by Jo Goodman
Gritting her teeth, Emma spun on her heel and faced the driver. The lowered brim of his hat made it impossible for her to catch his eye. He was oblivious to what she hoped would be a quelling glance, and the drumming continued unabated.
Emma startled the driver even more than herself when she made a grab for his whip. He jumped back, knocking his shoulder into the carriage and causing him to lose his balance. Emma seized the whip as he stumbled and made no move to help him when his foot was wrenched between the curb and the carriage wheel. He went down hard, grunting in pain. His hat tipped sideways, then slipped from his head altogether.
Emma’s skin crawled for reasons she did not understand, but she gave the driver no more of her attention. It was the sound she’d heard from inside the carriage that caught her notice. She sidled closer to investigate just as the driver was starting to rise. He’d placed his hand in the opening of the door to pull himself to his feet. Emma didn’t hesitate. She slammed the door hard on his fingers, then threw herself against it. The driver bellowed, but it was the person inside the carriage trying to get out that cursed his bloody misfortune.
Emma knew she couldn’t hope to keep the door closed, so she didn’t try. In anticipation of the next push from the inside, she spun sideways. The door flew open, and the man that tumbled out sprawled belly down on the sidewalk. When he started to rise, Emma plunged the toe of her slipper into his ribs. He swore again, this time cursing her. She gave him the other foot in his soft side, harder than before. Then did it again. And again. And…
Jamie McCleod lifted Emma by the waist and set her more than a leg’s length away. Lewis was attending to the driver, helping the man up from the street so he could shove him to the sidewalk beside his accomplice.
“Is she uninjured?” Lewis asked McCleod. “You know he’ll have our guts for garters if there’s been so much as a hair harmed.”
McCleod appraised Emma. He still had an arm flung sideways to keep her at bay. She looked in every way prepared to trample the men on the ground if he lowered his guard. “She’s in fighting fettle.”
“Perhaps you should take the whip,” Lewis said. “Before she uses it.”
McCleod’s appraising look turned wary. “Mrs. Gardner? Might I have the whip?”
Emma set the whip handle squarely in McCleod’s large palm. “Use it to lash them to the carriage wheel.”
“Ma’am?”
“Lash them to the carriage wheel,” she said. “Make certain they’re secure, then one of you go and fetch my husband. Tell him you have captured Elliot and Will Poole. That will save your guts.”
McCleod flushed to the roots of his red hair, while Lewis stared at her, slack jawed. The pair watched her sweep calmly past them and through the gate, her bearing unruffled, even regal in profile.
“D’ye suppose that’s who we have here?” Lewis asked. “The Poole brothers?”
“I’m inclined to believe her,” McCleod said. He hunkered down beside one of the men and roughly grabbed him by the hair, jerking his head up. “Will or Elliot?” he asked. When the man merely spat at him, McCleod gave his head a smart bounce off the pavement. “Suppose I just call you a bad piece of work and not bother with introductions. Mr. Gardner will have it from you, just see if he don’t.”
Mr. Gardner had it first from his wife. When Restell arrived at number Twenty-three Covington a small crowd had gathered in front of the house to observe what was toward. They parted for Restell so he could advance on the gate, then closed ranks as McCleod joined Lewis in watching over the spitting, snarling pair tethered to the carriage wheel. No one had emerged from the house to separate the matched grays from the carriage. The animals were restless, made more so by the jostling of the spectators. Occasionally the carriage would lurch forward, making the awkwardly held positions of the captives even more unbearable.
Restell noted all of this as he passed, but gave no order that would have improved their lot. Whatever indignities they suffered in the street were nothing to what they would endure on the transport ship. He was of a mind to prepare them for their voyage.
He was shown immediately to Sir Arthur’s library where Emma was sitting with Lady Rivendale on the sofa. His first thought was that his wife was infinitely more composed than the countess. Indeed, it seemed to him that Emma was giving comfort rather than receiving it. She had her ladyship’s hand between her own and was alternately squeezing, then patting it.
