The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4)

by Grace Callaway

  Bloody hell. Back to the village then.

  As Richard turned to go, Goggs said, “By the by—I’m sorry about what, er, happened with Violet.” He studied his muddy boots. “She’s a good sort, would have liked to say my goodbyes before she was packed off to London.”

  Richard jerked his chin in acknowledgement and hurried off.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  It took Richard three hours to track down Parnell. After carousing all night at the fair, the bastard had apparently taken off with some local rakehells to a neighboring village. There, he continued his rabble-rousing at the public house before going home with one of his newfound friends and a barmaid with a salacious reputation.

  Richard now approached the address he’d been given by the proprietor of the public house. Raising his fist, he banged on the door until a groaning voice emerged from inside.

  “Bloody hell, I’m coming. Stop that infernal racket—”

  The door opened to reveal a puffy-eyed fellow, his blond hair standing up in disordered tufts. He wore a stained dressing gown that he’d clearly just thrown on.

  He glared blearily at Richard. “Who the devil are you?”

  “I’m here for Parnell.”

  “Don’t know any Parnell, so you’d better toddle off—”

  Richard inserted his boot to prevent the door from closing. He gave the wooden barrier a shove, causing the other to stumble back and out of his way. He strode into the small cottage, grabbing a taper off a side table to light the way. There were only two bedchambers, and he found Parnell in the second one.

  The bastard was naked in bed with a voluptuous brunette—the barmaid, no doubt. Both were snoring. Next to her was a third pillow with an indentation still upon it.

  Richard set down the lamp and shook Parnell’s shoulder. “Get up, you bastard.”

  Parnell smacked his lips, his eyes still shut.

  The blond man came marching in. “This is my house, and you’re trespassing—”

  Richard swatted the other out of his way and went to the washing stand. Finding the ewer full, he returned and dumped the contents over Parnell.

  Parnell jolted upright, swearing. “Wh-what the devil?”

  The barmaid turned onto her other side, still snoring.

  “Did you give Violet the poison?” Richard growled.

  Clearly still three sheets to the wind, Parnell stared at him with bloodshot eyes.

  “Carlisle? That you?” he said, slurring. “What in blazes are you doing here?”

  “Did you give Violet the poison?” Grabbing hold of the other’s shoulders, Richard gave a forceful shake.

  “Poison? What poison?” Parnell groaned. “For the love of God, stop that manhandling, or I’ll cast my accounts.”

  Richard pinned the other against the headboard. “I’ll snap your bloody head off if you don’t confess the truth. Goggs told me anyway. You were the one who bought Violet the cider.”

  “I didn’t buy her anything,” Parnell protested. “Old bacon-brains mixed things up as usual. He was the one who bought Violet the drink.”

  Richard’s insides went cold. “You’re lying. You drugged her.”

  “Drugged? What are you… oh.” Unholy glee lit Parnell’s eyes. “Is that why the two of you were caught making the beast with two backs in broad daylight?”

  “So it was you.” Richard slammed the other’s head against the wood.

  “Ouch! Stop that. I wouldn’t stoop to using the stuff—do I look like I need to?” Parnell gestured to his bedpartners. “I ain’t desperate like Goggs.”

  Richard froze. “Goggs?”

  “How d’you think he gets all those tavern wenches to sleep with him? He thinks it’s his little secret,”—the lordling smirked—“but I figured it out ages ago. Why on earth would he drug Violet, I wonder?”

