Heartbroken during those many years, one day Mary met with Percy Grafton, a lawyer in nearby Tunbridge Wells, and hired him to write her will. Her inheritance was meant for Grace and her children. Months later, Mary died, never in charity with her unforgiving husband. The Dancys, Grace and John, were killed in a carriage accident weeks after Mary was buried. What would have been Grace’s inheritance would now be passed to Emily when she reached her twenty-first birthday.
Meanwhile, Eustace’s carriage sped south toward Kent to confront Percy Grafton, learn Emily’s natal date, and demand release of her inheritance to him. He arrived in Tunbridge Wells half an hour before the Porters’ crested carriage pulled up in front of the Fallen Virgin Inn. He sent his driver and vehicle to the Inn’s stables, went inside and reserved a room for himself and his driver and their equipage, then sought the taproom. He needed a drink as well as information.
Hurrying toward the street, a nob in a top hat brushed past him in the taproom’s archway. Eustace entered the tap and glancing around, noticing only a few customers sat at the bar. “A tankard fer every man here,” he ordered, magnanimously signaling the barkeep. “Drinks are on me, gents. Drink up!”
What better way to get information then to buy a few free drinks? Eustace threw a gold coin onto the polished bar and settled his arse on a bar stool. “Here’s to ye!” With a friendly salute he grinned and raised a full mug, making eye contact with each man there. Good. None seemed to remember him except a gray-haired shopkeeper. Sure enuff. ’Twas the merchant who had him arrested for stealing a few damn snuffboxes. The bad memory seared Eustace’s brain. He gulped down his ale and ordered a refill for himself.
Eustace chatted for half an hour or more with the tap’s clientele when he glanced toward the open archway, hearing women talking. Dressed stylishly and wearing a fancy bonnet, he recognized his missing ward immediately.
Damme me, if the little bitch didn’t come up in this world. But how did she get here and when? Then it dawned on him. Bloody hell! The slut was here to claim her inheritance!
For a few seconds an irrational scowl blackened Eustace’s brow. Then his forehead cleared, his crafty mind overcoming his fierce blast of ire.
Now ain’t that just a bit o’ luck! He cackled silently and swiftly turned his face away. If his ward was here for the same reason he was—and he was almost sure she was—he dared not let her see him.
Eustace kept a weather eye on Emily and the other female with her. He watched as the two women were shown abovestairs to their rooms. Letting five minutes to elapse, Eustace approached the concierge’s desk. He shook his head as if perplexed. “I tho’t I saw Miss Emily Dancy here in yer inn a while ago, innkeeper. Am I correct?”
“I’m not the innkeeper, sir,” the clerk replied. “But, aye, that was the lady and her maid you saw.”
“Hmm…” Eustace paused. “I’d like to ask Miss Dancy to sup with me. We’re old friends. Can you tell me what room she’s in?”
He learned Emily’s room number, but before he did anything, he wanted first to visit Percy Grafton. A taproom customer had given him the direction. When he arrived at a brick building situated off the main street, he found a sign on the door that read-Closed. Come back tomorrow.
Frustrated, Eustace banged on the door with the Malacca cane he took from Swinster. Ire boiled through his gut because he wasn’t able to meet face-to-face with Grafton right now. Turning away, he stopped into a nearby gaming hell to take the edge off his anger. A card shark, more adept than he was for a change, fleeced him of most of the blunt that he stole from Swinster. When he returned to the Fallen Virgin Inn, he was boiling mad as well as jug-bitten. He stumbled up the stairs to his room, and fell asleep, fully dressed, his pockets to let. The next morning, he awoke bleary-eyed, his head stuffed with goose feathers. The fact he’d let himself be cheated, made him more furious and steely-eyed. He rarely lost because he knew how to cheat. Now he vowed vengeance on the gambler and the gaming hell when he was again in funds.
But first, he needed to meet with Percy Grafton and coax Emily Dancy’s inheritance out of him. The chit’s natal day had to be close or she wouldn’t be here to claim it. Dammit it! He would beat the little bitch at her own game.
* * * *
That morning Emily ordered the Porters’ carriage made ready for a drive to Lesser Bodem. Dolly and her husband had knocked on Betsy’s door last evening and gave her directions to the tiny village. Will mentioned, too, that Squire Morrow had become a recluse and may not let them inside when they arrived there.