Restell was in no wise prepared to accommodate Lady Rivendale’s nerves. “May I speak to my wife alone?” he asked without preamble.
“Lady Rivendale is overset,” Emma said.
Restell said nothing. His stare was pointed.
Now it was the countess who offered Emma a measure of comfort. “It’s all right, my dear. I believe your husband is more overset than I am.”
Emma released Lady Rivendale’s hand and went to Restell’s side. “Are you, Restell? You can see for yourself that I’m all of a piece. McCleod and Lewis were quite heroic. They dispatched the brothers with admirable efficiency.”
He arched an eyebrow. “That is not precisely how it was related to me.”
“Oh.”
“Hmm.” Over Emma’s shoulder, Restell watched Lady Rivendale rise from the sofa and begin to take her leave. “I don’t suppose you were a witness to what happened.”
“I was not.” The countess paused. “I will be with Sir Arthur if either of you have need of me.” She left the room quickly before Restell could press more questions on her.
When she was gone, Restell took Emma by the shoulders and regarded her from head to toe. She was in fine color and thoroughly settled. “I am suspicious of so much serenity, Mrs. Gardner.”
“I should be concerned if you were not. That is very much your nature.”
“Lady Rivendale may not have been a witness, but she knows what happened.”
“As I do. You must ask me.”
“I trust McCleod told me the truth,” he said. “And heroic is not a word he used to describe his intervention.” He nudged her toward the sofa and bade her sit. “Where are Sir Arthur’s driver and groom? McCleod didn’t know what had happened to them.”
“Cook found them unconscious and trussed like geese for baking in the carriage house. They never saw their attackers, but we can safely assume they are the pair amusing our neighbors right now.”
Restell’s lower jaw jutted forward as he slowly blew out a breath. “God’s truth, what were you thinking when you left this house with no escort?”
“I was thinking someone would be close by. Someone always is.”
“Yes, when they know you’re coming and going. Lewis saw the carriage and thought your cousin was leaving the house. McCleod told me that Lewis then discovered that the carriage wasn’t brought around for Miss Vega but for Lady Rivendale.” Restell glimpsed a frown briefly darken Emma’s expression. “When they realized that it was you that meant to take the carriage, they both converged at the front of the house.” His tone turned wry. “Apparently you had the miscreants well in hand by then.”
Emma’s slight frown returned; she nodded absently.
“Where were you going?” asked Restell. “McCleod didn’t know.”
“I think you must have interrogated poor Mr. McCleod on the way here.”
“I might have. At least he arrived with his skin intact.”
“Lewis said you would have their guts for garters.”
“And so I might if you do not answer my question. Did you think I hadn’t noticed?”
Emma sighed. “I was going to Mr. Charters’s home.” The fact that Restell simply stared at her moved Emma to expand her answer. “As a favor to Marisol. She thinks Mr. Charters intends to end their engagement. She asked me to speak to him.”
“Of course she did. Did you even hesitate?”
“I meant to,” she said, somewhat defensively. “But I didn’t, not really. Not until I was outside. It was my fear that held me back. You were right, Restell, about fea
r making one cautious and sometimes clever.”
In other circumstances this would have raised his smile, but not now. “And then?”
“Then the driver grew impatient and started slapping the butt of his whip against his leg, and I knew. I knew, Restell. That was the sound. Exactly. The rhythm, precisely. And he was the man, without question. I never saw his face, either, when he took his turn beating me or when he waited his turn, but I knew him. There was no other thought in my mind except that I must needs take the whip from him.” Her voice held a little of the awe she still felt at her own audacity. “So I did. Can you credit, Restell? I took it from him.”
Restell thought he could credit it more easily than she could. “It does not surprise, no. You are altogether fierce when you set your mind to it.”
Emma was encouraged to go on. “He fell against the carriage. I think that’s when he jostled the person inside, or at least that’s the first I was aware that someone else was present, and I knew at once who it must be, even though I’d never set eyes on him before. Somehow he spilled out onto the walk and—”
Restell cleared his throat lightly, interrupting her. “McCleod said it was as if the man was catapulted from the carriage.”
