muttered, “and I do hope it’s Mountbatten’s home.”

  “Sir, sir, are you all right?” Baker asked, abruptly appearing at the side of the coach.

  “Yes, Baker, I’m absolutely fine. Go back to the ladies immediately, and don’t leave them again.”

  “Yes, sir, sorry, sir.”

  “Wave when you see they’re still safely inside,” Malcolm called as the valet hurried away.

  His face contrite, Baker reached his coach, glanced through the window, waved back at Malcolm, then climbed inside.

  Though Malcolm appreciated his valet’s concern, leaving the women alone had shown a lack of judgement, but he liked Baker, and the man rarely made mistakes. As the carriage began to move, Malcolm took a breath and tried to relax, then wondered if he’d overreacted. His deep concern was yet another testament to his growing feelings for Connie.

  He couldn’t wait to arrive at his country home.

  No one would bother them. They’d have space to breathe, hours to walk the gardens and hike through the nearby woods. And they would have the nights. Connie’s cries of pleasure and pain would go unheard, and he intended to elicit both. Just the thought stirred his manhood.

  * * *

  While Malcolm and his entourage were on their way to the station, Samuel Mountbatten paced anxiously in his study. Finally surrendering to temptation, he stepped across to the drinks cabinet and poured a large whiskey into a cut crystal tumbler. Sitting nearby in a leather armchair, Roger Witherspoon looked on, his annoyance growing.

  “A bit early in the day, don’t you think?” Roger remarked. “You need to keep a clear head.”

  “I know what I need!” Samuel snapped.

  “Keep your shirt on, old chap. Our luck is finally changing.”

  “Luck? I don’t rely on luck. It’s the long list of informants we’ve acquired that’s finally paying off. Our eyes and ears in the households have nothing to do with luck.”

  “We still need fate to smile upon us. Our spies need to be in the right place at the right time to pick up the tidbits that can help us, and we certainly got our money’s worth this week. That’s
where the luck comes in, Monty.”

  “Just because Malcolm Mead spouted his ideas about the Statue of Kharute and Constance Clifford at a dinner party, it doesn’t mean anything. He was probably just trying to impress his betters with his cleverness.”

  “Of course it means something! Look at the evidence. Percy Cavendish firmly believes it was Constance he let slip away. That man is always a farthing short of a sixpence, and that’s why it took him a few hours for the penny to drop. Think about what happened next!” Roger exclaimed dramatically, rising to his feet and throwing his hands in the air. “Mead shows up at the Cliffords’ old house, then suddenly makes a rare appearance at a dinner party. What does he do at that dinner party? He spends the evening offering theories about the Cliffords’ murder and the statue. Don’t you see? It all adds up. Constance has known where the Statue of Kharute has been hidden all this time, Mead went to collect it for her, and now he’s taking it to the safety of his country house. If bloody Percy hadn’t let her go that night we’d have it by now.”

  “I agree Mead’s actions are interesting, but they remain nothing but conjecture. We know only one thing for sure. The Cliffords had the statue and refused to hand it over,” Samuel growled. “Everything else is just guesswork.”

  “But if I’m right,” Roger continued, “Hackworth will waltz through your front door with a bag, or a box, or some kind of container, and inside will be our prize.”

  “Even if Mead is on the way to his country house to hide the statue there, there’s no guarantee Hackworth will get it away from him.”

  “That’s the last thing I’m worried about,” Roger said confidently. “Mead’s nothing but the son of a groundskeeper. He’s an idiot. He’ll do something obvious like, put it in a bag and carry it with him. Or pack it in a crate. All Hackworth has to do is relieve him of it. He’s more than capable of spotting something like that and acting on it.”

  “I don’t know why you think Mead is an idiot. From what I’ve heard he’s a shrewd businessman and can be very cunning,” Samuel grunted, then taking a drink of his whiskey, he murmured, “and rather well built from what I understand.”

  Before Roger could respond there was a knock. Partridge, Samuel Mountbatten’s tall, austere butler, stepped into the room.

  “Excuse me, my lord. Mr. Hackworth is here and insists on seeing you right away.”

  “Show him in, Partridge,” Samuel ordered, “then close the door and make sure we’re not disturbed.”

  “Yes, Your Lordship.”

  “So soon,” Roger said, looking at Samuel with wide eyes. “I’m feeling jolly good about this.”

  “I’m not feeling jolly good about any of it.”

  “Buck up, old chap. You’re about to gaze upon the Statue of Kharute, and you know what that means.”

  “Stop calling me old chap, and as much as I hope you’re right, I seriously doubt I’ll be looking upon anything.”

  “You’re such a pessimist.”

  “No, Roger, I’m a realist. It’s a short trip from Mead’s home to the train station and people are everywhere. I can’t imagine how Hackworth could possibly steal anything and make a clean getaway.”

  Roger inwardly cringed. In spite of his praise, Roger saw Hackworth as nothing but a common thug, not very bright, and a dope who used his fists more than the modicum of brains he possessed. The problem was, he’d been an integral part of the robbery, and there was no one else they could trust to do the dirty work.

  “Mr. Hackworth, my lord,” Partridge announced as the detective swept past him.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear what you said, Your Lordship,” the detective declared as Partridge withdrew and closed the door. “I’m happy to report I did both!”

  “You mean that bag you’re carrying contains our treasure?” Roger exclaimed excitedly, wondering if he’d underestimated him.