  Pulse racing, Richard grabbed clothes off a nearby chair and tossed them at Parnell. “Get dressed. We’re leaving now.”

  ~~~

  Richard arrived back at the estate an hour before dawn. The journey would have been quicker had Parnell not needed to retch twice on the way back. He dragged the pale-faced bastard up the steps into the main atrium. Despite the early hour, Kent was there, conferring with McLeod.

  Richard hesitated. Had the Blackwoods succeeded in smoothing the way with the investigator?

  Kent’s keen gaze shot to Richard. “We found the lovers.”

  “Pardon?” Richard didn’t follow.

  “The lovers Wormleigh overheard in the library—turns out he was telling the truth about them. MacLeod here accomplished what three of the magistrate’s men couldn’t. He tracked down the purchase of a pair of tickets to Gretna to a station two villages away. The tickets were sold a week ago to a Mr. and Mrs. Cedric Burns.”

  “They were supposed to leave the morning that the de Brouet woman was killed. According to the ledger, the couple didn’t show for their journey,” McLeod said. “The tickets went unused.”

  “At first Burns refused to say anything,” Kent went on, “but somehow Amelia Turbett got wind that we were interrogating him, and she rushed to her lover’s rescue.”

  Richard’s head jerked. “Miss Turbett, you say?”

  Kent nodded. “Apparently she and Burns have been carrying on in secret for months. She told us everything. How Monique overheard her and Burns in the library. Threatened to blackmail them. One thing led to another, and Miss Turbett pushed Monique into the fireplace. An accident, she claimed. She and Burns thought she’d killed Monique so they panicked, called off their elopement plans, and tried to wait things out.”

  Richard’s head spun. “They have the necklace?”

  “Burns claims he knows nothing about stolen jewelry,” Kent said. “We searched all of his and Miss Turbett’s belongings and found nothing.”

  “Our theory is that someone else came upon Monique in the library,” McLeod added. “Saw the necklace and stole it, smothering Monique in the process.”

  “We need to question Goggs,” Richard said sharply.

  Kent frowned. “Goggston? Why—”

  Richard gave a rapid-fire summary of what he’d discovered about the drugged cider.

  “What is more, Goggs is swimming in debts,” he said in grim tones. “Parnell confirmed that both he and Goggs have been dodging moneylenders for the past year. Parnell has his papa to fall back on, but he says Goggs’ father cut him off months ago. Goggs is in desperate straits.”

  “So he had motive to steal the necklace—to take it from Monique by any means necessary.” Cursing, Kent said, “Let’s go get him.”

  Leaving Parnell in McLeod’s custody, Richard and Kent took off running to Goggston’s chamber. When Richard’s knock went unanswered, he took a step back and kicked the door open. He rushed inside, Kent at his heels; the empty room with its unmade bed confirmed his fear. After a quick search that revealed no clues as to Goggs’ plans, they went to the stables. Goggs had left behind his own mount, taking one of Billings’ carriages instead.

  “Goggston won’t get far,” Kent said. “He has no more than a few hours’ lead on us. I’ll send men along all the main roads—”

  “Why do you think he took a carriage?” Richard said tersely. “He’d make far better time on horseback.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “He knows we’re onto him—that’s why he lied to me and cast blame on Parnell. He knows he’s only bought himself a little time and can’t outrun us.” Goggs’ words hammered at his brain. Would have liked to say my goodbyes before she was packed off to London. “And he also knows where Violet is headed.”

  “Bloody hell.” Kent paled. “The bastard’s gone after her. For insurance.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Pfftt. The wooden arrow hit the apple, the impact pushing it over the edge of the table. It hit the floor with a soft thud. A direct hit.

  Sighing, Violet put down her crossbow and went to fetch the fallen fruit. Since sleep had eluded her, she was
trying to distract herself with target practice. Unfortunately, the crossbow reminded her of Richard and all the uncertainties in their future.

  How were they going to save Wick? Would Ambrose ever forgive them for hiding evidence? And why had Richard acted so angrily—so unreasonably—in the churchyard? Was there something he hadn’t told her about his past? Because she had an inkling that his failed courtships might have had something to do with his reaction…

  Placing the apple back on the table, she took another shot, driving it over the edge once more.

  “For heaven’s sake, don’t you ever sleep?”

  Rosie’s grumbling voice, which emerged from the bedchamber adjoining the sitting room, broke Violet’s reverie. She was sharing a suite with Rosie and Polly.

  “Sorry,” she said in a small voice. “I was trying not to make too much noise.”

  A sound like “grrr” came in reply.

  Not wanting to disturb her roommates further, Violet decided to take her target practice outside. The watery light of dawn was already slipping through the curtains; it was early enough that no one would take note of her. She wrangled on a front-lacing corset and her simplest dress, throwing her blue cloak on top. Lastly, she tucked her crossbow and sticks into a knitting bag and slipped from the room.

  Given the hour, the corridors of the inn were deserted, and she made it past the dozing clerk at the reception without waking him. Outside, she inhaled deeply; the invigorating, greenery-scented air reminded her of Chudleigh Crest. Feeling marginally better, she headed toward the courtyard. She turned the corner… and stopped short. A familiar figure was adjusting something on the outside of a mud-splattered carriage.

  “Goggs?” she said, startled. “Is that you?”

  He spun around. His chubby face had a sheen of sweat. “Violet! Lord, you gave me a scare.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” She ambled up to him. “What are you doing here?”

  His eyes darted around the environs. He tugged on his waistcoat, which had ridden up on his belly. She noticed that his hands and the garment were streaked with dirt.

  “I came to find you,” he said.

  “Me? What for?”

  “Carlisle—he sent me. He has a plan, you see, to free Wick. And he needs your help.”

  Excitement shot through her. Richard had sent for her… and he had a plan to save Wick!

  “What does he want me to do?” she said eagerly.

  Goggs unlatched the carriage door, held it open. “Get in. I’ll explain on the drive back.”

  She went to the door, tossed her knitting bag inside. As she was about to climb in, a thought stopped her. You can’t just leave without telling the others, you pea wit.

  Turning, she said, “Wait, I have to tell Marianne first—”

  “There’s no time. We have to leave. Now.”

  “But my family will worry.” Something in Goggs’ expression gave her pause. “Why… why didn’t Richard come himself?”

  “You ask too many questions.”

  Goggs’ face had lost its amicable mask, a hard and foreign glint in his eyes. He looked like… a stranger. Sudden fear welled inside her. Before she could gather the breath to scream, something crashed into the side of her head. Through the exploding pain, she felt herself being shoved into the carriage and then she knew no more.

