When the watch had last called, it was two o’clock. Francis sighed. God send they would not all of them sit ‘til dawn, and then in vain!
As if in answer, muffled sounds without the house came to his ears. He could not make them out beyond a grunt and a terse command.
Francis pushed back his chair and got up, shifting to the window and listening intently. Nothing. Of course he was on the wrong side of the house. All the action, if there was any, must occur in the back.
Somewhere a door slammed. Francis crossed quickly to the parlour door and opened it. Now he could hear something. Men’s voices coming from without, low with an occasional louder warning. Francis toyed with the notion of heading for the domestic stairs, but he had not been a soldier for nothing. One did not butt into an action in which one had no part. Thus were errors made.
Straining to hear, Francis thought he made out the sound of several pairs of feet deep in the recesses of the domestic quarters below, accompanied by indistinct mumbling and the stamp and grunt of effort.
“He came back.”
Francis turned quickly. Ottilia was standing in the open doorway. An outline only. He moved to her.
“It seems so from the commotion yonder. I daresay it will take some moments before all is settled.”
He saw the shadow that was Ottilia clasping and unclasping restless hands, her attention held upon the darkness in the vestibule. Francis was scarcely less in suspense and could think of nothing to offer in the way of comfort. He wanted to draw her to him and enfold her in the warmth of his embrace, but the very intensity of this desire withheld him. He had not yet won the right to cherish and protect.
His startled mind threw the thought back at him, and he almost laughed aloud. What a moment to choose to recognise the state of his heart! Or would Ottilia say that it needed just such a moment of tension to jolt a man into knowledge?
“Someone is coming.”
At once alert, Francis turned his attention to the matter at hand. Footsteps were coming up the stairs. As one, Francis and Ottilia moved towards the vestibule. Seconds later, a man swiftly rounded the landing. Francis started forward, Ottilia at his heels.
“George?”
Tretower was a mere shadow in the darkness, but Francis could almost see the triumph in his face.
“We have him!”
“Oh, thank God!”
Ottilia sank back, holding on to the newel post at the top of the stairs. Francis moved quickly to her, putting a supporting arm about her back.
“Into the parlour with you. Come, George.”
He guided Ottilia back through the vestibule and into the parlour, obliging her to sit. In the dim light thrown by the candle, Francis saw that his mother was sitting bolt upright.
“What’s to do?”
Tretower crossed the room towards her. “He has been taken, ma’am. He fell straight into the trap.”
“Oh, bravo, Ottilia! Clever girl.”
Francis echoed the words in his head and watched his friend move to where Ottilia sat, looking dazed.
“You were right, ma’am. He came back for the jewels. Ingham’s fellows know their business, I’ll say that for them. They let him scrabble for them and the moment the package was in his hands, they pounced.”
His mother was all approbation, but Francis had his eyes on Ottilia. She yet wore that strangely distant air, as if she were not truly there.
“Where is he now?” she asked.
“Ah, there’s a tale,” said George. “There was something of a scuffle, for the man fought like a madman.”
“Is he much hurt?” Francis asked.
“He has taken a little punishment.”
“Was the fan in his possession?” Ottilia asked.
Francis had forgot the fan. Without doubt, she had the wit. He looked expectantly at his friend.
“I don’t know, ma’am. To my knowledge they have not searched him.”
“Lord above, they don’t know!”
“Or it did not occur to Sir Thomas to advise them to look for it,” Ottilia suggested.
“It must be found!”
“In due time, Mama,” said Francis, putting out a hand to stay his mother’s wrath. “Yes, yes, I know it is an heirloom, but first things first.”
“Perhaps, Mrs. Draycott,” George cut in, “you may discover where Abel has secreted it.”
“I? How, pray?”
Francis glanced swiftly at his friend. Tretower’s manner was diffident, a sure sign he had something distasteful to impart. “Out with it, man.”
George threw him an apologetic glance and turned back to Ottilia. “The fact is, ma’am, that Abel made no real resistance until they tried to take him off to Bow Street. Grice had his orders, but in view of the man’s attitude, the Runners chose instead to keep him here. One of them has gone to Ingham for orders, and a couple of my men are assisting the other to guard the prisoner. He has been put in the butler’s pantry.”
“But why in the world should he wish to remain here?”
Francis was glad his mother had voiced the question, but Tretower’s silence troubled him. “George?”
His friend let out a sigh. “The thing is, Mrs. Draycott, the man insists he will speak to none but you.”
“The devil he does!” Infuriated, Francis watched Ottilia shrink back. “Tell the fellow to go hang.”
At that, she looked up at him. “No, Francis. They need a confession.”
He cursed under his breath. “I was forgetting that. Very well, if it must be. But you are not going alone.”
“Gracious, I should hope not! You must go with her, Francis.”
“Try if you can stop me.” He looked down at Ottilia, whose face was still upturned. He could not read her expression in the uncertain light. “You are not going to try, are you?”
There was no mistaking the warm smile. “No, indeed, Fan. I need you too much.”
She held out her hand as she spoke, and Francis, a glow racing through his body, took hold of it and drew her to her feet. But he did not release her hand as he turned with her to follow George from the room.
