Hesitating near the door, he debated turning in with an empty gut or… The debate faded as his gaze snagged on a handbill hanging behind the porter’s podium. What was this? In one quick swipe, he snatched the paper from the wall and held it in front of his eyes. Normally, he couldn’t care less about some woman breaching a contract, but the likeness on this one twinged his gut more than the thought of turnip soup. He shifted his gaze to the description.
Margaret “Daisy” Lee
Aged 25 years; height 5 ft. 3 in.; brown eyes, straight nose, curly chestnut hair, small mole on right cheek; of stately mien and resonant voice; native of Bath.
Wanted for absconding months before the end of a legally binding contract with a certain Mr. Groat, her manager, also of Bath.
Well, well. Sebastian sucked in air through his teeth. Though the name be wrong, he’d wager Mrs. Dosett and this Daisy Lee were one and the same. Now there was something that would taste good going down—bringing the uppity Daisy Lee or Maggie Dosett or whoever the blazes she was to justice. He’d telegraph this Mr. Groat tonight. At least one man in this world should have the scoundrel he sought sooner rather than later, and the finder’s fee would earn him a finer pair of boots than his paltry wages could afford.
Lighter of spirit, he shoved the handbill into his pocket and strode into the taproom. He’d not discovered Ward—yet—but he had taught a valuable lesson to a lad and would restore a runaway client to her manager. A small return for his time in Lydford but not a bad one.
Behind the long slab of a wooden counter, the paunch-bellied innkeeper waved him over, the rag in his hand flapping in the air. “Pardon, guv’nor. A word, if you don’t mind.”
Sebastian frowned, his good feelings quickly waning. If the man tried to sell him some turnip soup as doggedly as the boy had his pies, it would take all his restraint to keep from popping the fellow in the nose. He wound past occupied tables, now and then edging sideways between two-fisted drinkers. “Yes?”
The innkeeper sniffed, his red-tipped nose bobbing with the movement, and set down the mug he’d been drying. “Two men were in here earlier, askin’ after you. Said I din’t know where you were but that you’d be back.”
Hmm. What the devil would they want with him? He narrowed his eyes at the barkeep. “And?”
The man reached for another mug and swished the rag around the inside of it. “Said you told ’em the other day that should they find anything of value hereabouts on the moor to bring it to your attention.” After a last swipe with his rag, he set the mug down next to the other then reached beneath the counter. He pulled out a small, bone-coloured object and handed it over.
Sebastian lifted the thing eye level. The bowl of a clay pipe rested on his open palm, the stem broken off. A faint scent of brownstalk tobacco clung to it, so did a smudge of reddish dirt. All in all, it was a nondescript pipe. Cheap. As common as the one lying on the bed stand in his room. There was nothing valuable about it. Still, he’d learned long ago not to dismiss a lead—any lead—so abruptly.
He lifted his gaze to the barkeep. “Where exactly did they find this?”
Finished with his mug duty, the man tossed the rag into a nearby bucket while he answered. “Not far from Bray Tor, near Morden Hall.”
Sebastian rubbed his thumb over the rough edge of the broken stem, thinking hard. Pipes weren’t allowed in prison, so Ward wouldn’t have left with one on his person, yet that didn’t rule out he’d stolen it. Still, being on the run and all, would he really have taken the time to pack a bowl and pause for a smoke? Doubtful. But he definitely would’ve taken the time to lift a change of clothes, shucking his telltale convict’s coat. The pipe could’ve fallen out of his pocket, unbeknownst to him. Sebastian frowned. Or it could’ve fallen out of any man’s pocket who’d happened across that rugged stretch of land. This trinket could mean nothing at all—or everything.
The pad of his thumb hit an embellishment on the heel, and he turned the bowl over to peer closer. A raised circle enclosed two letter Bs. A maker’s mark, and a familiar one, if he weren’t mistaken. Only one way to be certain, though. He shoved the broken pipe into his pocket and eyed the barkeep. “Send up a crust of bread and some cheese. A mug of ale too, and this time,” he lowered his voice to a deep grumble, “make sure it’s not watered down.”