  ~~~

  Richard was the first to arrive at the Red Lion. The inn was the first on the road to London, the obvious place to stay given Mrs. Kent and the girls’ late departure last evening. Goggston would look here first. Pulse racing, Richard tossed Aiolos’ reins to a waiting stable hand just as Kent and McLeod thundered in on horseback. The three of them entered the inn. After a quick exchange with the innkeeper, they headed for Mrs. Kent’s suite.

  She opened the door on the third knock, still tying the belt of her silk wrapper.

  “You’re all right.” Relief threaded Kent’s voice. “Where are the girls?”

  “In the suite next door.” Frowning, she said, “What is going on, Ambrose?”

  Kent was already headed to the next room. He banged on the door.

  After the fourth knock, Richard said impatiently, “Move aside.”

  “I can kick down a bloody door,” Kent snapped.

  Just as the investigator reared back to do so, the door opened.

  “Papa?” a sleepy-eyed Primrose Kent said. “Why on earth are you pounding like that?”

  “Thank God. You’re safe.” Kent exhaled as a drowsy-looking Polly Kent appeared behind the other girl. “And Violet’s in there with you?”

  “Actually… she isn’t.”

  At Primrose’s reply, Richard’s gut turned to ice.

  “Where is she?” he said roughly.

  Primrose frowned. “I don’t know exactly. When I woke up just now, she was gone. Earlier she couldn’t sleep and was keeping everyone awake with that dashed crossbow of hers. Maybe she went outside to practice?”

  Panic roared through Richard. “She went outside? Alone?”

  “I-I’m not certain of it,” Primrose said, her voice quivering. “It wasn’t like I told her to go—”

  “Concentrate, Rosie,” Kent cut in. “What time did Violet leave the room?”

  “Maybe… an hour ago? I don’t know.” The girl’s bottom lip trembled. “I was half-asleep, Papa.”

  Unable to wait a moment longer, Richard turned and strode to the nearest exit. He heard Kent saying behind him, “Keep the girls with you, Marianne, and lock the door. Strathaven will be arriving shortly to escort you all back to Traverstoke.”

