If she could find a pair of draperies that were not too worn, she might replace the faded, frayed ones in the odd little chamber next to the bookroom. Being in the middle of the floor, it had but one window, looking out on the narrow passage that led to the kitchen entrance and the yard in the back.
Or perhaps she would find the kind of pistol Alex had hoped for.
After hearing about Molly’s handsome “peddler,” he had asked whether her uncle had owned a pistol. She did not pretend to misunderstand his concern, and they had searched his chamber and the library. They found a flintlock pistol in an old valise Jane had not previously gone through, as it appeared to contain nothing but odds and ends. Alex had loaded it and taken it with him to the reception parlor. But he had hoped for a “coat pocket pistol.” The flintlock was too long to carry on his person, and there was, apart from size, something very desirable about the pocket pistol.
Mrs. Harrow had taken Alex’s letter to the penny post the previous evening. Alex had not seemed particularly worried last night, but by midmorning, it was obvious that something was weighing upon him.
At least Captain O’Brien was now awake though feeling the effects of his clandestine journey to London. And the brandy, too, no doubt. But he had drunk the tea Alex took up to him and found himself able to eat ham and porridge and bread and even to tell Alex to compliment the cook. “For I have never grown accustomed to the way the French eat in the morning, as long as I have lived there. My poor wife could never understand why I would want more than a roll or two, a cup of chocolate and mayhap a bit of fruit or cheese.” Alex reported his words verbatim, lilt included. The captain had, however, kept to the guest bedchamber, asking Alex to apologize to his hostess that after drinking so deep on top of a tiresome journey and very evil news, he was fairly laid low.
She wondered what Mr. Gordon was doing. He was probably pacing, wondering why he had not received an answer to his letter. She hoped his footman’s wig, a little too large for him, was not askew again.
Chapter 33
The flintlock was out of sight under a shawl he had begged from Jane and draped over the arm and seat of one of the chairs. The effect was of a wrap taken off hurriedly, dropped, and forgotten; it concealed the pistol reasonably well, considering the gun’s fourteen-inch length.
He had taken up a post in the reception parlor, rather than in the passage leading to the stairs and the kitchen. The servants were in the rear of the house, with the kitchen door bolted and Jane was upstairs. It seemed well to keep watch at the front, though he hardly expected O’Brien or Pleasaunce to break in through the shuttered windows. It would not be impossible, but breaking them open in broad daylight in a street full of businesses and their customers would attract attention. Mr. Markham had been on excellent terms with the other residents of Wych Street.
Why would Gabriel O’Brien have returned to London? He might believe his part in Markham’s murder was not known but even so, why return? This was not his home port, and to return to Markham’s house was to court discovery.
He wished an answer would come to his letter. Where could Cuddie be? He wished he might leave the house and go to Sir Howard, but he would be at the War Office in Whitehall now. He could not visit him at his home tonight and leave the house unprotected but for Jessup. He wished Jane would come downstairs with some question or suggestion.
The hours seemed to be dawdling along. They always did, when one was waiting for something. Surely it must be time for the servants’ dinner? After that, he would try to have a private talk with Jane. He would have to think of some reasonable excuse for doing so, as the servants were as good as the most diligent chaperon, though he did not think they disapproved of him. Having the servants on one’s side is always good, when courting a lady.
The muffled shriek, “She’s not here!” carried even through the closed door to the back of the house. Alex sprang for the chair where he had left the pistol, but he was too far from it. The door was thrown open, and a man pushed Mrs. Jennings through roughly. She fell hard on the wooden floor. He levelled his pistol at her heart as she lay gasping.
“If you move, she dies.”
Another man edged past him, pulling Molly into the room.
Alex, frozen halfway to the chair, had no doubt at all about the second man’s identity: the fair hair and blue eyes marked him as Gabriel O’Brien.
“Molly, you stupid girl.” Mrs. Jennings sat up cautiously, keeping her eyes on the man who had threatened her. He wore a plain suit that was still too fine and well-cut for a tradesman or common criminal. He had the air and accent of a gentleman, as well. Charles Pleasaunce, at a guess.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to tell him about Mr.—about William!” Molly sobbed. Mrs. Jennings sniffed, a ladylike equivalent to a man’s snort.
