‘I don’t know what you’re talking about—and I don’t want to know. But ask yourself this: do you care more for your promise or for your brother?’
Chapter Twelve
She asked herself that self-same question over and over again in the intervening hours. It was an impossible situation. Rupert was convinced he would not get a fair hearing and he was probably right. If he had money, an escape to France might have been a way out, though she would never have seen him again. But he had no money and neither did she. He would become a beggar on the streets of Europe and she could not bear to contemplate his eventual fate.
She thought of confiding in Jack and asking for his help, but she dared not. They had survived all kinds of alarms and misunderstandings to arrive at a wonderful place. She could not jeopardise the happiness that had lit her life a few short hours ago. Jack might be a pirate at heart, but he was a gentleman through and through and he would baulk at covering up such a heinous crime as murder, even for her. He would insist on her brother giving himself up. And when Rupert refused and fled the county, the whole loathsome business would cast the darkest of clouds over them, for how could Jack continue to love a woman whose brother was a murderer and a fugitive?
No, she couldn’t tell Jack. She was on her own. She had vowed to him that she would never again break the law and she had made that promise in all sincerity, little dreaming it would be put to the test. She hated to deceive him, but Rupert was facing the gallows. It was a stark choice. She knew well that if her brother were arrested again, Francis Devereux would not lift a finger to aid him; indeed, he would disown his nephew for ever. Round and round her mind travelled, jumping this way and that, thinking, thinking how to escape the trap that ensnared them. There was no way out. If she retrieved the missing items, then in one stroke she could rescue her brother. For years she had reproached herself for being unable to protect Rupert from their family’s
cruelty. What that had done to him, she could only guess. And now he was once more under threat, while she herself knew nothing but happiness. It was no wonder a newly made shroud of guilt had arrived to torment her. This time, though, she possessed the power to save him, to save his very life—and she must not fail. She had no idea how hard the task would be, but she would have to try. What other choice was there?
With a leaden heart, she went to Rupert’s room. Her highwayman’s costume had been cut to ribbons and long since burnt and she had once more to search his wardrobe. It took a while, but eventually she pulled out a pair of breeches and a jacket made from the dingiest cloth she could find. She would need to fit into these garments as best she could, for this was one exploit in which she dared not involve Molly and her needle.
* * *
It was eerily quiet in the woods. A slight fog had gathered here and there between the branches and every noise was muffled. Birds had flown early to their nests and only the occasional bat swooping overhead told her she was not alone in the world. Trees, pressing tightly on her from each side, made a gloomy vault, but sheltered her from sight as she skirted the perimeter of the woods to arrive at the rear of the inn. In the black suit she was almost invisible, for the crescent moon gave little light and from time to time disappeared altogether behind passing fragments of cloud.
Out of the woods and into the bushes which grew thickly around three walls of the inn. She had to use force to push her way through the tangled undergrowth. It was clear that Partridge had little interest in gardening, or perhaps, she thought, it served to keep intruders at bay. It would not deter her. Now that she was embarked on the adventure, she knew that she had done the right thing—she had to help Rupert and this was their only chance. He had been right about the whole village turning out this evening for a celebration. Once she was at the inn wall, she could hear the shouted laughter and raucous singing from the front of the building. The noise helped to smother the crackle of twigs and the scuffle of leaves as she crept along the wall towards the small window which belonged to Partridge’s office. Rupert had been airily certain that the window would present no problem, but he could not have reckoned on the gully immediately below. Standing in the hollow, Lucinda found herself at least three feet below the sill.
Be resourceful, she told herself, and looked around. A chestnut tree grew a little to the left of the window. It was rooted on higher ground, but several of its branches were long enough to tap their fingers at the glass. She squinted up at it in the dim light. If she climbed to the second of its branches, she should be able to ease her way along sufficiently to be within reach of the window. From there she could pull open the bottom sash as long as Partridge had not secured it from the inside. But surely he would not go to the bother—from inside the room, the window must look inaccessible. She thanked heaven she was in breeches and thanked heaven again that she had misbehaved as a child and dangled from every tree on the Devereux estate.
It was easy enough to reach the branch. She crawled her way carefully along towards its end and leaned forwards. Slowly, slowly, she stretched out her hand. She was just short of the window frame. She would have to crawl farther along the thinning branch and risk it breaking beneath her weight. As she edged forwards, she felt her breeches catch and heard something rip, but displaying her undergarments were the least of her worries. She hung off the end of the branch and with some difficulty eased the bottom sash upwards until she managed to make a space just large enough to admit her. It was a tricky manoeuvre and she almost fell through the window, plumping down on an armchair beneath. The chair skidded under her momentum and there was a screech of wood on tile. She held her breath, but the noise from the front of the inn was deafening.
