“Not to worry. I have my ways.”
Simple words. Innocuous. Almost bland. But all the same, a cold shiver spidered down Sebastian’s spine. Daisy Lee obviously needed a firm hand. But was Wendell Groat the one to provide it?
Bah. The man was her manager. Groat’s job was to know how to handle her. Just like Sebastian’s job was tending to Ward.
“Wait here,” he ordered, then spun on his heel.
A strong waft of manure smacked him in the nose as he entered the stable, and he bypassed a great pile dumped from a mount who’d recently been brought in. Across the open area, his horse, already saddled, waited where he’d tethered her. Next to her, another horse—likely the one just arrived—waited to be untacked and brushed. Down near the tack room, the ostler was busy pulling the saddle off another patron’s bay. Providence!
Sebastian snagged both horses’ leads and led them towards the door.
“Hey! What are you doing? You can’t take that horse.” The young ostler’s voice cracked. Why could inns never afford to hire real men?
“I’m not.” He kept walking. “I’m borrowing it.”
“That’s the same thing!”
Fingers gripped his arm from behind. Oh no. That would never do. Such disrespect could not rightly go undisciplined. Sebastian dropped the lead and grabbed the hand, jerking the ostler’s wrist backward as he whipped around. The boy-man howled. His knees hit the ground with a satisfying crack.
“Only the wicked borrow and do not pay back, boy.” He upped the pressure. “Are you calling me wicked?”
“N–no, sir.” Girly whimpers gurgled out the ostler’s throat.
“Good.”
And good thing he wouldn’t be staying any longer at this inn. With a snap, he forced the fine bones until they splintered, then let go.
The ostler shrieked and folded into himself, nursing his injured hand. Sebastian crouched and barked into the boy’s ear to be heard above his caterwauling. “The horse will be returned by noon. And a word of advice, boy, always be prepared. A sharp knee to the groin would’ve stopped me.”
He rose and grabbed the horses, then handed off one to Groat, who stood at the door with a dark gleam in his eyes.
“I admire your style, Officer Barrow.”
He snorted. “I suspect you have a style all your own, Mr. Groat.”
An enigmatic smile slid across the man’s mouth, then vanished as two burly men stalked towards the stable from across the road, one of them waving at them.
“What’s the rumpus? Billy get kicked by a horse?”
Groat swung up into the saddle, then leaned low, speaking for Sebastian alone. “I think now might be a good time for us to leave.”
Sebastian followed suit, hefting himself upward and leading them both out to the road. It wouldn’t do to have to explain why the stable boy wouldn’t be able to buckle up harnesses for the next several weeks. Groat’s horse kept pace with his, even when he upped his speed to leave behind the shouts and chaos at the Castle Inn.
But just before clearing the edge of town, he slowed and squinted into the distance, where a dogcart rattled along. Two shapes—women—huddled together on the seat, the older one holding the reins in gloved hands—large gloved hands. In fact, everything about the woman was oafish, from the breadth of her wide shoulders to the length of her long arms. The long brim of her bonnet hid most of her face except for the square cut of her jaw. Gads! What rock on the moor had she crawled out from?
“Is everything all right, Mr. Barrow?” Groat drove his mount closer to his and glanced over his shoulder. “Not to be an alarmist, but those two men at the inn have turned onto the road behind us.”
“Mmm,” he grumbled, noncommittal. His gaze drifted to the other woman. She wore a grey veil—indicating her face must be so pock-ridden as to be a terror. She was definitely slighter than the other, hunched over as she was. Yet her body swayed like a green willow with each jolt of the carriage, as if a young woman lived inside that cocoon of thick wool. The dogcart rolled closer, and he narrowed his eyes, studying the crones.
Then he tugged on the reins and stopped smack in the middle of the road.
Of all the roads in all of England, this had to be the one Barrow chose?
Oliver gritted his teeth, praying he was wrong—but no. The closer he drew towards Lydford, the less chance of mistaking the black hulk of iniquity perched atop his horse, staring at him and Maggie like a rider of the apocalypse about to rain down destruction. And this time he had a partner. He was a dandy of a fellow, but that didn’t mean he’d be any less dangerous.
