Unseemly Ambition

by K. B. Owen

  She knew better than to bang on the door and demand to be let out. Lily had no intention of letting her go.

  Concordia crossed over to the window, opening it as far as it would go. The cool night air soothed her throbbing head.

  She was about twelve feet from the ground, without so much as a vine or tree branch to aid any climb down. She wasn’t sure she could have managed a climb, anyway; she wasn’t quite steady yet.

  Then she noticed a figure in the darkness, moving stealthily toward the side of the house.

  What on earth?

  Concordia breathed a sigh of relief when she recognized Charlotte Crandall. How did the girl manage to return undetected? Bless the resourceful young lady for realizing there was trouble.

  “Psst! Charlotte!” Concordia called in a hushed voice.

  The figure looked up. “Miss Wells,” she whispered. “Thank heavens. I’ll be right back; I saw a ladder in the shed.” Charlotte slipped into the shadows around the corner, re-emerging in moments with a long ladder. After a few attempts, she managed to softly prop it against the wall. “I’ll hold it while you climb down.”

  Concordia shook her head, but she couldn’t explain. The more she talked while leaning out the window, the more likely someone would hear them.

  Charlotte’s expression was unreadable in the darkness, but after a pause the girl got on the ladder and climbed up.

  Concordia helped in the bedraggled girl. “Am I glad to see you.”

  “What happened? Why didn’t you climb down?” Charlotte Crandall asked.

  “Lily put something in my tea to knock me out. I feel a little wobbly. Oh, and the door’s locked from the outside.” Concordia sank back into a chair.

  Charlotte sucked in a breath. “So she’s part of this, too. These are desperate people.”

  Concordia nodded, gingerly. “What made you come back?”

  “When you hadn’t returned to Willow Cottage by one o’clock this morning,” Charlotte said, collapsing into a chair and re-pinning her straggling bun, “I grew worried. That last conversation we had with Bursar Isley...something wasn’t right. I didn’t know what to think. I wanted to see if you were here.”

  “But how did you get here?”

  “I borrowed a horse,” Charlotte said matter-of-factly.

  Concordia shuddered. She didn’t especially like horses, and they didn’t seem over-fond of her, either.

  “When I was out on the grounds, I overheard Mr. Isley through a downstairs window, talking with another man,” Charlotte continued. She gave Concordia an anxious look. “Are you feeling any better? We have to get out of here.”

  Concordia stood and crossed to the window. The dizziness had ebbed. “I can do it now.” She hesitated and turned back to Charlotte. “Isley was talking with another man? What did they say?” She was willing to bet it was Inner Circle business.

  “Apparently there’s to be a meeting at three this morning. They’re waiting for whoever’s in charge to come, to finalize plans for something.”

  Concordia started. “You mean Isley’s not the one in charge of the Inner Circle?”

  “Not the way I heard it, no.” Charlotte glanced uneasily at the bedside clock. “It’s past that time now. Shouldn’t we leave? All of the other guests are long gone. We’d have no one to turn to for help if someone comes in.”

  Concordia shook her head. She was very curious about this man in charge, who wasn’t Isley. Could it be Maynard? Where had he been all evening, if not in his own house? “Did Isley say anything else?”

  “Not really,” Charlotte said. “They stopped talking when the maid came down the hallway. Isley told her to get the fire stoked in the billiard room, and lay out port and cigars.”

  “Where’s the billiard room?” Concordia asked.

  “My guess is the top story,” Charlotte said. “I saw the maids turning up the lights and opening the windows in the room just above this one.” She regarded Concordia anxiously. “You’re not considering what I think you are....”

  “We have to learn their plans,” Concordia said. “This may be our only opportunity.”

  “Setting aside for the moment how dangerous that is,” Charlotte said, “how are you going to get up there?”

  Concordia went to the window where the ladder was propped and looked up. Even though it extended past her window, it didn’t quite reach the balcony above.

  However, just to the right of the balcony was the deep ledge of a gabled window.