The barkeep’s Adam’s apple bobbed, but to his credit, he didn’t retreat or go red in the face. “Aye, guv’nor.”
Sebastian pivoted and threaded his way across the rest of the crowded taproom, then took the stairs two at a time. He might be onto something. He might not. Such was the game. Good thing he was an adept player.
He tromped into the room, leaving the door open for light, and without sparing a minute to doff his hat, snatched up his pipe from the small table near his bed. A slow smile twitched his lips. Pulling out the broken bowl, he set the two down on the bed stand and squatted, peering from one to the other. The circles matched. So did the double Bs. Even the flattened end of the spur was identical. These two pipes came from the same craftsman—Benjamin Black of Princetown, Devon, the closest village to HM Prison Dartmoor.
He rubbed the sore spot on his shoulder, grimacing. If the men found the pipe stem near the house at the end of the moor, and he’d not found Ward in the stable there, then that left only two options. Either the rogue had scented him and fled, or he was holed up in that house, sheltered by Maggie Dosett—just as he’d suspected all along.
Rising, he yanked out the folded paper in his other pocket and shook it open, then stared at the image. “Well, well, madam,” he gruffed. “Could you possibly be breaking the law in more ways than one?”
He eased onto the mattress, bed frame creaking along with his bones. Perhaps he oughtn’t leave tomorrow morning. He could simply arrest the woman. Haul in two criminals. But… bah! That’d be one more criminal to keep track of. No, the woman was worth more monetarily than the cost of the effort it would take to haul her in. It would be a boon to return to Dartmoor Prison with Ward and a pocket full of coin.
Holding firm to the handbill, Sebastian shoved to his feet. A telegraph now would bring this Mr. Groat to Lydford either on tomorrow’s coach or the next day’s.
And in the meantime, he’d search that house of hers whether she liked it or not.
Oliver hobbled over to the draperies and pulled them open. The last light of day bathed the moorland in an ashen hue. He frowned. Had he seriously slept the day away? He didn’t have time for such luxuries. Every minute he spent here was one more minute in which Barrow might snare him.
But pain still shot from his ankle to his shin. He ignored it, mostly. Boxing up agony and stowing it in a corner to be disregarded was a skill he’d quickly picked up in the dank cell of Dartmoor Prison. He’d open those boxes one day, remove each hurt one by one and lay them on the altar of justice—then rain holy vengeance down upon the head of the true criminal who’d stolen the jewels for which he’d been indicted. Soon, God willing.
Are You?
He peered up at the darkening sky outside, then blew out a long breath. Lately his faith was as vaporous as the mist on the moor… just one more thing taken from him the day he’d been locked in shackles and despair.
“I see you’re feeling much better.”
He turned—carefully. He’d already shamed himself one too many times in front of Mrs. Dosett. He’d not add falling flat on his face to the tally. “I am, thanks to your hospitality.”
She held a lamp in one hand, the light of which highlighted a swiftly rising look of horror. Without a word, she dashed to his side and yanked the drapery shut, curtain rings screeching in protest. An odd task to complete with such obvious haste, yet it gave him the opportunity to hop-step over to the sofa without her scrutinizing his awkward footing.
She whirled back to him as he sank onto the cushions. “Mind that you keep the curtains drawn until you are able to leave, which may be as soon as tomorrow, judging by your apparent mobility.” She tipped her chin,
eyeing him. The endearing upturn to her nose hinted she possessed a certain impishness—a mix of playful cunning and particular intelligence. But it was more than that. It was familiar. Why? For the hundredth time, he sorted through possibilities and came up short.
She strolled over to the mantel and collected a small book, her dulcet voice filling the room like a song. “I shall have Nora remove the bandage on your head in the morning. She can fix that sleeve on your shirt as well. I believe she’s already repaired your coat. The pocket was nearly torn off. Hopefully the contents weren’t valuable, for whatever you carried is now likely somewhere out on the moor or washed downstream.”
Once again she glanced at the draperies, as if they might spring open of their own volition—and he could stand it no longer. Such skittish behaviour was obviously for a reason. Had she discovered his identity? “Why?”