“Did he? I didn’t realize he was outside then.”
“Running down the steps, I believe, with Lewis on his heels. You didn’t start to kick the man until McCleod had cleared the gate. He told me you never heard him calling your name.”
Emma was much struck by that. “He’s right. I didn’t hear anything for the pounding in my head. The first I knew he was there was when he was restraining me from delivering another blow.”
“That was unkind of him.”
Emma was not entirely certain that he wasn’t serious. “What is to be done with them, Restell? They are Billy Poole’s cousins, you know. Did you notice their resemblance to the sketches Sir Arthur made?”
“I noticed their resemblance to the sketches you made.” He saw she was about to deny it. “No, Emma, do not dissemble. Not now. There were four sketches, but I don’t think they were all your uncle’s work. There were two that the innkeeper told me did not do justice to Peele. Those were the ones Marisol and Charters picked as most like the man. The one Mr. Broadstreet and his wife chose was the one you said bore the best resemblance to Peele. That was your work. You did it on your own when the others did not satisfy. Am I wrong?”
Emma looked down at her hands. “No,” she said. “You’re not wrong.”
“Bloody hell, Emma, even you must suspect what is happening here.”
She shook her head because she was helpless to do otherwise. “Please, don’t make me say it. I can’t.” Tears came to her eyes. “I just can’t.”
He nodded. “Where’s Marisol?”
“She went to sit with Sir Arthur.”
“All right. Collect your things, Emma. McCleod will take you home. There are details I must attend here, not the least of which is sending for the runners. I won’t be long. We’ll sort it out.” He drew her close, pressed a kiss against her temple, and held her until her breathing quieted. One of the things she collected before she left the house was herself.
The runners arrived with all due speed at Restell’s summons. It helped, he supposed, to have persons of importance in the household such as Sir Arthur, and most particularly the countess, for he had never known the authorities to respond with alacrity. He was glad he’d thought to mention their presence in the note he sent to Bow Street.
The runners made short work of sorting out the accounts of the witnesses, the information that Restell gave them, and the tales that Will and Elliot Peele interjected to portray themselves as wholly innocent. While the story the Peele brothers spun was true relative to the incident in front of number Twenty-three Covington, it did not account for the driver and groom who had been rendered unconscious or the oddity of Elliot Peele being inside the carriage. One by one witnesses stepped forward to make their statements. Restell doubted so many people had seen what happened, but never questioned that they wanted to come to Emma’s aide.
These were the same inhabitants of Covington Street that she observed from the balcony: the lads from Sir Harold Wembley’s home that waited for the milk wagon of a morning, the Harveys’ kitchen maid and the footman she flirted with from the Ford house, the Allens’ cook who often had occasion to argue with the tinker. Emma had pointed them out to Restell, though not from the balcony. They were all recognizable to him because she’d sketched, then carefully painted every one of them into the Fishing Village.
Restell’s own account was brief but bore considerable weight with the runners. He made it clear at the outset that his wife would not be made available for their questions but that he would answer for her. This seemed to suit them admirably as they confided they had no wish to further overset Mrs. Gardner.
Once the runners had the story in hand, Lewis unlashed Will and Elliot Peele from the carriage wheel and gave them over. The pair was frog-marched along Covington Street amid cheers and jeers, and the youngest lads left the crowd in favor of trailing after the Peeles and throwing bits of muck at their hapless heads.
The gathering dispersed as soon as the runners and their charges disappeared around the corner onto Appley Way. Restell and Lewis watched them go before they stepped inside the house. Lewis went to inquire after the groom and driver, while Restell set himself the task of making inquiries above stairs.
He found Lady Rivendale at Sir Arthur’s bedside. She had managed to calm herself, though he suspected she’d had little choice because Sir Arthur was so clearly overwrought.
“How can I help?” asked Restell as he came abreast of the bed.
“You can assure him that Emmalyn is well. I don’t think he believes me.”