  She pointed it out. “I can reach that window sill. On a mild night like this, they are bound to leave the windows and balcony doors open. I’ll be able to hear everything.”

  “Unless one of them steps out on the balcony and sees you first,” Charlotte protested.

  Concordia regarded Charlotte, nervously glancing out the window. “Charlotte, there’s no sense in both of us risking capture. Why don’t you go back down the ladder, and wait for me…where did you tether the horse?”

  “In the orchard, but out of sight of the house,” Charlotte said.

  “Then wait for me there, and if I don’t join you in thirty minutes, leave and get help.”

  Charlotte shook her head stubbornly. “You’ll need someone to keep the ladder steady. At that height, it would be sure to tip. I can stay here and support it from the window. No one would see me with the lights in the room turned out.”

  Concordia hesitated, then smiled. “Thank you.”

  Charlotte looked over Concordia’s ball gown with a skeptical eye. “But how are you going to climb a ladder and stand on a window ledge wearing that?”

  Concordia regarded her gown in dismay. “You’re right.” She went over to the armoire and pulled it open, scanning the contents for something suitable. All men’s clothing, of course; even if he were not a bachelor, Randolph Maynard certainly wouldn’t keep women’s attire in his own wardrobe.

  Charlotte stifled a laugh. “You’re not going to wear the dean’s clothes, are you?”

  Concordia held a pair of trousers against her waist, trying to get a sense of their size. Fortunately, Randolph Maynard was a lean man, and the waist didn’t seem too large. Of course, he was much taller than she.

  “Why not?” Concordia asked with false bravado, trying not to think about how ridiculous she was going to look. “I can roll up the cuffs so they don’t catch...and these suspenders will hold up the trousers. Help me, will you?”

  Charlotte helped her out of the gown and corset. Concordia left her chemise on, tucking it awkwardly into the trousers. Lumpy but effective, she decided. She added a cotton shirt, rolled at the sleeves to free her hands, with a dark jacket over top, so the white wouldn’t catch the light. As her dress pumps were impractical for climbing and none of Maynard’s shoes fit, she went in her stockinged feet.

  “I am a sight, I must say.” Concordia turned away from the mirror. “Okay, ready.”

  With Charlotte holding onto the ladder from inside the room, Concordia grasped a rung and tentatively pulled herself up. She paused briefly, looking at Charlotte. “If you hear someone at the bedroom door, climb down and get help.”

  “But that will leave you stranded,” Charlotte protested.

  “I can reach the balcony from that gable window, if I have to,” Concordia said. “By that point, I’d be discovered, anyway. No sense in us both being caught. And if you get away, you can bring back help.”

  Charlotte nodded miserably, and Concordia started to climb.

  There was a refreshing freedom in wearing men’s clothing, and Concordia climbed up quickly.

  When she was nearly at the top, the ladder began to wobble. Concordia froze and looked down. She could see Charlotte’s hands, firmly curled around the sides. Thank heaven the girl had insisted upon staying. The sill was to her left, and she could see the balcony beyond that, bright light spilling onto it from the open French doors of the billiard room.

  She reached for the top frame of the gable with her left hand, then shifted her right hand
to the top ladder rung. Taking a deep breath, she stepped onto the window ledge—left foot, then right foot, not daring to look down. The balcony was less than an arm’s length away, with a wide balustrade blocking some of the view. She flattened herself against the building as best she could and tipped her head to listen.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Maynard woke with a pounding heart. He glanced over at the clock: three in the morning.

  What did the dream mean? He must be more troubled about the note than he’d thought. He trusted the men in the brotherhood—men who believed in philanthropy without the egregious self-congratulatory posturing that accompanied most charitable works. But he couldn’t shake the idea that someone from the Black Scroll didn’t want him at the ball tonight. Didn’t want him in his own summer house.

  Early as it was, he gave up on sleep and dressed. Perhaps a visit to the college’s stable would settle his disquiet. He’d always found the company of horses soothing. Ever since he was a boy, the summers spent on his uncle’s farm were more pleasurable than anywhere else. He could read a horse’s mood, and understood its temperament.