  “I can’t say for sure,” the stout man replied, placing it on Samuel’s ornate desk, “but I’m hopeful. Mead was extremely protective of it. He brought it outside himself, holding it against his body, then stood on the street looking around before he got in. Not only that, when I snatched it the weight took me by surprise. It’s heavy, as heavy as it should be if the relic is in there.”

  “Why the blazes didn’t you check?” Samuel demanded, taking another swallow of his whiskey as he marched across to join Roger and Hackworth staring at the bag.

  “I thought you’d like that privilege, Your Lordship.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Well, here we are,” Roger said breathlessly. “It’s been one hell of a road we’ve traveled. Monty, do you want to do the honors?”

  “Roger, you’ve kept me sane through this entire debacle. If the statue is in there, you should be the one to lift it out.”

  “Thank you!” Roger said, touching Samuel’s arm. “You’re a gentleman and a scholar.”

  Taking a long, deep breath, Roger unbuckled the leather straps, lifted the crossover flap, and peered inside the large bag, but it was dark. Knowing the statue had been in a black velvet pouch, he reached inside.

  “What the devil is—ow—ouch!” he yelped, yanking his hand out, then stumbling backwards, he wailed, “Blood! Monty, something bit me!”

  But in a state of shock, Samuel’s gaze was fixated on the bag.

  “Look! Look!” he bellowed, dropping his glass as he pointed.

  Darting his eyes to the leather case, Roger let out a horrified cry.

  “No! Oh, dear God, no! I’ve been bitten by a filthy rodent,” he howled, clutching his hand as he ogled the large rat crawling from the top of the bag. “I could die. I could die.”

  “Get rid of it,” Samuel screeched as the rodent scurried across his desk, hating to look at the vermin but simultaneously afraid of losing sight of it. “The bag! Cover it with the bag.”

  “Kill it, kill it!” Roger shouted, staggering backwards. “My hand, Monty! Help me.”

  Though normally a man unfazed by the unexpected, the appearance of the live rat had sent Hackworth into a momentary stupor, but the barked orders from both men snapped the spell.

  Searching frantically for a weapon, he quickly decided trapping the rat was a far more appealing option. Killing it would mean having to clean up the mess. Not wanting the rodent to run down the legs of the desk, he moved slowly forward. As the creature stopped to explore Samuel’s dropped glass, the detective gently picked up the leather case.

  “Hackworth!” Samuel suddenly hollered. “Your arm! Your arm!”

  The thug froze.

  Filled with dread, he dropped his eyes.

  A second rat crawled up his sleeve.

  As he began screaming and flailing his arms, Roger and Samuel bolted through the door, Samuel slamming it shut behind them. The sounds of Hackworth’s shrieks as he continued his battle with the rodents continued, but Roger didn’t care. All he could think about was the horrible, painful wound left by the foul creature’s teeth.

  “Monty, what’s going to happen to me?” he sobbed. “This can’t be happening. It can’t.”

  “Partridge!” Samuel yelled, desperate for his butler. “Damn and blast, where are you, man?”

  “Here I am, sir,” Partridge replied, hurrying down the hall. “Oh, dear,” he muttered, seeing the blood gushing from Roger’s hand. “How can I help?”

  “Send the footman for the doctor, and hurry.”

  “Yes, Your Lordship. Right away.”

  “Come on, Roger,” Samuel said, helping him down the hall and into the nearest salon. “Sit down. I’ll get you a brandy.”

  “It hurts, Monty,” Roger bleated, flopping on the nearest couch. “It hurts like the dickens.”

  “Don’t you worry, my precious. I’ll make sure you get the best treatment available. Try to stay calm. I’ll get you that drink.”

  “Monty, if I survive this I’m going to kill Malcolm Mead,” Roger vowed. “I swear I will. Him and Constance.”

  “Not if I get to him first,”
Samuel grunted, pulling the bell cord. “I’ll tie the bastard to a chair in a room filled with rats, then make her watch him get eaten alive!”

  * * *

  Standing on the platform at the railway station and about to board the train, Malcolm turned his head and squinted. Peering through the crowd of bustling people, he found Connie.

  She turned her head.

  Their eyes met.

  His heart skipped.

  He absolutely adored her.

  Though he longed to throw caution to the wind, march down the platform, and bring her into his compartment, he resisted. She would be in his arms at his country home soon enough.

  The whistle blew.

  Climbing aboard, he settled into his seat, and as the train pulled out of the station he retrieved a small notepad and pen from his jacket. Knowing he’d be alone and undisturbed, he’d brought it along to write down his thoughts and search for answers.

  Likely witnesses?

  Who?

  Where?

  How can I find them?

  If I do, how can I make them feel safe?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Connie’s seat in the carriage to the train station had offered no view of the street ahead. When the coach had stopped and Baker suddenly jumped out, she immediately thought her identity had been discovered and they’d been halted by the police. Panic-stricken, she was about to leap out and run when Baker returned just a moment later. Hastily apologizing, he breathlessly reported he’d seen a man lunge into Malcolm’s coach, grab his bag, and take off.

  As her panic gave way to relief, she realized Malcolm had once again been one step ahead of the villains. He seemed to possess an uncanny ability to look ahead. Thinking back the few minutes she’d waited for him in the foyer, it occurred to her he might have somehow booby-trapped the bag. As the carriage began to move, a smile curled her lips. She could easily imagine him doing such a thing. A short time later, standing on the platform at the train station, it took all her self-control not to run over to him, give him a huge hug, and ask him what he’d done.