Though everything in him screamed to turn the dogcart around, Oliver forced his hands to hold the reins loose. Amble along. Play the part of an old woman conveying her friend to town. One wrong move from him, one stray gasp from Maggie, and all would be lost. Thank God she’d not yet recognized the danger—nor would she, if he could help it.
He turned towards her, taking care to keep his face hidden in the shadow of the ridiculously long-billed bonnet. “The wrap on my ankle loosened. Can you tighten it?”
“What?” Even behind the thickly woven veil, sunshine caught the rise of her brows. “Now?”
“Yes. We can’t have me stumbling out of the carriage when we get to the inn, drawing attention to us. Can we?”
“I suppose not.” She bent and fumbled with freeing his foot from the hem of his gown.
And not a moment too soon. Barrow lifted a hand, shading his eyes, and craned forward for a hard look.
This was it, then. Oliver’s pulse pounded fast and loud. If Barrow got a glimpse of his face, the bonnet and dress wouldn’t matter. He tucked his chin and reached for his knife, just in case.
Barrow’s mouth opened, likely about to order him to stop, when the other fellow leaned aside and tapped him on the arm. Sweet heavens! That was a mistake. Barrow never let anyone touch him, and those who did got their fingers broken.
Barrow whipped aside, about to snap some bones, when something caught his attention. For a moment, he went slack in the saddle, then cut a glance to his companion and kicked his horse into a gallop. The two tore past the dogcart, hooves spewing up divots of dirt. Oliver gazed over his shoulder, watching their retreat. What in the world?
By the time he turned back, two mounted men rode hard down the High Street, apparently in pursuit, for they raced past him and Maggie as well. A smile quirked Oliver’s lips. Were Barrow’s sins about to catch up with him? Ahh, but he’d love to see that bit of justice carried out.
“—better?”
He faced Maggie, who now sat upright, head tilted and waiting for an answer to a question he hadn’t heard.
“Pardon?”
“Your ankle.” She pointed at his foot. “Is the wrap better?”
“Oh yes. Much.” A guilty pang nicked his conscience, may God forgive him. Truly, his ankle only bothered him when he chanced a full-weighted misstep onto it. “Thank you.”
Facing forward again, he stared down the road towards the Castle Inn. People buzzed around a stagecoach, a few preparing to board, others embracing loved ones with their goodbyes. It would be a packed ride, but it was easier to hide in a crowd.
“Looks like the coach is being readied.” He slid his gaze to Maggie. “Your timing is impeccable.”
“More like Nora’s. She’s the one who knows this town inside and out.”
Hmm. If the woman were accustomed to the busy pace of village life, why had she moved out to the desolate moor? He urged the horse onward, yet kept his gaze fixed on Maggie. “How did you come by her in the first place?”
“I met her when I visited the solicitor’s office to inquire about housing. She worked for him—Mr. Tuttle—a miserable man in all respects.” Just then, the wheel dipped into a rut, and Maggie flung out a hand, gripping the side of the carriage before she continued. “I was tightening up my reticule after paying for a year’s lease on Morden Hall, when out in the corridor, Nora tripped on the edge of an up-curled rug.
The huge coalscuttle she was carrying spilled. Mr. Tuttle flew into a frenzy and struck her, even though she ought not have been carrying the thing in the first place. She didn’t so much as whimper, not even when he terminated her employment right then and there. I remarked on such a merit when he returned to the room, and that’s when I found out she was mute. He taunted her mercilessly for being a freak of nature.”
Maggie’s voice took on a sudden hard edge, and though her veil hid her face, no doubt a mighty glower creased her brow. “Mr. Tuttle might as well have kicked a puppy in front of me. I determined to offer Nora employment. And I did. She wasn’t hard to find. The village boys apparently thought it great sport to harass her as much as Mr. Tuttle had.”
For a moment, Maggie fell silent, and when she spoke again, it was so quiet Oliver had to lean towards her to pick out the words.
“Thank God that is behind her now. Nora has been a blessing to me ever since, and I like to fancy I’ve been one in return.”
“I have no doubt that you are.”