The footman was seated, tied to the back of a chair with his hands behind him. Several candles had been lighted, and Ottilia saw the dark splotches on his face where bruises were beginning to show. He was unshaven, and the once smart crop was lank with sweat. Unsurprisingly, he was not wearing his livery, but a somewhat battered greatcoat over a greasy frock and waistcoat. A disguise? Or had his recent activities reduced him in this way?
His eyes held all the old insolence, and something more. Defiance? There was fierceness there, Ottilia thought. She took the chair opposite that Francis pulled out for her and saw Abel cast a resentful glance at him.
Francis had obviously not missed it. “You need not attempt to have me depart, Abel. If you want Mrs. Draycott, you get me as well.”
The footman did not answer, instead transferring his gaze to Ottilia’s face. She summoned all her habitual calm and faced him as coolly as she could.
“What do you want with me, Abel?”
He let out a harsh laugh. “That’s rich, that is, madam, coming from you. It’s your doing I’m here.”
Ottilia felt Francis’s motion and threw up a hand without looking at him. “No, it is your own doing, Abel.”
“You set them onto me,” he growled.
Ottilia nodded. “That is true. But I could not have done so had you stayed your hand.”
For a moment he shrunk into himself, his eyes going dim. But then he rallied, and in his look Ottilia thought there was an echo of the passion that must have held Emily in thrall for so long.
“She deserved it, she-devil as she was!”
A satisfied sigh drew her attention to the Runner Grice, who was standing out of Abel’s sight line. He produced a stubby pencil and began to write into a grubby notebook.
Ottilia felt a surge of anger. “And what of young Jeremy Bowerchalke? Did he deserve it?”
Abel’s gaz
e shifted, and he looked this way and that, biting his lip. “Silly young chub.” It was a mutter only, but Ottilia caught the words. “He’d took my place, hadn’t he? That was reason enough.”
“But that was not your reason,” she said, and his head came up. Did he think she had not heard him? “You killed him because he could bear witness against you.”
“Didn’t even know he was there. I knew him. Knew all her pretty gentlemen. Pah! Gentlemen!”
Ottilia’s innate curiosity got the better of her. “What did she promise you, Abel? What was it she did not perform?”
He threw up his head, his mouth contorting in a species of agony as he groaned. “She said she’d see me right. She meant money. I thought she did. But it never come. I thought to set myself up in the world. You can’t be a footman forever.”
“Is that why you went in to her that night?”
He meant to lean forward, she thought, but his bonds prevented him. He shoved his face towards her, a snarl in his voice. “It was the last chance. I knew his lordship were going to France, and I knew his purpose.”
Francis, who had been standing back a little, slammed forward, his fists landing on the table. Abel jerked back.
“How did you know? How the devil could you know what his family did not?”
“Servants talk, my lord,” came the sullen reply. “I’ll not say who or how, but I knew.”
With an oath, Francis flung up and away. Ottilia could not blame him, but there was a task still to do here.
“You knew about Madame Guizot?”
“Aye, and that he meant to bring her to England. I knew there’d be the devil to pay. I knew my lady would have no time for me after.”
My lady. An intimacy that was no real intimacy. Ottilia was conscious of a pull of sympathy for the man — a toy to gratify an idle fancy.
“So you demanded money?”
“I asked for what she’d promised.” A glare came into his eyes. “She denied she said it. She made me wild.” He shuddered then. “I don’t know what happened. I was overtook by rage, I know that. When I came to myself ... there she was.” The image in his mind was etched in his face. A pathetic end to a sordid tale.
Ottilia stood up. “I am sorry for you, Abel.”
He did not answer. Francis went to the door and held it for her, but Ottilia did not move. She held out her hand.
“Give me the fan, if you please, Abel.”
For a moment the footman stared with eyes sunken as if in pain. Ottilia wondered if he failed to understand her, or if he sought a last futile rebellion. Then a fierce anger overlaid his features and he jerked his chin towards his bonds.
“I can’t, madam, thanks to these. But you may take it from me if you like. If you care to search me.”
And he threw his head back and let out a roughened guffaw. Ottilia flinched, but she held her ground. With a few swift steps Francis was back at her side, his furious glare fixed upon the footman.
“She will not touch your vile carcass!”
Ottilia feared he might lay violent hands upon the man, but Grice the Runner was before him, raising a threatening fist.
“You keep your tongue sheathed, unless you want another dose of home-brewed.” He glanced at Ottilia. “I’ll find it, miss.”
“The rings, too, if he has not sold them. There are three rings missing.”
It did not take the Runner above a moment to extract a long object from an inner recess in Abel’s coat. It was wrapped in a pocket-handkerchief. The Runner held it out to Ottilia.
“Me hands ain’t none too clean, miss. Obliged if you’ll take a looksee and identify the object inside.”
Ottilia took it automatically. “But I cannot. I have never seen it.”
But she knew her reluctance to handle the thing stemmed rather from revulsion. She was not ordinarily squeamish, but the thought of the part the fan had played in the drama was one she found singularly distressing. Wordlessly, she passed it to Francis and watched him unravel its covering. He spread the fan and Ottilia saw it glitter in the gloom. Francis looked up.