Where to start? She thrust a spill into the small fire that burned in the grate and lit the one candle she had brought. Holding it high in the air, she could see that the walls of the room were festooned with shelves. Tumbling piles of dusty papers, clusters of broken ornaments and what appeared to be tools littered every space. Nothing of any interest, she thought. In any case Partridge would not have left such precious items on full view. She turned round, candle in hand, seeking a likely hiding place: there was no safe, but there was a bureau. She padded quietly across the room to a desk of battered oak and tried the drawer—it was locked. Of course, it would be. Looking around for something to lever the lid, she thought she heard a slight sound at the door, but loud laughter continued from the front of the inn and she returned again to her search. Holding the candle higher still, she looked more closely along the shelves. Surely there must be some implement she could use. In the half shadow, she saw what looked to be a carpenter’s chisel at the very top. To reach it she would need one of the wooden chairs that sat either side of the hearth. She had barely reached the chair when a voice spoke behind her.
‘So I’ve got yer, my fine lad.’
Instantly she blew out the candle and the room was plunged into darkness.
‘That won’t help yer one little bit. Didimus Black allus gets his man. It’s the nubbing ken for you.’
Lucinda’s heart was pounding. There was no way back through the window and the Runner, for it was he, had cut off her escape through the door. She should have taken more care, been more aware of the danger this man posed. Jack had told her that Black was still at the inn, but she had forgotten. Jack—she was paralysed by the thought of him. If she were discovered, he would know that she had broken her promise to him. Would he forgive her? She could not be sure. She had seen the joy in his face when he’d learned that her misadventures had been for her brother’s sake and not simply for thrills. He had been thinking the worst and if he were to know of this exploit, he might think the worst again. He might conclude that she was little different from the woman who had caused him such heartache.
The Runner was advancing on her. She could see nothing, but she could hear the soft shuffle of his feet. Gradually as her sight adjusted, the darkness assumed different tones and
from the corner of her eye, she could just see the open door and the unlit corridor beyond.
‘Didimus Black ’as ogles that can see in the dark, speshully when there’s a bridle cull about.’
He sounded smug, but it was not the tone of his voice that interested her but its location. She would have to make a dash for the door. She had no idea of the geography of the inn, but it was her only hope. Quietly she lifted the chair and then with all her strength threw it in the direction of the Runner. There was a muttered curse and a stumble, but she was through the door and into the passage beyond. Where to? She lost precious seconds, unsure which way to turn, but then headed towards the noise. The main entrance must be nearby. An open door loomed to the right of her and she caught a glimpse of a crowded room filled with villagers drinking their way through the evening and too engrossed to recognise the flying figure making for the front door. She could hear Black breathing heavily. He could be only a few steps behind her, but he was unfit, she thought. She would outrun him.
She tore across the gravelled courtyard and plunged into the woods, but the Runner held closely to her. He was not giving up, every one of his footsteps echoing hers. She knew these woods and he did not; surely she could lose him among the trees. She had run a mile at least, or so it seemed, and still the Runner stayed with her. She was breathless and almost sobbing with the pain in her lungs, for though Didimus Black was rotund, he was remarkably swift. She had to find a way to shake him off—she would trick him by doubling back on herself. She veered to the left, sidestepping the man so close on her tail, but as she did, her foot caught in an exposed tree root and she fell spread-eagled to the ground.
‘Got yer, yer varmint,’ he wheezed. ‘And a merry dance yer led me. I’ll see yer swing on the nubbing cheat, danged if I don’t!’
* * *
Out of nowhere the air was splintered by a sickening crack and Lucinda felt the hold on her legs relax. She was no longer pinned to the ground. What had happened? She rolled over on to one side and found herself face to face with Didimus Black. He lay inert, stretched out beside her.
‘You had best vanish as quickly as you are able.’ The voice was coldly expressionless. It was Jack’s! She scrambled to her feet, perplexed and fearful. A thousand questions teemed through her brain, but ‘What happened?’ was all she could think to ask. She gestured towards the prone figure.
‘Mr Black has met a temporary setback.’ Jack’s tone continued impassive and he made no attempt to move towards her.
‘But is he...? Did you...?’
‘I hit him over the head. A little drastic, but necessary. He is not dead, if that is what worries you, merely unconscious.’
‘But how did you know that he was chasing me?’ she gasped. ‘You must have followed him from the inn.’
He nodded grimly. ‘I followed you both. I was escaping too—from the noise, not the Runner—and was about to set out for a walk in the woods when I saw him lurking in the passageway. He seemed about to pounce—as indeed he was. So I watched and I followed.’
‘I can’t thank you enough, Jack.’
‘Don’t,’ he said harshly. ‘I want no thanks for assaulting an officer of the law. You must go before he wakes.’
She felt sick to the stomach, for the man she loved had vanished from view. In his place was someone she did not recognise, someone who could freeze the very words on her lips. Seconds passed before she faltered into speech again. ‘What will happen to you when I’ve gone?’
‘I will wait to help Mr Black back to the inn. He is likely to be a trifle unsteady.’
‘But might he not think it was you that hit him?’
‘Why would he think that, Lucinda?’ He sounded bitter. ‘I am a wealthy aristocrat, as you’ve often remarked, and the one who summoned him here to investigate a highway robbery—if you remember.’
Her flush was invisible in the misty half-light, but she said in a spirited voice, ‘If I leave now, you will be the only person in the vicinity. He may begin to have suspicions.’