“Sit over there with her, now.” O’Brien let go of the girl’s arm and gave her a gentle shove. Then he moved to take a position at an angle to Pleasaunce, opposite Alex. His faint Irish inflection was overlaid with a cadence that sounded French. No wonder Molly and Mrs. Harrow had found something un-English about his speech.
“Keep your pistol on the footman,” Pleasaunce ordered. “The devil take him, he’s not Stowe. You, fellow—where is Rupert Stowe?”
“Mistress Jane’s brother, would that be? I haven’t never seen the gentleman, sir.” The slightly unpolished diction of a footman who would never be hired by one of the beau monde was easy enough. Deciding on the right facial expression was harder. A really good footman would probably show no surprise. He settled for inquiring and slightly stupid.
“And Jane Stowe? Find her and I’ll find her brother. Or she’ll tell me where he is.”
“I don’t rightly know, sir. She lives with her parents, though she comes at whiles to make sure all’s well and the repairs and such are going forward.”
Pleasaunce swore sulfurously. Molly clapped her hands over her ears.
Mrs. Jennings and Molly must have denied her presence, too. Where were Jessup and Mrs. Harrow?
“She’s not been at her father’s house in days. She was said to have gone to stay with ‘friends’ in the country, but she’s not there. Quick, woman! Who else might shelter her?”
Mrs. Jennings clearly had more to her than primness and efficiency at running a household. “Why, I think I once heard she has a cousin in Dorset, but that’s as much as I know about it.”
Pleasaunce seemed the more dangerous of the two men, in spite of the other being a murderer, but Gordon kept an eye on young O’Brien as well.
He saw Molly, huddled against Mrs. Jennings, give a little twitch, in reaction to what she must know was a lie. But she was not looking at the housekeeper or even Pleasaunce. She was looking in the direction of the open door behind Pleasaunce. The stair was beyond it, only just out of Alex’s sight. Was it possible Jane had come downstairs without anyone hearing?
“Mon ami,” O’Brien said softly, and continued in the same language, “ask the woman how it happens they have been dining so well. Coffee and chocolate? Rice and sugar and chickens? My maman would have stared to hear of such fare for servants.”
Mrs. Jennings put her arm around Molly and gave her shoulders a squeeze.
“If there are but the five of you, who is drinking coffee and chocolate and supping on chicken, woman?”
The devil take O’Brien for noticing their grocery purchases. Thank God neither had realized there should be another maid as well. He kept his face wooden, but their position was worrisome. If Jane had come downstairs, she must be aware of Pleasaunce and O’Brien; she might well have heard them speaking as she descended. She might have paused to assess the situation. If she thought both intruders were facing away from the door, her logical move would be to go past silently and out the kitchen door. He would not be able to see if she passed the door into the reception hall; Pleasaunce stood squarely in front of it, blocking his view. She might have slipped past—or she might be lingering in the hall. Molly’s eyes were focused
either on Charles Pleasaunce’s elegantly stockinged legs, or on something behind him. Surely Jane could not be intending some desperate attempt to rescue them? It would be doomed.
Even if he had his hand on Markham’s old flintlock and succeeded in shooting one or the other, there would still be one armed, dangerous man who would undoubtedly shoot him.
The sensible thing would be for Jane to leave the house and summon assistance…but it would take time to seek out a magistrate and convince him to send constables. Especially as she was dressed as a maid.
In the meantime, what would Pleasaunce and O’Brien do? For they would not simply leave. The very best outcome he could imagine was that they would shut the staff in the cellar and sit down to wait for Jane or Rupert Stowe to return. If only one or two constables came, the Jacobite and the smuggler could shoot them and escape.
The housekeeper said, “Mr. Markham was always generous with our household allowance, and Mistress Jane increased it, too, as she sometimes takes a meal or a cup of chocolate or coffee when she comes to oversee the furbishing up of the house. And she has had a literary gentleman come in to work at listing all the books in the library, to see if there’s aught of value, so he must be provided for, as well.”