“Are you so quick to compliment a thief, sir?”
He grinned, admiring her wit. Admiring even more the gentle soul that he sometimes glimpsed beneath her guarded exterior. Not many women of means would look so kindly on a defective maid.
He eased the dogcart to a stop, not far behind the public coach, then turned to her, voice lowered for her alone. “You can still back out, you know. I am more than willing to take on the risk of exposing Corbin and returning those jewels by myself.”
Laughter sang out from beneath her veil. “What, and miss all the fun of seeing the illustrious Mr. Oliver Ward act the part of an old woman?” She swept a hand towards his dress. “If Parliament could see you now.”
He snorted. “Get your fill, because next stop, we pose as brother and sister and this gown is gone. How you women even move about is beyond me.” The truth of his words hit home as he swung to the ground. Skirts swirled. He teetered. Maggie laughed again.
But both of their good humours faded as they approached the door of the inn. Oliver tugged his bonnet brim as low as he dared and spoke under his breath. “Keep your head down. Stay in the shadows. I’ll do the rest.”
She reached out a tentative hand and squeezed his arm. “Be careful.”
“Don’t fret. I’ve done harder things than purchasing a few coach tickets.” True. But he’d never had to do such things while garbed in linsey-woolsey and employing an old woman’s voice.
He pushed open the door, nodded for Maggie to wait for him in the corner, then approached the podium.
“Two for Bath,” he rasped, pitching his tone up a few octaves. Not bad. Believable, even.
But evidently not comprehensible, not the way the ticket seller eyed him. “Sorry. What’s that?”
He cleared his throat and tried again. “I need two tickets for Bath, please.”
“Ahh, that’ll be five shillings, madam.” The clerk set about stamping some papers while the door behind Oliver ushered in fresh morning air and the grumbling growl of a patron.
Oliver fumbled with the drawstring of the bag hanging off his wrist. The thing swung like a pendulum as his big fingers dug into the pouch. Maggie had given him coins enough to purchase the tickets, making it hard to fish out—
“Hurry it up, old woman,” a man rumbled at his back. “I ain’t got all day.”
Frowning, he finally pulled out a half sovereign and shoved it across the podium. Without so much as a glance, the clerk passed back two tickets and three half crowns. Oliver stared. The clerk, in his hurry, had overpaid him.
“You’ve got yer tickets, so move!” Hot breath wafted over his shoulder, stinking of sardines and—oddly enough—marmalade. “That coach is about to leave. I’ll not miss it for the likes of you.”
Irritation burned a trail up Oliver’s neck. The big bully. One swift pop in the nose would put the man in his place—and also draw unwanted attention. So instead, he simply collected the tickets and pushed back the coins. As much as the extra could be a blessing down the road, it wouldn’t be right. “You gave me too much change, sonny,” he squeaked out.
“Did I? Let’s see…” The clerk scooped up the money and fingered through it.
Curses pelted Oliver right between the shoulders. “For the love of a three-legged sheepdog!”
As if conjured, in from the taproom strolled a dog-faced man, carrying a ledger and a frown. As he surveyed the scene, the lines at the sides of his mouth deepened, then he faced the clerk. “What’s the problem here, Jones?”
“This lady here says I gave her too much change.”
“Oh?” The manager’s brown eyes swung his way, then narrowed.
Blast! Just what he needed. Oliver tucked his head.
The man behind him shuffled from foot to foot.
Finally, the manager broke the silence. “She’s right. God bless you, madam, for your honesty.” He held out a crown.
“Thank you.” Oliver snatched the money and was just about to turn away when he remembered one last item of business. “Oh, I’ve a dogcart outside. Will you keep an eye on it till my manservant picks it up?”
“The deuce with your dogcart!” the bully behind him roared. “It’ll be fine. Now leave.”
“Sir! If you don’t mind.” The manager looked down his nose at the man, then smiled sweetly at Oliver. “Yes, madam, actually there has been a bit of foul play here at the stable today, so you are quite wise in making your request. I’ll send a boy now to retrieve your bags if you like.”
“Ahh, yer a real gent, sir. A balm to this old lady’s soul.” He patted his chest. “God bless ye.”