  As Maynard made his way to the stable, he thought more about the Black Scroll. Some things had been odd about the Brotherhood lately: Isley’s request that he place an order with his brother-in-law, a jeweler, for cufflinks and a pin emblazoned with the symbol of the organization. Too few to be given to each member, certainly, and Maynard hadn’t seen them distributed to anyone. Then there was the request that he open his summer house early, to host the Masquerade Ball.

  But it wasn’t the Brotherhood as a whole that was odd, he realized. During membership meetings, the same few men—Isley among them—broke away afterward to talk among themselves. Were they responsible for the bogus message? But why lure him away from his own home? What in blazes was going on?

  There was only one solution: Maynard had to see for himself. Surely, President Langdon wouldn’t mind if he borrowed his new buggy, even at this hour.

  At the stable, Maynard was greeted with a sleepy whinny from Ransom, a sturdy black Frisian. Maynard rubbed the velvety nose that was thrust his way and glanced into Chestnut’s stall.

  Chestnut was gone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Gentlemen, let’s look to our business.

  Othello, II.iii

  Concordia held onto the window frame and strained to listen.

  “—Lily has assured me that she’ll sleep until dawn, at least.” The voice was Barton Isley’s.

  “That lady professor’s a nosy one. Makes me uncomfortable, with our plans so close to fruition. I’ll be glad when it’s over tomorrow,” another man answered.

  “That’s why I took it upon myself to act, when I spotted her,” Isley continued, his voice touched with pride and self-importance. “I wanted to make sure we could keep her contained. She knows nothing of our arrangements,” he added hastily, “but she was scrutinizing the guests quite carefully.”

  Concordia let out a small sigh. So much for her attempt at subtlety during the ball. Miss Hamilton would have carried it off easily.

  “‘Twas a wise precaution, to be sure,” said another voice. Concordia gripped the ledge, her knuckles white. The voice had a familiar Irish lilt to it.

  Robert Flynn.

  Her breath grew shallow as she strained to hear every word.

  “We’ll let her go after she wakes, won’t we?” Isley asked.

  “Do you think me a bounder? Of course we’ll let her go,” Flynn said. “I see no harm in it. Lily led her to believe she was suffering from an indisposition, isn’t that so? Miss Wells knows only that those in attendance at the ball tonight are members of the Black Scroll. She knows nothing of our Circle.”

  Concordia knew Flynn was lying. He hadn’t spared Florence or Ben Rosen. He’d tried to kill Eli and Miss Hamilton. Why would he let Concordia go? He didn’t dare.

  Other pieces were falling into place now. Eli’s man in “fancy dress” fit Flynn: the tall, slim frame, salt-and-pepper hair, and the neatly trimmed beard. Flynn had been the first to notice Florence, after the Capshaws’ wedding. That sharp glance across the street had been one of startled recognition, she realized now. Flynn was the man who had turned in Eli as a stowaway on the train, feinting laryngitis so that his distinctive Irish accent would not be noted. He later ran down Eli in the street and left him to die.

  It must have been quite a shock when Flynn had caught a glimpse of Eli, alive, through the partly-open study door while at the Capshaw house. He had concealed his reaction well, turning his initial shock into exaggerated anger.

  Why hadn’t she thought of him before?

  What a simpleton she’d been. He hadn’t been at the Isley’s dinner party during the Inner Circle meeting in the library, so she had eliminated him from consideration. Isley had obviously acted in his stead, working to recruit Sir Anthony. Then Flynn and her mother had arrived at the Isleys’ house later.

  Her mother. Concordia felt a chill at the back of her neck. How would her mother handle the news that the man she had begun to feel affection for was a ruthless criminal?

  She couldn’t think about that now. She had to know more of their plans. Careful of her footing, she leaned closer toward the balcony.

  “It will be only the one device, correct?” Isley asked.

  Device? Concordia felt cold all over.

  “Johnny has made two more, in case one fails,” Flynn answered.