“Where is he? Why didn’t you mention there was someone else in the house?” Pleasaunce’s voice went harsh.
Yes, it would be nerve-wracking to realize there might be another man in the house.
“He is not here today, sir. He is a tutor to several young gentlemen who will be going to university soon. He comes in to work on the library as he has time. Today is not his day to work here.” She hugged Molly to her side.
Jane’s housekeeper should be writing novels. The explanation had tripped off her tongue without hesitation. If only—
A darkness obscured some of the faint light from the passage and stair behind Pleasaunce. Molly buried her face in Mrs. Jennings’s shoulder, and the housekeeper murmured reassurances to the girl. Pleasaunce stood with his back to the door, and Gabriel O’Brien faced the candle near Alex and both had their attention fixed on him. If his expression changed, they did not notice it.
Then the darkness moved. Alex did not hear the flint and hammer strike the frizzen but saw the faint flare behind Pleasaunce’s head as the priming charge caught. In the light of the candle, Pleasaunce’s eyes widened with terrible knowledge. If he tried to move in the moment before the main charge ignited with a deafening report, the attempt came too late.
Time and Alex’s heartbeat seemed to stop while Pleasaunce collapsed like a marionette with its strings severed. His pistol discharged as it hit the floor. Alex wondered where the shot from Pleasaunce’s weapon had gone—not into either of the women, praise the Lord! The women’s screams were strangely muffled, but they were both sitting up, arms around each other, as they had been before the shots. But there was no time to think; he sprang to the armchair and tore Markham’s flintlock free of the shawl and cocked it. Pleasaunce was no threat; the singed hair smell was proof of that. A shot fired at close range to the back of the skull left no possibility that Pleasaunce was still alive. But Gabriel O’Brien was still armed, and whoever had shot Pleasaunce might have a second pistol—
Gabriel O’Brien’s arm swung like a compass needle toward the figure standing over Pleasaunce. Before Alex could bring his own pistol to bear on either, the man in the doorway spoke in French.
“I am quite annoyed with you, mon fils.”
The other recognized his target even as his finger tightened on the trigger. Gabriel O’Brien jerked his arm to one side. There was a third onslaught on their ears—how did soldiers avoid losing their hearing entirely?—and the ball smashed into the wall several feet to Alex’s left. The room was thick with smoke and the reek of burnt powder. Captain O’Brien recoiled slightly.
“Papa! Beware the footman—he is armed!” Gabriel exclaimed. His arm dropped to his side, pistol hanging disregarded in his grasp. He looked suddenly younger, and uncertain, a feeling Alex knew well. He had often felt the same with his own father. Though never, fortunately, in such a situation as this.
O’Brien spared Alex a glance and switched to English. “He will not shoot me. He might shoot you. I would not be able to blame him, I think.”
O’Brien’s son had evidently not yet noticed that his ball had ripped through the older man’s sleeve. Alex cleared his throat. “Captain O’Brien, I fear you are hit.”
The women had stopped shrieking—although he was not sure Mrs. Jennings had ever done more than gasp—though Molly was sobbing loudly. His ears felt stuffed with wool, but he heard hasty footsteps on the stairs. O’Brien looked over his shoulder.
Chapter 34
Jane paused in the doorway, trying to make sense of the scene, half distracted by the sobbing, the smell and smoke of gunpowder, and fear. A tall, thickset man stood a few steps inside the room, his face turned toward her: Captain O’Brien. Beyond him, Alex stood near one wall, another young man almost directly opposite him against the other, both holding pistols pointed down at the floor, like mirror images. For one ghastly moment, she wondered if they had been engaged in a duel.
She struggled to gather her wits, now that she knew Alex was unharmed. Someone was lying face down beyond the captain. Molly and Mrs. Jennings crouched together on the floor beyond the motionless figure, white-faced. As she saw them, Mrs. Jennings began struggling up from the floor, leaning on Molly’s shoulder. The kitchen maid was—of course!—weeping and hiccupping into her apron.