“Yes, this is it.”
Benjamin Grice gave a grunt of satisfaction. “Stolen goods an’ all. You’ve a mighty long indictment coming to you, my lad.”
Francis wrapped the fan up again and looked at Ottilia. “Are you ready?”
But the Runner stayed him. “Here, that’s evidence that is, me lord.”
“Then, should he wish for it, I will hand it to Sir Thomas Ingham. Content you with the rings, if you find them.”
Ottilia felt him take her arm and went with him to the door. From there she took a last look at Abel. His head was down, his chin sunk into his chest, defeated. She turned from the sight and left the room.
The dining parlour had become the scene of vociferous argument interspersed with wild expressions of relief and joy. The marquis had returned from Bow Street shortly after the unexpected reunion of the dowager and Lord Francis with the son of the house. Giles, Earl of Bennifield, having travelled day or night without pause, so he said, and arriving just in time for breakfast, had been welcomed back from Italy with tears and laughter.
Barely had he been regaled with a brief version of events than a hackney deposited his father on the doorstep. As Madame Guizot and her children came down at the same time, pandemonium reigned for several moments.
Ottilia had borne little part in the excitement, although she had watched from the sidelines, enjoying the exuberance brought by release from tension. She had been introduced briefly, but effaced herself as quickly as she could, reluctant to detract from the family’s happiest moment since the start of the afflictions that had befallen them.
Presently, when Madame Guizot, having satisfied herself of the safety of Lord Polbrook, had retired with her children, the talk turned upon the public face that must be decided. There was no avoiding scandal, the dowager held, but they must stand firm together against the world and their tales must be the same.
Breakfast was long over, but the party had lingered in the dining parlour, Giles full of question, and with the zeal of the very young, hot against the world for daring to criticise his mother.
These were matters in which Ottilia felt she had no part to play. Choosing a moment when everyone’s attention was engaged, she slipped out of the room and into the vestibule. She had it in mind to go to her chamber, but she had barely reached the top of the first flight of stairs when lethargy overcame her. Turning, she sank down upon the step and rested her head against a convenient baluster.
She was weary and heartsore, and the end of the adventure left her utterly deflated. Her mind felt woolly and she could not think. Involuntarily, she closed her eyes.
“Tillie?”
Her eyelids fluttered up. Francis was standing in the vestibule, regarding her. Ottilia made to rise and could not. She sank back.
A frown in his eyes, Francis came quickly up the steps, halting just below her. “What is amiss?”
She put out a staying hand. “Nothing at all.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She tried to smile, and felt pricking at her eyes. No, she must not weep. Swallowing upon a thickened throat, she did her best to make light of it.
“I felt de trop. What is being discussed in there is hardly my concern.”
He was regarding her keenly. “Nor was it your concern to discover Emily’s murderer, but that did not stop you.”
The urge to cry was smothering her breath. “That was — different.”
For a moment he did not speak, for which Ottilia was both grateful and disappointed. Then he caught her hand and tugged.
“Come with me.”
Ottilia held back, a riffle disturbing her heartbeat. “Why?”
“That you shall know presently.” An eyebrow quirked. “Tillie, if you don’t come, I give you fair warning I shall pick you up and carry you.”
Despite herself, a tiny spurt of laughter escaped her.
He grinned. “That’s b
etter.”
Before she well knew what had happened, she had been drawn to her feet, led down the stairs, dragged willy-nilly through the little lobby where they had so lately eavesdropped upon Sybilla and Lord Polbrook, and was thrust without ceremony into the library.
Francis released her and closed the door. Ottilia’s heart began to pound. All desire to weep had left her. Her throat was dry, but she managed to speak, albeit in what sounded to her own ears like a croak.
“What did you bring me here for?”
His gaze met hers and what she saw there drove the breath from her lungs. “Did you think I was going to kiss you in full view of the world?”
Ottilia could only stare, utterly taken aback, as yet unable to take in the implication of his words.
He uttered a laugh that broke in the middle. Next instant she felt herself gathered into a stifling embrace.
“Oh, Tillie,” he breathed.
His face came down and Ottilia automatically closed her eyes. The warmth of his lips made her knees weak and her head dizzied. An uncountable time later, his hold slackened and he released her mouth, leaning back to look into her eyes.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for days.”
Ottilia’s hands came up without will and she set them against his chest. Her head was whirling and she could only say exactly what came into it.
“Why did you not?”
Francis smiled and her heart melted. “I did not dare. I would not have dared yet, if Mama had not this morning told me to stop being a prevaricating fool.”
“Sybilla?” Ottilia was so surprised, she broke away. “She said that?”
“And more.” He captured one of her hands, brought it to his mouth, and kissed her fingers.
“What more?” But her attention was wandering to the tingling sensation his lips produced in her hand.
Francis’s eyes were alight. “She said that if I was by chance wondering why you had turned into a watering pot, I had only to look in a mirror.”
Ottilia let out a gurgle. “Oh no. Does she think I have fallen in love with a handsome face?”
The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Page 33