Emily had Percy Grafton’s letter with his address in Tunbridge Wells, but held off calling on him. Her first priority was to seek out her relatives, if any.
“Oh, Betsy, I’m so excited!” Emily was on edge as the Porters’ vehicle pulled out of the Fallen Virgin Inn’s stable yard. “I can’t wait to get to Lesser Bodem and learn if I have relatives living there.”
“I hope we find what yer looking for, Miss Emily.”
Eustace saw the pair leaving the Inn that morning. When he did, he grabbed the reins of a tacked up horse and flipped a leftover copper he found in his pocket toward the Inn’s surprised hostler.
“Here now! You can’t take that horse!” the hostler yelled. “’Tis already promised! Wait! I’ll get ye another!” Will frowned at the coin he caught so handily.
“Never mind! This one will do fine!” Eustace shouted as he mounted and dug his heels into the equine’s ribs. He squinted at the crested vehicle trotting briskly along High Street and out of the village ahead of him.
The road leading into Lesser Bodem boasted seven or eight small shops. Dogs ran loose in the street, barking and yelping; shop owners congregated in doorways eyeing the Porter’s fancy, spit ‘n’ polish vehicle trotting into the village’s center. The carriage’s ironclad wheels and the horse’s hoofs threw up clouds of gritty dust. Villagers gawked at the impressive lozenge painted on the coach’s doors. Even the butcher gaped as he rushed out of his shop to take a gander.
“Oh, goodness,” Emily whispered. “This village reminds me of Toynton-under-Hill. Don’t you think so, Betsy?”
“That I do, Miss Emily.” Betsy replied. “I remembers the day the Duke of Carlisle an’ his duchess came to town to welcome Reverend Pinckney to St. Baldwin’s. We was all standin’ out in the street smilin’ and clappin’ to get a good look at the nobs.”
“Well, whom do you think I should ask about my relatives?”
“Hmm…if I was ye, I’d speak with a churchman if there is one.”
“Of course, you’re right. I’m so nervous, I can’t think straight.” The dust had settled outside, so Emily opened a window and stuck her bonneted head out. “I don’t see a church spire, Betsy,” she said, quickly ducking back inside. “I guess they don’t have one.”
“Well, now,” the little maid pursed her lips. “See that big fellow over there? The one standing in front of the butcher’s shop? Let’s ask him.”
The maid hopped out of the carriage and waited till Emily followed her.
Meanwhile, Eustace slid off the pilfered horse and tied him to a tree at the edge of the village. He yanked the deep brim of his slouch hat down low to hide his face, and strode into town as to blend with the villagers.
Gawkers’ eyes followed the two women as they approached a large man wearing a blood-stained apron. “Good morning, good sir,” Emily greeted him, a tentative smile stretching her lips.
“Good mornin’ to ye, as well, Miss.” He ducked his chin as if Emily were a member of the gentry.
“My name is Emily Dancy,” she said and then added, “And this is my friend, Betsy Swiller. I’ve come to locate my relatives. Can you tell me if any Dancys live here?”
Without being aware of it, Emily and Betsy were now surrounded by wide-eyed, nosy, villagers. Eustace hung back, standing in front of a neighbor’s shop.
“A Dancy, ye say?” The burly butcher squinted down at her, stating the obvi
ous.
“Yes, I am one. My parents are…well, they lived somewhere nearby before they relocated to Surrey, and—”
The butcher rudely interrupted Emily. “Aye, mebbe that’s so, Miss, but there ain’t been no Dancys livin’ here fer more’n a decade or two ago.”
The butcher scratched bloodstained fingers on his chin whiskers. “I seen right orf that ye wasn’t from here,” he said. “Yer much too young. Them Dancys what lived here was in their middle years. And besides, the missus was barren and had no offspring.”
Emily’s disappointed glance flashed toward Betsy.
A loud voice suddenly shouted from the crowd surrounding the butcher. “The blacksmith, James Dancy an’ his wife, ’dopted a young’un from London. Don’t ye r’member nothin’, Marbell?”
A villager had reminded the butcher. “The lad was a black-hearted devil when the Dancys brung ‘im ‘ere. Or did ye lose yer memory altogether? Dint ye recall the boy was a bloody troublemaker, eh?”
