The Charmer

by CJ Archer

Orlando beckoned Warren the stable lad with a crook of his finger. The boy came running to where Orlando was half-hidden by the shadows near the stable wall.

  "Mr. Monk's inside the big house," Warren said, jerking his head at the Hall.

  "Thank you," Orlando said. "But I wanted to ask you something first."

  "Me?" The lad squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. "Ask away, Mr. Holt."

  "You worked here when the previous Lord Lynden was alive, didn't you?"

  "Aye. Been 'ere two years now."

  "How was he as a master?"

  "As fair as any other. I didn't 'ave much to do with 'im. Mostly 'e didn't see me and 'e never spoke to me direct. Only time I was in 'is presence was at Christmastide when we all dined together. I think 'e never liked it, but it was custom and the mistress prob'ly insisted."

  "Was he a devout man?"

  He shrugged. "Went to church on Sundays, just like the rest of us."

  "What about the current master?"

  "Same thing. Goes to church on Sundays."

  "And Lady Lynden...did she...was she a good mistress?"

  The lad blushed. "Aye. The best. She always had a kind word. Always said good mornin' to us, no matter how beneath 'er we was. When me Ma was sick, she gave me the day off and sent me 'ome with a basket. Sent the wise woman round too, she did, and paid 'er."

  "Did her husband know?"

  "Aye. Well, not at first." He pulled a face. "Later 'e found out and 'e railed at her. One of the maids said he shouted and said terrible things to 'er. Told 'er not to see none of 'er village friends no more. Said she was above that."

  Bloody hell. "What did she say?"

  "She said she would keep 'er own friends. After that..." Warren shook his head and huffed.

  "Did he..." God, it hurt just to think it let alone say it. "Did he hit her?"

  "Aye. The maids said he did. Terrible thing, it was. None of us could believe it. She never 'urt no one. And, well, we didn't know it until later, but she was with child. She lost it."

  Orlando knew about the lost baby and the damaged womb from Widow Dawson, but this...the reason for the loss was new to him. He felt sick to the core and so very, very angry. An anger that could never be vanquished because the perpetrator of Susanna's heartache was already dead, and not by Orlando's hand.

  If he did not need to speak to Monk, he would have gone back to Stoneleigh and taken her into his arms. The need to hold her, cherish her, and to take away her pain, was unbearable.

  Yet he knew she would not let him near. She no longer trusted him, and considering what he'd hidden from her, she had every right. He had lied to her, bedded her, and engaged her affections for his own amusement and purpose. Why in God's name would she trust him?

  Perhaps she was right and parting was the only option left to them now. It would certainly dampen the raw emotions he felt when he was near her, and dampen them he must. Distance and time, that's what he needed. It never failed to cure bruises of the body, so why not of the heart too. His conscience may take longer to forget the ills he'd bestowed, but he was growing used to carrying guilt of one kind or another. It was an old companion.

  Walking away from her would be difficult, but not as difficult as staying. Staying would do neither of them any good. Susanna needed to make her own way in the world as the heiress of Stoneleigh and he needed to see new places, meet new people, have adventures with his brothers-in-arms. Stay active and free from boredom and trouble it caused.

  The one good thing he could still do for her was seek out a London shopkeeper to sell her wares to noble customers. But first he needed to see the list Cowdrey had given her. If, as Orlando suspected, the names were false, then Cowdrey would feel the sharp end of Orlando's wrath.

  His mind was awhirl as he waited for Monk to leave the house. He helped Warren and the other lads in the stables, remaining near the entrance to see who came and left. Every thought he had returned to Susanna and the look on her face as she'd accused him of lying. The churning in his gut grew worse. If he could take every lie back, he would.

  But wishing was futile. Things wouldn't have been any different to what they were now except perhaps it was easier for her to banish him, easier for her to shrug off any feelings she may have harbored for him. He could live with her hatred. Absolutely. It was much, much better to bear her hatred than her love.

  Love. Hell. Now he was beginning to sound like Rafe Fletcher. Love might suit his good friend, a man who was ready to settle into an unvarying life, but it would not sit well on Orlando's shoulders. He wasn't ready. He never would be.

  "What are you doing here?" asked Monk, standing in the open doorway, blocking out the gloomy light.

  Orlando leaned on his broom. "You weren't at church this morning."

  "Report me to the parish then."

  "Not worried about your soul?"

  "My soul went to Hell years ago."

  Another one. He and Cole should become acquainted. What a fun evening around the fire that would be. "I'm not here to save your soul or muck out the stables." Orlando returned the broom to the corner. "Come with me."

  He strode past Monk, out the door and away from the house. Monk followed, his steps light on the gravel. It seemed he was a man used to sneaking about.

  "If you're taking me somewhere to kill me, get it over with," Monk said. "I'm a busy man."

  Orlando stopped when they were far enough from everyone and there was nothing but open spaces around them. They could not be overheard. "I'm not going to kill you after the grooms saw us leave together. How big a fool do you think me?"

  "Are you sure you want me to answer that?"

  Despite everything, Orlando laughed. "You sound like a friend of mine."

  "Get on with it, Holt, I'm busy." They stood a little apart, just out of each other's reach. Monk crossed his arms and glared at Orlando from beneath his hat.

  "Busy trying to steal the plans from Susanna Lynden?"

  The brief flare in Monk's eyes told Orlando he had the man's attention. It was a small sign and most would have missed it, but he was trained to look for such things. Monk was good at hiding his emotions, but not that good. "What plans?"