Daniel O’Brien spoke. “Mistress Jane. My apologies for the trouble here.”
Jane looked to the captain, who appeared to be the only composed person present. He too held a pistol down at his side, though his left arm was held against his body rather awkwardly.
“Captain, you are wounded.”
“My coat more than my skin, I believe.”
“M—William…help the captain to a chair. Molly, stop crying, stand up, and—and go heat some water. Mrs. Jennings…”
“Ay, mistress. I’ll fetch scissors and an old sheet for bandages, should they be needed. Mayhap a needle and thread, too, so I can mend the gentleman’s sleeve?”
“Yes, please. That would be very helpful. And where are Mrs. Harrow and Jessup?”
“Locked in the cellar, mistress. That one”—she nodded at the body on the floor—“said Cook was insolent, by which I suspect he feared she would fly at him armed with her best frying pan. Our Mr. Jessup, being a man, might be dangerous, too.” With a tight-lipped smile, she hurried out, followed by the still-sniffling Molly.
“It’s a tricky thing, for two men to hold four at pistol point,” Gabriel O’Brien remarked. “It seemed best to reduce the odds.”
Captain O’Brien glanced at him coldly, as Alex assisted him toward an armchair, and his son looked down, abashed.
That the captain permitted himself to lean on Alex Gordon’s arm made her fear that he had been gravely wounded.
“Ah…Mistress Jane…Captain O’Brien,” Alex ventured, “it’s possible that the shots will have attracted attention.”
“Well thought on, but unlikely. You’ve the shutters up, and this is a thick-walled old house.”
“You are correct, sir, but what’s to do now?” Jane asked.
Mrs. Jennings returned then, bearing a tray with a bowl of steaming water, scissors, a needle, thread, and a soft old linen sheet. Jessup came in on her heels.
He looked none the worse for wear, except that his coat and breeches were dusty and there was a cobweb on his shoulder. One could not expect a cellar to be clean, after all.
“Jessup, help Captain O’Brien off with his coat, gently, if you please, before he sits. Mrs. Jennings, if you will see to the sleeve? How fortunate it’s a dark color. You will sponge it, I know, if there’s any blood—oh, there isn’t. Good. And pour some brandy, Jessup.”
“Thank you, I will take a glass. Though only one today. I had a glass too many yesterday, and I’m out of practice.
”
Jessup, after a quick appraisal, poured the younger O’Brien a glass as well. He had approached to stand a few feet away, his face whiter than his father’s. Jessup’s eyes slid to Gordon and evidently decided it would appear peculiar to offer the footman spirits. Jane noticed what Jessup, perhaps, had not: Alex was standing back from the group around the captain, positioned to have a clear shot at Gabriel O’Brien. No, Alex did not require a sustaining dram, even if he was a little pale.
“It appears your wound is not as serious as it might have been.” Jane eyed the torn, blood-stained shirt sleeve. “Do you think you can raise your arm, sir? If you can, we might remove your shirt rather than cutting it.”
“If someone—” He glanced around, and Jane saw him register Alex’s position and understand its significance. “—ah, Gabriel! You will help me to stand while I take it off. I would rather save the shirt, for ’tis one of the last my late wife made for me.” The younger O’Brien hastened to his side, realized he was yet holding his pistol, and set it upon the sideboard. He bent to allow his father to put his left arm around his shoulders, and put his own arm around the captain’s torso, to aid him to rise. He must have done something similar many times during the captain’s recovery.
Jane, taking the shirt once they’d pulled it free, looked at O’Brien again. “Where is your cane, sir? How did you come to be here?”
He sank back onto the chair. “I was up in your pleasant guest chamber, feeling the better for a long sleep and a good breakfast and time to collect my thoughts, when I heard a woman squall. I listened at the door, and I could hear men’s voices, though not what they were saying. It sounded like trouble, and I never was good at avoiding that commodity. So I made certain preparations, such as leaving my cane, and slipped along the passage to the head of the stair. There, I heard enough to know you and your household were in need of assistance.”
“But however did you manage the stairs, with your bad leg?”
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