by Allison Lane
He shook his head. Her words echoed his own vow of ten years earlier. He prayed that she could put Darksmith’s betrayal into perspective before it ruined her life. It had taken him far too long to achieve a balance between prudence and credulity.
But more important matters drove her from his mind. At last he understood the feeling of doom that had plagued him ever since receiving Aunt Mathilda’s summons. It had grown so powerful that he could hardly breathe, and could only warn that Penelope’s life was in danger.
Chapter Eighteen
Darksmith’s hand remained steady. “You have saved me considerable trouble,” he gloated. “Thank you.”
“What have you done to Mary?” Penelope’s calm voice belied her pounding heart. She had already suffered too many shocks this day.
“She’ll live.” He gestured with his pistol. “Move away from the treasure.”
“How did you learn of this?” she asked, stepping gingerly behind the desk as Michael backed toward the window. “We knew nothing of it until ten minutes ago.”
“Lord Avery.” He ignored her gasp. “His ancestor must have been crazy to build a new dower house when he still had this one.” He was inching toward the chest.
“So you were the one who wrecked the dower house,” snorted Michael. “What a sterling example of gentlemanly behavior. But then you are only a faux gentleman.”
Darksmith’s hand twitched.
“I always suspected that you were a slippery character,” mused Penelope, relieved when the pistol turned from Michael to herself. If he twitched again, she did not want Michael in the line of fire. “You never seemed the sort to care for schoolgirls, and I could not accept the theory that you were after her dowry. Everyone knows the Averys have no fortune. But you were looking for information, weren’t you?”
Michael had also noted Darksmith’s shifting attention. He sprang. She screamed, but instead of firing, Darksmith slammed the butt of the pistol into the side of Michael’s head, felling him with one blow. Blood welled from a cut, the red stream vivid against his white face.
Fear closed her throat. She should not have baited him. He was more dangerous than she had thought.
“Foolish boy!” he snapped, drawing a large bag from under his cloak. “Put everything inside.” The pistol jerked menacingly.
Furious but impotent, she dared not refuse. Michael’s future would now slip through her fingers. Carrington’s draft would guard against default, but it would not substantially change their situation. So they were destitute. Again. She slowly transferred jewelry and coins, trying desperately to think of a way to disarm him, but no plan emerged.
“Now go get the rest,” he demanded when she had placed the last of the plate inside.
“What rest? This is everything.”
“You lie! Avery swore there was a vast treasure hidden in there.”
“How would he know? No one else even suspected the priest’s hole existed.”
“His ledgers tell of it. Some toff hid a fortune before he left for war. But he left no son, so it is free for the taking. Gold beyond imagining. A king’s ransom in jewelry. Plate enough to grace the largest table.”
She backed away from the bag. “Unless the ledger included an inventory, the details could only have come from Avery’s imagination. Who can believe the drunken mumblings of a dreamer? There it is, Mr. Darksmith. Gold. Jewelry. Plate. If you doubt my word, look for yourself. The door is still open.” She gestured toward the bookcase that still partially blocked the entrance.
He plunged forward, but immediately halted. “You think to trick me, but I will not fall into so obvious a trap,” he sneered. “You go first.”
She hesitated until he jerked his pistol. There was nothing to do but comply. Yet if she allowed him to lock her in, what was to prevent him from killing Michael?
He followed her slow footsteps, remaining eight feet behind her. She had reached the bookcase when Alice screamed.
“Michael!”
Penelope whirled to see Terrence in the doorway and Alice surging forward. Before she could shout a warning, Darksmith pivoted, his pistol glinting in the sunlight that streamed through the window.
“No!”
Quick as lightning, Terrence grabbed Alice around the waist and threw her behind the desk. “Stay down!”
Penelope took advantage of Darksmith’s wavering attention to seize the poker. But it grazed the fireplace surround, drawing his eyes. Terrence charged, trying to tackle him low. But Darksmith was faster. The pistol fired even as she swung.
“Terry!” choked Alice.