  "Don’t play the fool with me. You're not."

  "Ah, flattery. I hear you're famous for it."

  Orlando's fingers twitched with the need to run him through with his blade. "Shut your mouth, or I'll shut it for you."

  "How can I answer you with my mouth shut? You cannot have it both ways."

  "You showed great interest in the plans to build the structure over Susanna's orange trees. Why? What's written on them?"

  "Written on them? You saw for yourself—"

  Orlando's fist slammed into Monk's jaw, but he eased back at the last. The blow didn't knock Monk down, but it would leave a nice bruise. "Answer the bloody question."

  Monk gave a harsh laugh. He didn't touch his jaw. "You have a good fist, and you're fast. For a gardener."

  "How did Lord Lynden become involved with Whipple?"

  Monk's humorless smile disappeared. "I don't know what you're talking about." He turned to go.

  "Yes, you do. And I'm going to help you get the secret letter."

  Monk paused, turned. "I can get it myself."

  If he could, he would have kept walking.

  "I'll get it for you," Orlando said, "but first you have to answer one question and make a vow."

  Monk's brows shot up. "No request for money? For payment of some kind?"

  "Money holds no interest for me."

  "Then you are the fool," Monk snarled, bitterness screwing up his mouth. "Money is everything in this world. Everything."

  Orlando shrugged. "If you say so. But I'm not concerned with payment. All I want from you in return for the plans is the answer to one question: have you been hired to kill Susanna?"

  He frowned. "No."

  "You answered very quickly."

  "That's because I didn't have to think about it. I'm telling
the truth."

  "Promise me you'll not harm her."

  "I have no reason to harm her. If she gives me the plans."

  "You'll get the plans. You can give them to Lynden or Whipple, or whoever is afraid of their treason being discovered. I don't care about that. I only care that Susanna is not your target."

  Monk folded his arms again. "I have no target. My orders do not stretch to killing anyone, Lady Lynden included. Although I've come close to wanting to slit your throat on occasion."

  "The feeling's mutual." Despite his words, Orlando was beginning to like the man. "Who do you work with?"

  "No one."

  "Ever killed anyone?"

  "That would be against the law, Holt."

  Orlando tipped his hat. "You're right. Good day, Mr. Monk. If I catch you breaking your promise, I'll kill you. Understand? I'll deliver your letter to you when I have it." He walked off, not toward the main road but across the fields in the direction of Stoneleigh.

  "Make it soon," Monk said to Orlando's back. "Whipple's patience is thin and his nerves are weak."

  "He shouldn't have committed treason then, should he?"

  Crossing the fields was faster than taking the main road, although muddier. It began to rain hard. Drips fell from the brim of Orlando's hat, down his neck, and soon he was wet through. The proud, grand structure of Stoneleigh was a welcome sight. The stone walls themselves looked welcoming, the wings stretching like arms to embrace him. He could almost smell Cook's broth and feel it warming his insides. Susanna would be there too. Perhaps she would not walk away when she saw him. Perhaps she'd forgiven him and come to realize he spoke the truth when he said he wouldn't harm her. Perhaps she would not make him leave tomorrow.

  Despite his earlier conviction that leaving was the best thing for them both, the thought had him walking faster. Then running. He ran across the last field, jumped the fence, and didn't care when he landed in a puddle. Susanna would forgive him. He had the rest of the day and all night to convince her.

  He wiped the soles of his boots on the steps leading up to the kitchen door and went to open it. Locked.

  "Cook! Cook, open up, it's me, Holt. My stomach's growling for a bowl of your broth."

  No answer. He knocked.

  "Go away!" It was Hendricks's voice, but it took Orlando a moment to realize where it was coming from. "Your things are in the stables."

  Orlando stepped back from the small porch and looked up. Rain splashed in his eyes, but he could just make out the open casement window and Hendricks looking down at him.

  "My things?" Orlando called back. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, you are to leave Stoneleigh. This instant."

  A dreadful foreboding pressed down on Orlando's shoulders. He felt heavy, as if he were drowning in a flood and couldn't swim up to the surface. "Where's your mistress? Where's Susanna? What's she got to say about this?"

  "The doors have been locked by her orders. Leave now, Mr. Holt. And do not come back." The window slammed shut.

  Orlando stood in the kitchen garden for some time. He didn't know how long. Minutes, perhaps, or hours. The rain stopped at some point but he was dimly aware that it made no difference. He was wet to the bone and so cold he'd gone numb. He stared up at the window then at the door, willing them to open, for Susanna to appear.

  She did not.

  Did she truly expect him to leave? Now? When danger was so close?

  Did she not understand that he couldn't leave?

  He sat on the ground near the thyme and stretched out his legs. Some time later, as dusk threw itself over the day, the coldness finally got to him. He shivered. The cut Monk had inflicted on his arm ached like the devil. He drew up his knees and tried to make himself as small as possible when it began to rain again.

  But he would not move. Not even to get his pack. It was better off in the stables staying dry anyway.

  He rested his chin on his knees and calculated how long it would be before the cold became unbearable. He could watch the eastern side of the house from the stables, but it would be easier to hear an intruder if he was inside Stoneleigh.

  He rubbed his hands up and down his arms but it failed to warm them. At least he was thinking again, and that was a good thing. Except for when he thought about Susanna and why she'd suddenly locked him out. He had no answers to that. He only hoped she'd armed herself. He could not watch the whole house from the outside all of the time. But he could patrol it.