“Are you quite done?” The words were razor sharp, harsh enough to draw blood. Was this how the man always treated his elders? How many old women had he browbeaten in his day?
Clutching his tickets in one hand, Oliver whipped around and drove his elbow into the man’s kidney as he passed, then rumbled under his breath, “Yes, sonny, I’m done.”
A gasp and a groan followed him and Maggie outside.
“That was… impressive.” Maggie peered at him through the lace of her veil. “I daresay he had it coming. But I am curious. You could’ve just walked away sooner, you know. Pocketed that extra bit of money the clerk handed you instead of making a to-do about it. Many people would have. Why didn’t you?”
Most of the time Oliver scorned his father’s values—yet one truth he fully and rightfully agreed with. “If we are not faithful in the small things, we will not be found faithful in the large.” He turned towards the coach, fighting the strong urge to offer her his hand and help her into the carriage. A lady—especially one purportedly as old as he currently masqueraded—simply wouldn’t do such a thing.
Instead, he merely swept out his hand. “Now then, ready for an adventure?”
Chapter Fifteen
Riding in a public coach is a peculiar kind of torment. Crammed in with strangers, elbow to elbow, thigh to thigh. I breathe through my mouth, trying not to inhale the reek of stained leather mixed with the cloying scent of cheap perfume.
Worst of all, I hate the way my breath catches every time Oliver cranes his neck to stare out the window. He is on edge. Alert. As if at any moment, he expects Officer Barrow to pull the carriage over at gunpoint and demand us to stand and deliver ourselves.
Sighing, I lean my head against the wall. I cannot wait for this journey to end, yet it’s been only a quarter of an hour since we left Lydford.
So I close my eyes and shut out the cramped quarters, visually at least. Would that I could stop up my ears as well. The old man next to me snores with an open mouth. On the other side of him, his wife chatters about the high price of camphor oil as if he hangs on her every word. Across from me and Oliver sits a young couple with a squalling baby. The child’s cries shake my bones as violently as the bounce and sway of the coach. And as if the noise inside weren’t enough to bear, the passengers seated outside on the roof break into a boisterous taproom song.
>
What am I doing here? Have I done the right thing by leaving Morden Hall? Should I have allowed Oliver to sort out the mystery of the jewels on his own? The questions, combined with the juddering of the coach, ignite a throbbing pain in my temple, and I reach up to massage the offense.
“Are you all right?”
Oliver’s question brushes light and low against my ear. I nod, and a smile curves my lips. Even through the haze of my veil, he looks ridiculous. A proper parliamentarian in a shawl, a bonnet, and skirts with a tufted hem? Not many men would be confident enough to pull off such a farce. He is a rare breed, this man… I’m not sure what to think about that. He’s put me off kilter since the day he arrived. But in a good way—nothing at all like my former manager.
Thankfully, the next half hour passes in quieter fashion. The babe stops wailing. The old woman drifts to sleep. I even grow accustomed to Oliver’s tense surveillance. It is to be expected, I suppose. After breaking out of prison, looking over one’s shoulder surely must be a habit hard to control.
A shout from the coachman breaks the monotony. “Cheriton Bishop!”
The great wheels grind to a stop. The couple across from us bundle up the babe and exit. I watch their departure, wondering what sort of life they go to meet. A sweet little cottage nestled in the hills, perhaps? Or a cold wreck of a shack that will ruin the child’s health and bend the shoulders of the young woman? Only God knows—an uneasy comfort, that. I have yet to reconcile why the Creator allows some creatures pleasure and ease while others suffer years of cruelties.
“Excuse me.” Oliver shoves past me, his falsetto voice just a little too high.
“Where are you—” I press my lips shut. He’s already out the door. What in the world? We’d agreed to remain inside the coach until we reached Exeter. The less we are seen, the better, unless… Has he spied some sort of danger so urgent he must meet it head-on?
My heart trips, and I scoot over to the now empty seat, gaining a clear view out the open door. I can’t hear his words, but Oliver’s voice warbles as he converses with the couple. Surely they cannot pose us any threat. Can they?
The House at the End of the Moor Page 12