  Outside, Richard jogged along the perimeter of the inn, McLeod going in the opposite direction. They met at the side of the building. McLeod crouched, staring at markings in the dirt.

  Peering over the other’s shoulder, Richard said grimly, “Footprints?”

  “Two sets. One larger, one smaller, the latter leading from the hotel. And look here, see how they’re smudged?”

  “A struggle.” Richard’s heart kicked against his ribs.

  “There’s fresh carriage tracks, too.” McLeod pointed to the markings as Kent joined them. “Wheels are wide, a heavy conveyance. Wouldn’t go faster than five miles per hour, I’d guess.”

  Kent followed the tracks to the end of the drive. “Looks like they’re headed to London.”

  “We can catch up to them,” McLeod said.

  Richard sprinted to his mount. Grabbing the reins from the stable hand, he leapt into the saddle.

  “Go, Aiolos,” he urged. “We’ve got to get to Violet.”

  The Thoroughbred whinnied, tossed its mane in understanding.

  They took off, dust churning in their wake.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Violet opened her eyes… and let out a groan as pain stabbed through her temple. By Golly, her head hurt like the devil. And why was the world bumping up and down? Come to think of it, where on earth was she? She made out velvet squabs, dirty windows, swaying straps…

  It returned to her in a flash: Goggs.

  He’d hit her on the head—and shoved her inside the carriage. Goggs, whom she’d believed was a friend, had kidnapped her! Why would he do such a thing? Stunned, she could think of only one explanation: he was the villain. He’d killed Monique, stolen the necklace. Now he was making his escape, and he’d taken Violet as a hostage.

  The bounder.

  Indignation cleared her head, gave her strength. Grabbing hold of a passenger strap, she leveraged herself up to sitting position. One of the wheels hit a rock, and her head whirled, but she took a breath and tried to focus.

  Think, Violet. Figure out a way to get out of here.

  She reached for the door handle. It was jammed, wouldn’t budge. Crumpets. She looked to the windows. Goggston had smeared them with mud, presumably so that no one could see her inside. What a time for him to turn out to be clever!

  Running her hands along the frames of the largest windows, she discovered that they, too, were lock
ed shut from the outside. Drat.

  Without much hope, she tried the small, narrow window next to the main one—and excitement surged in her when it budged. She pushed harder and was rewarded by a blast of cool wind against her cheek. The window was too tiny for her to climb out of, but she could poke her head out to assess her situation.

  She could see Goggs’ profile on the driver’s perch, and just the sight of him made anger quicken inside her. Focused on the rock-strewn road, he didn’t notice her. Surveying the passing fields and woods, she didn’t see any farmhouses, any people who might hear her if she cried for help.

  Pulling her head back inside, she considered her options. She could wait, hope for a passing carriage and shout for assistance then… but who knew when the next carriage would come along? Or if the people inside would even hear her?

  Besides, she hated waiting.

  Which meant she needed another plan. Something to break the main window perhaps? She looked around the cabin for a tool to use… and her gaze snagged on the leather handles lying next to her feet. Her knitting bag.

  Leaning over, she lifted it with reverent hands. She’d tossed the bag in before Goggs had shoved her into the conveyance. He’d clearly forgotten about it—or maybe he hadn’t even given it a thought. After all, what danger could a lady’s accoutrement possibly pose?

  Pulling out her miniature crossbow, she grinned. Some men gave jewels, other poesies and books of poetry. But it was the rare man who gave the perfect gift.

  God love you, Richard… and I love you, too.

  She counted out her ammunition: three arrows. Given the blunted ends, they wouldn’t significantly injure Goggs, but they would definitely distract him. Maybe he’d get irritated enough to pull the carriage to the side of the road and try to take the crossbow from her. At least then she’d have an opportunity to escape.

  Her strategy in place, she loaded the first arrow. She firmed her grip on her weapon, and, leaning out the window at an angle, managed to align her shot with Goggs’ head. She pressed the trigger.