The butcher swung back to the women who had approached him. “Right. A ruddy sneak thief, he was. Well, the squire soon ran ’im and ’is folks outta town. I pity the next village that took ’em in.”
Ears perked up, Eustace grumbled darkly when he heard the villagers’ slurs. “Dammed the slanderous bastards!” he mumbled. If he ever got close enough, he’d throttle the whole lot of what called him those names!
“I remember now. Yer right, Hettie,” the butcher agreed. “He was a real nasty bloke.”
Emily quickly but quietly spoke up. “Was his name Eustace?”
“Aye, Miss, that ‘twas his name.”
Another villager, named Neely crowded closer to Emily while badgering the butcher some. “I niver fergets a name. Specially, a black devil like that one, Marbell. But—”
Emily quickly chimed in, “I-I’m sorry to tell you this, but he’s…I mean…Eustace Dancy is my adopted uncle.”
“Gawd Almighty, Miss! Then yer mistaken iffen you thought he was ’ere!” Neely Jordan frowned from beneath the wide brim of his felt hat. “The squire warned them Dancys not ta show their faces here ever again. And glad I am that I ain’t seen ’ide nor ’air of that scoundrel in less than twenty years! Good riddance to bad trash!”
The crowd fluttered around Emily and Betsy, muttering amongst themselves and agreeing with the villager’s sentiments.
“The Dancys you mentioned were my grandparents. Both are dead, sir, and so are my parents,” Emily responded, her expression sober and sad. “But I hoped someone from my family still lived here or nearby.” Her blue eyes roamed over the motley crowd. Out of one corner of her eye, she saw a man turning away, but she took no notice because another voice called her attention.
“’Tain’t no Dancys livin’ in Lesser Bodem, Miss.”
“Them Dancys never agin stuck their bloody noses here oncet they was warned.”
“As old as Squire Morrow is, ’e woulda strength enuf ta sent them Dancys packin’ again!”
Only the fact that Eustace might be recognized, kept him from cursing the villagers out loud as his anger boiled over.
Damme, I need to think! He walked away to calm himself.
Learning nothing of value from the village’s inhabitants, Emily murmured, dejectedly, “I believe we have wasted our time here, Betsy. We may as well leave.” The maid’s disappointment was reflected on her face as well.
Emily thanked the butcher and headed toward the carriage. As she walked past, a woman tapped Emily on the arm. “Miss,” she said, “I think I remembers somethin’.”
Emily halted. She wasn’t eager to listen to more slurs on her family’s name because of her uncle. It was bad enough that she knew how mean and sly a monster he was. But the woman had grabbed her arm, so she waited to hear what she had to say.
“This may help you a little, Miss. I remembers the squire’s daughter running orf with some young feller. The old squire, well, he had a foul temper. Still does, I s’pose, since he’s still alive.” She chuckled. “His daughter was a lady, and he was furious with her for eloping with a nobody. So he sent her away! He wouldn’t let anyone even mention her name in his hearing. His unhappy wife passed from grief years later, but even then, the squire niver showed how broke up he was. Instead, he shut himself up in his manor and rarely left it.” The woman sighed. “We ain’t seen the old gent fer months on end. I’m thinkin’, Miss, it must be yer relative what stole the squire’s daughter.”
“You say the squire’s daughter eloped with a Dancy?” Emily asked, her eyes blinking with renewed hope. “Can you tell me how long ago that was?”
“I think ‘twas twenty years…or mebbe a few less than that. The squire sent his daughter away jest like he did with the middle-aged Dancys what adopted that nasty lad.” The informant hesitated, then continued. “I cain’t say for sure if the couple what eloped ever wed, ’cause we niver knew what really happened. ’Twas a juicy scandal, though.” The woman winked lewdly. “But who’s to know, eh?”
Emily’s heart thudded behind her ribs. “Is the squire’s name Morrow?”
“Why yes, Henry Morrow, Miss. Squire Henry Morrow.”
Emily twisted round to speak to Betsy. “Did you hear that?” Emily clapped hands against her bosom and breathed deep.
“And did I hear you right?” Emily again asked the woman. “Squire Morrow is still alive?”
“Last I heard he was livin’ in his manor. It’s down the lane, west of the village.”
* * * *
Eustace silently slunk away from the crowd in front of the butcher shop, mounted his horse, and rode out unseen after overhearing what Emily was privy to.