The poker slammed into Darksmith’s upraised arm, its hook slicing his flesh, but he ignored the wound. Before she could strike again, he grabbed her and twisted the weapon free.
“Enough!” he growled, pressing a knife point into her throat. His arm held her in a steel band despite the injury that dripped blood onto her gown.
“Leave him,” he barked at Alice, who and was bandaging Terrence’s arm with his cravat.
“Do as he says,” moaned Terrence before slumping into unconsciousness.
“Into the priest’s hole,” commanded Darksmith. His voice was strained and Penelope could almost read his mind. He had no idea how many servants might be in the house. The shot would draw anyone within hearing. Unfortunately Mrs. Peccles had gone into the village.
“Do it, Allie,” she gasped as the knife prodded deeper. Something warm trickled down her throat.
Alice nodded, crossing to the secret door. With a final anguished glance at Terrence, she ducked inside.
“Now it’s your turn, Miss Wingrave,” he mocked, forcing her forward. Only at the last second did he remove the knife and fling her against Alice. Before she could turn, the door banged shut. The bookcase screeched as he shoved it against the wall. Not a flicker of light penetrated their prison. She ran her hands over the opening, but there was no sign of a release. Was it high on the wall like the one in the library?
“What have I done?” moaned Alice.
“This is not your fault.”
“We should have run for help.”
“Instead of screaming? There was no time to think.” A door slammed in the distance, increasing her anxiety. Had he grabbed his bag and left? Or had he killed Michael and Terrence first? But that was preposterous. The pursuit would be far more intense if he faced a charge of murder. He would be lucky to escape the country as it was – unless he had already made travel arrangements with a smuggler or fisherman. They were only five miles from the coast.
“I hope Michael and Terrence are all right,” sobbed Alice.
“Terrence will be fine,” she stated firmly, refusing to consider any alternatives. “As for Michael, we can only hope for the best. You know head wounds always bleed freely.”
“W-what is g-going on?”
Penelope drew her sister close. The girl had long been afraid of the dark and was shaking from that as much as from reaction. “It’s a long story,” she began, but a smothered curse cut off her words.
“Are you all right?” demanded Terrence, grunting as he tried to move the bookcase.
“Thank God,” sobbed Alice. “We’re fine, but what about you?”
“Don’t worry, love. I was faking. He barely grazed my arm. How does the door open?”
“Find the pole,” Penelope answered. “Michael dropped it behind the chair nearest the window.”
“What the devil?” a new voice exploded into the library.
“Lord Carrington!” exclaimed Penelope. “Thank God you are here. Go after Darksmith. He shot Terrence and stole a bag of jewelry.”
“In a moment. Are you all right?”
“Yes, but—” She brought her chaotic thoughts under control and resumed in a calmer tone. “Terrence can’t manage the pole with only one arm. The latch is on the outside wall, the seventh or eighth Tudor rose from this corner.”
“Right.” A murmuring ensued that did not fully penetrate the door. Finally the latch clicke
d open. “Find Darksmith,” she begged. “Michael’s future is in that bag.” Richard’s eyes met hers with a promise she could hardly believe.
“Come, Terrence,” he ordered. “He must have seen me coming, for he fled on foot, leaving his horse out front.”
“But your arm,” protested Alice.
“It’s fine,” Terrence assured her, already striding from the room.
“Help me,” Penelope begged, pulling Alice’s attention away from the men. “We must turn Michael over so I can examine his head.” The bleeding had slowed, but a disconcerting amount of it had soaked into the carpet.
“What happened?”
“Like Terrence, he tried to attack Darksmith but was too far away.” She checked his breathing and sighed in relief. Both heartbeat and respiration were steady. Together they lifted him onto the couch. Penelope fetched a basin of water before explaining all that had happened since the moment she opened Carrington’s package.
“Who would have believed it?” said Alice with a sigh. “Terry will be appalled to discover his father’s plot.”
“Are you sure he does not already know it?”