  “We’re setting three devices? That’s reckless. You said no one would be seriously hurt,” Isley protested, anxiety in his voice.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Barton,” someone interrupted impatiently, “we are trying to get you elected. Don’t turn miss-ish on us now.”

  “Now, now,” Flynn said. “I applaud Barton’s caution. ‘Be first in a wood and last in a bog,’ as we say. Don’t worry; Johnny’s very adept at his work. He’ll place them at the debate where they will produce the most dramatic destruction of property, but they won’t be lethal. Perhaps some will suffer cuts and bruises, but that cannot be helped.”

  “I want to see where these devices are being placed,” Isley insisted.

  “Hardly practical,” Flynn said. “You must be as far from the scene as possible.”

  “But Sanders is expecting me there,” Isley said.

  “You will be indisposed and send your regrets,” Flynn said firmly. “I would advise the rest of you to be elsewhere tomorrow, going about your usual morning routines.”

  “What if Johnny’s caught planting the bombs?” Isley asked. “Three are more difficult than one.”

  “Johnny will be working with someone who’s very adept at slipping in and out without being noticed,” another voice chimed in.

  “Who?” Barton asked.

  “Oh, someone local, let’s just leave it at that,” Flynn said smoothly. “Why don’t you pour us some of Maynard’s excellent brandy? I think we all need a break.”

  Concordia’s hands were cramping in their grip on the sill. As she shifted position, one of the metal suspender buttons scraped against the stone. She froze.

  “Did you hear something?” someone asked. Concordia pressed herself into the shadows of the deep gable. She held her breath.

  In the small gap between the balustrade and wall, Concordia saw Flynn step out onto the balcony. He gazed out into the darkness and lit a cigar. Another man whom Concordia recognized from the ball joined him, and the two were puffing away, contemplating the shadows of the orchard trees in the moonlight.

  Flynn leaned in toward the man and dropped his voice, although the night air carried it to Concordia’s ear. “I want you to get a message to Johnny. But keep it quiet. He’s needed for another job.”

  The man rubbed the back of his neck and glanced back toward the room. “You mean—?”

  Flynn nodded. “A pity it is – she’s a fair cailin, without too many nicks in her horn. Nevertheless, Miss Wells must be silenced. Permanently.”

  As soon as th
e men went back inside, Concordia climbed quietly down the ladder, legs shaking. They had to get out of here.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Charlotte helped guide a trembling Concordia through the bedroom window. “That was close,” she breathed.

  Concordia groped her way to a chair. Her legs were shaking so badly she didn’t know if they would hold her weight. “Luckily, his eyes weren’t adjusted to the dark, and the balustrade blocked most of that side. Including the ladder.”

  “What did you learn?” Charlotte asked.

  “Plenty, and none of it good,” Concordia said. She fiddled with a suspender. Really, she could get used to such attire.

  Charlotte listened with rapt attention as Concordia told her about Robert Flynn and the Circle’s plans to set bombs at the candidates’ rally tomorrow.

  “Today, actually.” Concordia drew a shuddering breath.

  “But why?” Charlotte asked. “I hadn’t heard of any threats against either candidate, as volatile as the interactions between the two have sometimes been. What benefit could be gained from such a despicable act?”

  Concordia wondered that herself. Was it power? Money? We’re trying to get you elected, one of them had said to Isley.

  “I didn’t hear any discussion of why,” Concordia said. “I expect that ground has already been covered. It’s clear that Flynn is running things.”

  Charlotte paced the room in her agitation. “What do we do?”

  “We stop them,” Concordia said flatly. And then to break the news to her mother, she added to herself.

  Charlotte had gone pale. “Oh, no,” she whispered.

  “What is it?”

  “A group of girls from the school plan to attend the debate, accompanied by Miss Pomeroy.”

  “We’ll just have to get there first,” Concordia said, with a confidence she didn’t necessarily feel. “And the sooner we’re gone from here, the better.” She suppressed a shudder, remembering the message Flynn was sending to Hitchcock about another “job.”