Restell masked his surprise. It hadn’t occurred to him that Lady Rivendale would inform Sir Arthur of any part of the incident. The artist’s agitation could have been anticipated, and it did nothing to improve his speech. Sir Arthur was wholly unintelligible when he was in such a state.
Restell looked down at Sir Arthur and could sense the man imploring him, though what it was in aid of was less clear. “Emma is already home,” he said. “No doubt she is having tea in her studio by now. It is her sanctuary, Sir Arthur, modeled after the one you gave her here. I know she took you to see it. Think of her there, and it will give you peace of mind.”
Sir Arthur shook his head vehemently and used his good arm to flail at Restell. His fingers caught Restell’s hand; he gripped it hard and tugged. He spoke slowly, enunciating every word. None of it was understandable.
Restell looked to Lady Rivendale. “Has he tried pen and paper again?”
She nodded. “He can make letters that are recognizable to my eyes, but the words are incomprehensible. Whatever he thinks he is telling us is not what is writ on the page.”
“Where is Miss Vega? Emma says that she seems to be able to understand her father.” Restell felt his hand being jerked hard again. “I’ll bring her here, Sir Arthur. I have need to speak to her also.” When Sir Arthur shook his head, Restell was moved to ask, “Do you want your daughter here?” This time Sir Arthur nodded. “Very well,” said Restell. “Then I shall find her.” Sir Arthur responded by shaking his head as hard as he had before, prompting Restell to glance helplessly in Lady Rivendale’s direction.
“I cannot make sense of it, either,” she said. “Perhaps it is because Miss Vega is the one who told him what happened.”
“She did?”
Lady Rivendale took umbrage. “Why, you thought I was the one who told tales out of school. That is rarely the way of it, Restell. I heard some commotion and went downstairs to see what was toward. Miss Vega was at the window looking out on the street and gave me only enough of the particulars as to keep me there. When I returned to Sir Arthur it was to discover Miss Vega was at the end of making a more thorough explanation to him. He was in such a state of nerves that I shooed her out.”
“So wh
en I saw you with Emma later, it was Sir Arthur’s turn that had upset you.”
“Yes. Your wife was generous to offer her sympathies when she had just had a bad turn herself.”
A bad turn was rather understating Emma’s confrontation with the Peele brothers, but Restell did not point this out to Lady Rivendale. Emma was recovered from her encounter, while Sir Arthur was still greatly disturbed by it.
“Where is Miss Vega?” he asked the countess.
Her mouth flattened momentarily as she considered the question. “I’m not certain that I know.” She glanced at Sir Arthur. He was gripping the sleeve of Restell’s frock coat now and tugging on it with renewed urgency. “Oh dear, we have made ourselves disagreeable again. Go on, Restell. I will stay here while you look for Miss Vega.”
Restell eased himself from Sir Arthur’s grasp, apologizing for the distress he’d caused. He bussed Lady Rivendale’s cheek before he left her side and whispered that all would be made well.
Restell sought one of the maids to show him to Marisol’s bedchamber. She waited beside him as he knocked, then showed him in when there was no answer. Since he had expected to find Marisol prostrated across her bed, he was taken back to discover she was not in the room. The maid showed him her dressing room and it was similarly vacant.
“Where did you last see her?” he asked the woman.
“Coming out of her father’s room, sir. It was that long ago. I couldn’t say where she is now.”
Restell was on the point of asking the maid to make a search of the downstairs when Lady Rivendale stepped out of Sir Arthur’s room. The countess gestured for him to join her. He asked the maid to wait, then went to her ladyship’s side. He arrived with a question in his eyes.
“I believe she may have gone up to the studio,” Lady Rivendale said. “At least I think that’s what Sir Arthur is trying to tell me. It cannot hurt to look.”
Restell nodded, thanking her. He told the maid to remain where she was while he let himself into the stairwell leading up to the studio. He called up before he began his climb. “Miss Vega? Are you up there?” Restell was not deterred by the silence that greeted him, though he was disappointed. He mounted the steps quickly and was only two thirds of the way up when he had his first unhappy glimpse of what he would find at the top.