Her lips pursed as she faced him. “Do you not wish to leave here fully clothed?”
“No—yes. That’s not what I meant. Not that I object, but I am curious as to why you have such a sudden need to keep the draperies drawn?”
She clutched her book in both hands, almost like a shield to hide behind. “I’d rather not provide the constable any reason to search my house as he so thoroughly upended my stable the other day. Catching sight of you through the window would certainly give him cause to do so.”
Oliver frowned. Her caution didn’t quite ring true. “But he’s already been here, has he not?”
“Twice, actually.”
His gut turned. Twice? Blast that Barrow! The man was a bloodhound circling for a kill. Absently, Oliver rubbed his thumb over the raised scar on the back of his hand—a little gift from Barrow’s blade the day the man had pinned his arm to the cell’s doorframe. But if Barrow truly believed his quarry was holed up in here, he’d have busted open that front door long ago. Why was he still sniffing around… unless it had nothing to do with himself?
“Tell me, Mrs. Dosett.” He stared at her, keen to detect the slightest tic or twitch. “Why would you not let the constable inside?”
She held his gaze with a fierce boldness. “Suffice it to say, sir, that I am a very private woman.”
“Oh you’re more than that, I think.” He leaned forward, suddenly suspicious. “What is it you’re running from?”
Her lips curved, and in the depths of her brown eyes, something sparked, belying that smile. Fear? Maybe. But something more glinted there. Something hard. Something hurtful.
“Perhaps”—her voice lowered to a near-whisper—“the real question is what am I running to?”
“Fair enough.” He nodded, fascinated by her twist of the conversation. “What is it you are running towards?”
She padded across the carpet, pausing next to the sofa yet refusing to look at him. For a long time she said nothing. The mantel clock ticked. Outside, wind rattled the windows. And the longer she stood there, the less surprised he’d be if she simply walked away without another word on the matter.
But she not only held her ground, she clearly enunciated an answer. “Isolation. Anonymity. A life no man can alter. That is all I seek.”
He cocked his head. What kind of woman consigned herself to a loveless existence? Did not all females run hard after matrimonial bliss?
He traced the outline of her profile, searching for a tinge of humour—any tinge—but she stood statuesque, neither smirking nor smiling.
“It bears repeating, you are a rare one, Mrs. Dosett. I assumed every woman wished to know and be known by others.”
“I used to think so.”
“What changed?”
She stiffened. “Me.”
She faced him then, rewarding him with a full smile. “You have quite the silver tongue, sir. You’d make a fine politician. Perhaps that is what you should be running towards.”
He shoved down a bitter laugh. She had no idea how close she’d hit. “Politicians are a penny a stone. I seek something far more uncommon.”
“Such as?”
“Justice. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
She chuckled, the sound merry, warming the growing chill of evening. “Let me know if you find it, will you?”
“You don’t think it possible?”
“You may as well be chasing pixies.” She shook her book at him. “Or reading of such.”
He shifted on the sofa, fully drawn in by her unorthodox dismissal of what most women deemed virtuous. “That’s rather cynical of you.”
“I prefer to think of myself as a realist.” She clutched her book to her chest and strode towards the door. “And with that I bid you good night, sir.”
Everything in him yearned to coax her back, to explore the other unique bends of her mind and words. His lips parted—then he snapped them shut. What was wrong with him? He had a mission to carry out, one that didn’t involve conversation with a fascinating woman.
He turned his face away from the door. “Good night.”
But her footsteps doubled back and her voice—this time steely edged—traveled from the threshold. “There is one more thing you should know now that you are up and about. I do not sleep unarmed.”
He snorted as her shoes clipped down the passageway. She was plucky, he’d give her that, and altogether too intriguing. Margaret Dosett was a woman he’d like to get to know better.
Too bad he’d be leaving in the morning.
Chapter Ten
Morning sun pours through my chamber window as I collect my breakfast tray, and for a moment, I soak in its warmth. But storm clouds draw a black line on the horizon, stark at the edge of the blue sky currently overhead. By afternoon, another tempest will shake the house.