“Positive.” She stared. “So that is why you dislike him. Why did you not say?”
“I do not dislike him,” she protested. “I merely thought him unusually young to consider marriage, which made me wonder about his reasons. But without proof, I could make no charges, for it was possible that his attraction was genuine. At least with the treasure exposed, he can have no ulterior motives for seeking your hand.”
“You will approve then?”
“If he is of like mind when he returns next summer.”
“He is not going back to Oxford,” said Alice. “He will study estate management at Carrington Castle instead.”
Penelope smiled, tying off the bandage around Michael’s head. Perhaps Terrence was more responsible than she had thought. His quick action to keep Alice safe had already convinced her that he was not faking infatuation.
A roar of outrage erupted in the distance.
“Ozzie! Dear God, they must be near the enclosure.” She raced to the doorway. “Stay here! Keep an eye on Michael and find Mary.” With that, she was gone.
* * * *
“What happened?” demanded Richard as he and Terrence galloped around the house.
“I’ve no idea. Alice and I walked into the middle of it.” He described the scene in the bookroom.
“He had a knife to her throat?” His icy fury kindled speculation in Terrence’s eyes.
Richard’s blood boiled. He had noticed blood on Penelope’s throat and gown when she emerged from the priest’s hole, but had not stopped to consider where it had come from. The bookroom resembled a slaughtering pen.
“Most of the blood on Miss Wingrave came from Darksmith,” said Terrence, pulling his mind out of a red haze. “She laid his arm open with the poker.”
“Good for her.” But he winced at what she could have suffered.
“What was Darksmith after, anyway?”
“A treasure.” He explained Gareth’s plots.
“I had no idea,” confessed Terrence shakily. “It’s a wonder Alice will even look at me after what my parents have done to her family.”
“She may not know.”
“Then I will tell her. She deserves to learn it all.”
“Again you surprise me— Hush!”
The boy raised his brows.
“There he is,” he whispered. Darksmith whisked around a corner. “That lane leads to the woods. If you circle around, we can trap him. These hedgerows are too high to jump on foot.”
“Right.” Terrence dug his heels into Darksmith’s sluggish mount and cantered across a pasture.
Richard walked Jet forward, wondering whether Darksmith’s pistol was reloaded.
Darksmith glanced over his shoulder as Richard entered in the lane, uttered a lurid curse, and started running. But he had managed only a few steps when Terrence blocked the exit.
“Hold it,” ordered Richard.
Darksmith drew his knife though he could barely grip it. Penelope had badly damaged his arm. In order to fight, he would have to drop the bag and shift the knife to his left hand.
Terrence inched his horse between the hedgerows.
“It is over,” announced Richard coldly. “Drop the knife and the bag.”
“Stay back or I’ll stab your horse,” threatened Darksmith, slicing the air with his dagger.
“Give it up, old man,” advised Terrence disgustedly. “You can’t possibly kill both of us.”
Darksmith twisted nervously from one to the other as they moved inexorably closer.
“It’s over,” said Richard softly.
“No!” Darksmith flung himself over the gate and into the ostrich compound.
“Come back, you fool!” screamed Terrence. “They’ll kill you.”
Richard lunged for the gate as Ozzie let out the loudest roar he had yet heard.
“Don’t be stupid!” Terrence grabbed Richard’s arm before he could follow.
They watched helplessly as Darksmith veered toward the barn, choking out incoherent sounds as he identified the approaching beast. He must have known it was hopeless. Ozzie’s strides each covered twenty feet, racing the length of the meadow in seconds. A clawed foot lashed out, catching Darksmith on his shoulder and glancing into his head. He dropped like a rock.
“Easy, Ozzie,” called Terrence.
Ozzie lifted Darksmith’s left arm with his beak, then cocked his head in puzzlement before letting it fall.
“Relax, fellow,” urged Richard, fighting to make his voice as soothing as possible.
Cleo joined her mate, her head skimming the grass as she examined this new toy. Darksmith groaned, and Ozzie rested one foot on his chest.