‘I think not. I shall say that I found him lying here and brought him round. I’ll show him the broken bough and say that someone must have used it to hit him over the head. He is almost certain to jump to the conclusion that you had an accomplice nearby who helped to free you. It will give him two fugitives to pursue.’
They stood silently across from each other, the body of Didimus Black between them. A gap had opened and it was more than the two feet of grass that separated them. He had rescued her in a coldly efficient manner, but without one hint of love. He was judging her and judging her cruelly.
‘I am sorry,’ she burst forth, ‘I am sorry to have involved you again in my troubles. But I want to explain—let me explain.’
‘You must go now. I will call on you tomorrow.’
His indifference tore at her. She wanted to reach out and hold him close, remind him that only a few hours ago they had lain in each other’s arms. Instead she stood motionless, the sickness threatening to overwhelm her.
The man at their feet groaned softly and twitched his legs. ‘He is beginning to stir,’ Jack said in that horrible, mechanical voice. ‘You must make haste—and when you reach home, be sure to mend your breeches. You will no doubt need them again.’
The hateful remark sent her plunging forwards into the wood.
* * *
Still shaking from the dreadful encounter, she hurried through the trees as fast as she was able and made for the lane leading to the hidden tunnel, intent on regaining her room unseen. But once inside the passageway, her pace slackened until she was barely walking. She was still not wholly recovered from her injury and the escape had taken an enormous toll on her strength. Flight by flight, she dragged herself up the back stairs, desperate not to faint before she could reach her bedroom door. Exhausted, she fell across the threshold. She had been lucky—she had reached her room without having seen or heard a soul. It was as though the house had been sleeping for a hundred years.
But she would not sleep. She would not even attempt go to bed for she was too terrified to close her eyes. Swaddled in a blanket, she sat herself down by the window. What if the Runner did not recover properly? What if he recovered, but refused to believe Jack’s story? What if Partridge, when he learned of the attempted break-in, decided to tell his tale and the trail led back to Rupert and his sister? She tried to reason with herself. Jack knew what he was doing. Things would happen just as he said, and as for Partridge, he would do nothing precipitate, but would take time to think over his next move. Despite her terror, her eyelids gradually began to droop.
A tawny owl hooted just outside the window and she started up, hearing the beat of its unfurling wings as it launched itself into the night. She was very cold even beneath the blanket and crawled into the bed to find some warmth. Almost instantly, though, her mind began its ceaseless churning. This time the thoughts could not be reasoned away. Jack had rescued her—but at what cost? His voice had frozen her to silence and there had been not one glimmer of love in his face, not one gesture of feeling in his body. He had been planning to come to the Towers this day—it was nearing dawn already—to persuade Sir Francis that he was a worthy suitor for his niece. Instead he would be coming to demand an explanation.
He would think she had run mad. No, it was worse than that. He would suspect her, as he had done before, of adventuring for the sake of sheer sensation. She could not tell him why she had tried to rifle Partridge’s office. She had confessed to Rupert’s imprisonment in Newgate, but she could not bring herself to tell him of her brother’s involvement in a man’s death. Rupert alone could do that and he would be adamant in his refusal. His confession could be bought only by the knowledge that Jack was plump in the pocket and able to pay Partridge his blood money. She could not bear to contemplate it—their love, their pure, passionate love, diminished and dirtied in that fas
hion. For the first time since she’d set out on this ill-starred undertaking, she allowed herself to cry.
* * *
Jack watched as she stumbled through the undergrowth and disappeared from sight. In the threads of mist that swirled heavily around them, her face had gleamed white, wounded and desperate, but he could not bring himself to comfort her. The heartache of betrayal was too great. He had hardly believed his senses when he’d realised that the fugitive fleeing from Didimus Black was none other than Lucinda. He still could hardly believe it. But if he doubted, the evidence lay at his feet in the shape of the Runner’s unconscious form. She had made him a promise that she would never again break the law and he had believed her without reservation. She loved him, did she not, and love made a promise sacred. But not for Lucinda, it appeared. The call to excitement was too great and her love for him too shallow.
With an enormous effort he pushed away the destructive thoughts. This was no time to be lingering over a lost future for there was a charade to play.
‘Mr Black, are you all right?’ He bent solicitously over the unfortunate man.
The Runner struggled to life, endeavouring to sit up, his head swaying to and fro. ‘Who?’ he stammered ‘What?’
‘Don’t try to talk—you appear to have hurt your head. I am Lord Frensham and I am staying at the inn. We have already met.’
‘I knows yer well enough,’ Didimus Black muttered.
‘I was taking my evening walk and came upon you,’ Jack continued smoothly. ‘What has happened to you, my dear sir?’
‘What’s ’appened?!’ The man stroked his sore head angrily. ‘I’ll tell yer what’s ’appened, your lordship. I’ve been set upon.’
‘But who would do such a thing?’
‘I ’ad ’im, ’ad ’im in my power. I were almost there. The bridle cull—or maybe ’is accomplice. There’s two of ’em.’
Unmasking Miss Lacey Page 19