Old and still alive, eh? Damned if that bloody squire ain’t the chit’s grandpapa! What a bloody good opportunity to get me revenge on the mangy bastards what put me in gaol years ago.
Eustace’s raucous laughter crackled happily across the atmosphere as he left the hamlet proper and followed directions to the squire’s manor he overheard from the woman in the crowd. Kicking the borrowed equine into a canter, Eustace soon entered a dirt driveway and reined the horse into a standstill. Neither horse nor vehicle stood in the manor’s rear yard. Good. No visitors were there to interfere with him. Nobody but the old buzzard hisself.
Whiffs of white smoke puffed from four yellow brick chimneys, one sticking up on each corner of the manor. A flock of white ducks paddled contentedly across the smooth surface of a small pond. Unconscious of the tranquil scene before him, Eustace dismounted; his mind worked on a more devious plan. A weed-filled path led up to the front door where he banged the heavy silver handle of the Malacca cane against the dark wood and waited impatiently.
The door opened, and a rotund housekeeper appeared. “Can I help ye, sir?”
“I have urgent business with Squire Morrow.”
Eustace placed the toe of a large, booted foot against the door and forced the housekeeper to step back, allowing him to enter.
“Where is he?” Eustace asked, squinting into the shadowy interior.
“He’s in his study. Shall I tell him who ye are, sir?”
“No ye may not!” he snapped sharply. “’Tis a surprise. I’ll tell him meself. Now lead me to him.”
Wiping hands on her apron nervously, the housekeeper led Eustace toward the rear of the manor. Glancing over her shoulder at him, she said, rapping her knuckles lightly on the wood, “The squire is probably dozing. He often naps after eating.”
“Then we’ll wake him up now, won’t we?” Using the silver handle of his cane, Eustace rapped more heavily against the door.”
“Blast ye, woman!” A man’s grumbling epithet escaped from behind the oak. “Can’t you leave me in peace?”
“Go back ta yer kitchen, woman,” Eustace ordered the housekeeper. “None o’this is yer business. Our meeting is private.”
“But-but he’ll want to know who ye are, and what business ye have with him…”
“He’ll k
now soon enough. Now git! Do what I tell ye!”
The flustered housekeeper scurried away, glancing back as Eustace watched her disappear. He twisted the doorknob, shoved the door open, and stepped inside the room. “Well now, good day, Squire Morrow,” Eustace greeted the old man, a nasty smile spreading his lips. “We meet again, eh, what?”
Eustace let the latch catch, bent and flipped a key in the lock. “It ‘pears you an’ me has unfinished business, old man.” Frowning darkly at Henry Morrow, Eustace’s gaze pinned the former magistrate to his wingchair. “Shet up and stay where ye are b’cuz I’ll be doin’ all the talkin’!”
Eustace stepped farther into the squire’s study, halting in front of its gray-haired occupant. “D’ye remember me now, Squire?”
Thick curtains were closed half way to keep out the bright sunlight so the room was only dimly lit. As the housekeeper surmised, the aged squire had been napping. Henry leaned forward, squinting up at Eustace with faded blue eyes from under bushy, silver-frosted eyebrows.
“Who the devil are ye to come in here without being invited?” The squire gripped the arms of the wingback as if to raise himself up enough to stand.
Eustace reached out and shoved the squire hard in the chest.
Morrow fell back onto the cushions. “Here now—”
“I said stay where ye are, old man!” Eustace hissed from the gap between two yellowed front teeth.
Henry exhaled, huffing with ire and he scowled up at Dancy, but he quickly clamped his mouth shut.
A bit more mildly, Eustace said, “I see ye don’t remember me. Well, then…I’ll refresh yer memory. Me name’s Eustace Dancy.” One brow cocked up as he smirked, “D’ye remember me now, Squire?”
Recognizing the former culprit, a man now full grown who stood in his study, Henry’s voice crackled with remembrance. “You! That black scoun-drel! Eustace Dancy! What are ye doing invading my house? How d’ye get in? And what d’ye want?”
“A bit o’ retribution, eh, what? B’cuz o’ the way ye treated me years ago. Ye and that bloody shop owner what sicced you on me when I was a mere mischievous boy and only havin’ some fun!”
The Marriage Bargain Page 16