“At least he’s not dead,” murmured Terrence.
“Don’t move or Ozzie will tear you apart,” Richard advised as Darksmith’s eyes flickered open, then widened at the sight of Cleo’s head a foot from his own. She prodded his ribs.
He whimpered.
“Shut up, you fool,” said Terrence coldly. “Ostriches are territorial when they are nesting.”
“Nesting?” whispered Richard.
Terrence nodded toward a sand-covered hillock where two enormous eggs glistened in the afternoon sunlight.
Richard gasped when the boy slipped through the gate. “Now who’s being idiotic?”
“Ozzie knows me,” he replied. “Stay there,” he added as Richard followed.
“I met Ozzie yesterday, though I would not count on his remembering that fact fondly,” he said. “But I suspect there is safety in numbers. And you can hardly handle the birds and rescue Darksmith at the same time. If we let Ozzie kill him, it will cause trouble for the Wingraves.”
The bag lay halfway across the field. Fluff clawed at it until an ornate ring fell out, which she promptly ate.
“No!” Darksmith had seen and jerked in protest. Both Ozzie and Cleo struck him.
“Don’t move and don’t talk,” warned Richard again. “One more sound, and we will leave you here.”
“What kind of intruder did you catch this time, Ozzie?” asked Terrence softly, sidling closer to the birds. “If you want to live, Darksmith, you had best let go of that knife,” he continued in the same tone as Mortimer’s hand tightened. “If you do the slightest damage to any of the birds, Ozzie will tear you limb from limb. So far he is merely playing with you, but he is capable of disemboweling a horse with one kick. That knife has no chance of killing even one bird, let alone the twelve that now surround you.”
Darksmith’s eyes swiveled. The last vestige of color drained from his face, but his hand relaxed, allowing the knife to fall free. One of the youngsters tugged on his hair, but he swallowed his curse, finally accepting the danger of his position.
“Leave the knife alone, Ozzie,” advised Richard softly. “If you eat it, you will shred your guts.”
Ozzie cocked his head at
the unfamiliar voice and gurgled. At least it wasn’t that challenging roar, but Richard let Terrence resume his soft murmuring. Several of the juveniles lost interest and wandered away to peck at the haystack. Fluff abandoned the sack to nibble the buttons on Darksmith’s coat. Two came off and disappeared down the bird’s throat.
A gasp sounded from the gate. Thank God!
“How do we get out of this fix, Penelope?” he asked, keeping his voice soothing. Neither of them noticed his form of address, but Terrence’s brows rose. “Sorry to let him bother Ozzie. I had no idea he was so stupid.”
“I never thought to find you in here again,” she said as she crossed to his side.
“Terrence claims to know Ozzie, but I thought it might take two of us to distract him. Much as I detest this piece of scum, I would not like to see him damaged any further.”
She met his eyes, and his heart pounded. “Can you drag him to the gate alone?”
“Certainly.” Though he knew why she asked. His bruised ribs felt worse today, especially after his recent burst of activity.
“Good. Terrence can’t lift so much weight at the moment. He and I will distract the ostriches while you make your escape.”
“How?”
A thump sounded from the corner of the field, whipping Ozzie’s head around.
“That’s right, fellow,” murmured Penelope. “I brought you a treat. He adores pears,” she added for Richard’s benefit. “We collected a basket of windfalls this morning. Thank heaven Josh hadn’t brought them down yet. Terrence, show us your skill with the ladies. If you can bring Cleopatra there, I’ll entice Ozzie. The others will follow.”
Terrence laughed. “Come on, Cleo, old girl.” He draped an arm around her neck and rubbed her breast. Penelope did the same with Ozzie. The parade of ostriches nearly made Richard laugh. Necks craned toward the pears, but none dared pass Ozzie’s dignified pace.
“If you make a single wrong move, I’ll turn Ozzie loose on you,” he threatened as Darksmith flexed his fingers. Richard recovered the pistol, dropping it and the knife into the bag. “Can you walk?”