I whirl and stride out of my room, feeling as contrary as the April weather. All the man’s talk of justice last evening still chafed. Poor, misguided fellow. His mission is a fool’s errand. I suppose he’ll have to learn the hard way—just as I did—that righteousness belongs to God alone. It will not be found at the hand of man.
At the bottom of the stairs I turn right, though my mind goes the opposite direction, towards the sitting room. Is the stranger up and about? Has he kept the draperies drawn as I asked? How has he bewitched my dog so thoroughly that Malcolm now prefers his company to mine? For no paws pad behind my skirt hem. But no, surely my faithful companion is merely keeping an eye on the man lest he get out of line… Isn’t he?
The scent of ginger reels me into the kitchen, banishing all my bleakest thoughts. Nora flattens a large circle of biscuit dough on the big table, the rolling pin ridiculously large in her petite hands. The spicy scent makes my mouth water. Since hiring her, I’ve gained at least half a stone.
“Breakfast was delicious, Nora.” I set the tray next to the basin. “Has our guest already taken his?”
Without slowing her cadence of rolling one way, then back the other, Nora nods. Of course she’s served him, and likely already cleared away his dishes as well. What have I done to deserve such a gem in a flour-dusted apron?
I set my own dishes in the washbasin and replace the tray on the storage shelf, then turn back to her. “Perhaps you can finish mending his shirt today?”
She rolls, and rolls, not missing a beat, but her face lifts towards a peg on the wall where the man’s coat hangs—only his coat. The white shirt sleeve is gone.
“You’ve already repaired and returned it to him?”
She nods and sets down the rolling pin, fingering a tin biscuit cutter instead.
“My, you have been industrious.” I retrieve the woolen coat and drape it over my arm. “I suppose he may as well have this now. Oh, and by the by, being it’s been four days, I think we may safely remove those stitches from his forehead and—”
Nora lifts a hand—the other studiously cutting circle after circle—and points across the room. On the far wall, atop a cupboard counter, rests a pair of scissors. The remains of a bandage coil in a wire basket on the floor.
I smile and face the maid once again. “You are always o
ne step ahead of me. His gash is healing well, then, I take it?”
She bobs her head.
“Good. Maybe by tomorrow he’ll be able enough to use that ankle of his and we can see him on his way.”
Leaving Nora to her baking, I enter the coolness of the corridor. After a few twists and turns, I stroll into the sitting room—but freeze just past the threshold. Across the carpet, the man leans heavily on his uninjured leg. He stoops over a washbasin, his back towards me, yet I can see half of his face in the mirror propped atop the table. He scrapes a blade along his jaw, removing white lather. It is an intimate scene, this mundane act of manliness, one an unmarried woman should not witness. But though it’s indecent of me to be so mesmerized by a man shaving in naught but his shirtsleeves, I am helpless to turn away. My eyes are fixed on the stranger in the mirror.
His gaze lifts suddenly and bores into mine in the reflection. Instant heat rushes to my cheeks. I’ve been caught.
The man’s mouth quirks. “You may come in, Mrs. Dosett. I daresay you’ve already seen me at my worst. Surely a bit of soap won’t put you off.”
“I was… I mean to say…” Words stagger around on my tongue like little drunkards. What is wrong with me? I jerk my face away from the mirror and stride over to the sofa, scrambling to regain my composure. “Here is your coat. I think you’ll find Nora’s needle skills second to none.”
The man goes back to scraping off the lather, the rasp of blade against whiskers overly loud in the quiet room. “Agreed. She did a fine job on my brow. Once healed, I doubt there’ll be a scar of which to brag.”
“I should hope you’d have better things to boast about.” I lay the coat over the back of the sofa and smooth out the wrinkles.
“Ahh…” The scraping stops. “Is the lady finally curious about the mysterious man in her sitting room?”
Once again warmth flares across my face. Of course I’m intrigued, but the less I know of him, the easier it will be to keep from getting entangled in his life. “My apologies, sir. What you choose to speak of is none of my affair.”
The House at the End of the Moor Page 7