The House at the End of the Moor

by Michelle Griep

  He brushed aside her finger, then wrapped her small hand in both of his. Fortitude sparked in her gaze. Resolve reverberated in the jut of her jaw. She was a fierce beauty, all confidence and strength. Quite the contrast to the childlike hand engulfed in his—the fine bones that with the slightest pressure could be crushed and broken.

  Oliver shook his head. “I’ll never forgive myself if something goes wrong, if Corbin hurts you.”

  “I’ve escaped his clutches before and can do so again if need be. Besides”—she shrugged—“it’s a public place, a room full of people. Nothing will go wrong.”

  He frowned. Walking into a lion’s den was no small thing, and if they were both being honest, that’s exactly what he was asking her to do, facing Corbin like this. Accusing Corbin like this. He’d seen grown men driven to their knees by fear, and she had every right to buckle now. Yet there she stood without so much as a flinch, willing to face the man who’d threatened her and her father.

  “You’re a rare one, Maggie Lee,” he breathed out.

  “So you’ve told me.” Her lips curved into an amused grin. “Several times.”

  And that was it. The smile. The gleam. The good-natured teasing and willingness to face whatever came her way. Though he’d known her a scant two weeks, deep down, an unstoppable urge to know her more welled up and flew out. “Tell me, when this is over, when I am a free man, would you do me the honor of allowing me to call upon you?”

  The request filled the space between them, charging the air with possibility. Horrible timing on his part—but he wasn’t repentant. Not one bit.

  One of her eyebrows quirked. Other than that, though he tried to read the mystery behind her eyes, her gaze gave nothing away.

  “I shall think on that, sir. For now…” She pulled back her hand. “God go with you.”

  And then she was gone, her skirts rustling past him, her feet flying down the busy street.

  “God go with us both,” he whispered as he peered around the side of the building and watched her disappear into the hotel.

  Indeed, Lord. Keep her safe. Make this work.

  Time stretched. Too long. Too thin. Each passing carriage that didn’t stop was a taunt. Every dark-suited man who bypassed the hotel was a mockery. By now Maggie had surely been seated and served an aperitif. Where was Corbin? Had the sly fox figured out the trap set before him?

  Footsteps crunched against gravel in the passage behind him—sort of. It was more like a step-kick-skitter, step-kick-skitter. A strange rhythm. An odd sound. Oliver had no choice but to pull his gaze from the street and glance over his shoulder.

  Working his way down the narrow throat of the passage, a boy kicked a broken bit of glass as he went, zigzagging wherever the shard landed. The lad’s hair—in need of a good clipping—hung like a mop in front of his face, and an oversized coat draped to the boy’s knees. Oliver narrowed his eyes. Blast! It was his coat—leastwise the one he’d borrowed from Maggie’s manservant.

  Oliver snapped his head back towards the street and huddled closer to the building. Hopefully the boy wouldn’t recognize him. A curious lad tagging at his heels would ruin everything.

  Just then a black-lacquered barouche with an ornate gold C emblazoned on the door stopped in front of the Royal Station. As if on cue, a footman burst out of the hotel and opened the carriage, standing at stiff attention as a long-legged god in a meticulously tailored dress coat and trousers emerged.

  Ambrose Corbin was a flash of elegance, an Adonis that mesmerized, turning the heads of several pedestrians. Wealth clung to him like an aura, as if he bathed in money. Drank it. Breathed it. The sort of man whom those afflicted by hunger and want tried in vain to draw near to, for the slightest touch of his trouser leg might shake loose a penny or two.

  Just the sight of him raised bile to the back of Oliver’s throat. He planted his feet to keep from tearing after the man. Revenge, hatred, rage, and a host of even baser emotions knotted his muscles until he was a blade—a steely, sharp-edged knife, ready to slice and gut.

  “Why, it be you, sir! Thank ye again, for the coat, I mean.”

  Oliver stared a second longer, until Corbin vanished into the hotel, then he glanced down at the smudge-faced lad peering up at him. “Sorry, boy. I’ve no time now.”

  He sidestepped the lad and stalked down the street. Shoving his hand into his pocket, he fingered the velvet pouch containing the jewels. Slipping into the barouche unnoticed to plant the ruby necklace would take some skill, some timing, and a well-placed rock.

  He scanned the road and scooped up a broken piece of cobblestone without missing a beat. Angling behind the carriage, he waited, then ducked out as soon as a wagon loaded with barrels rolled along. Then he struck. The rock hit the front lantern of the barouche, shattering the glass—and drawing a mighty roar from the coachman atop. Snatching his whip, the driver swung down to the street, ready for battle with the hapless wagoner.

  Now was the time.

  While the driver and coachman argued over the damages incurred, Oliver whipped around to the other side of the barouche and made a dash for the door. He yanked it open and—

  “Stop right there, Ward!”

  His heart froze. So did his breath. That growl was the stuff of nightmares.

  Oliver wheeled about. Officer Barrow charged like a bull down the pavement—straight towards him.

  God, no. No! He wouldn’t go back. He’d never go back.

  He broke into a dead run, dodging pedestrians, tearing for the gap between buildings. Hot pain shot up his ankle, and his step faltered. A grunt ripped out of him, but he pressed on. Thank God, he pressed on.

  Barrow raged not far behind.

  Clearing the side of the building, Oliver ducked into the narrow passageway and poured everything he had into a mad sprint. Sweat stung his eyes. His muscles screamed, but not as blindingly painful as his ankle. Still, he couldn’t slow. He wouldn’t stop, even if he had to run on nothing but bone against gravel. More than his life was on the line this time. He had to shake Barrow. Circle back to Maggie. Wave her off.

  If she blamed Corbin of theft and the magistrate found the barouche empty, she’d be gaoled for falsely accusing a member of Parliament.

  I dine with ghosts.

  Too many memories fill this room. Light bounces off crystal goblets of wine, and I recall the first sweet taste ever to cross my lips at the table near the window. Men and women talk, smile, laugh—just like my first meeting with my manager in the overstuffed chairs by the entrance. My gaze drifts. The whole of the dining room spreads in front of me where I sit in the corner next to the servants’ entrance.

  And I thank God that Wendell Groat has not chosen this day to dine and laugh and coerce a potential new patron of the arts.

  Sipping a glass of cucumber water, I fight the temptation to close my eyes and revisit Oliver’s request, to remember the deep brown-green velvet of his eyes and hear his husky voice asking to call on me when this is all over. The man is becoming far too attractive, in more ways than one.

  And that is something I dare not dream possible.

  So I toy with the glass stem as I scan from table to table. In truth, I am not familiar with Magistrate Hunter, but there are three potentials who might be him. A gentleman with silver-streaked hair nurses a tumbler in a chair by an overlarge potted plant. Another fellow already spears a piece of meat, so it’s probably not him. Or it could be a great ball of a man, waistcoat buttons about to pop, who picks at a fruit bowl, his gaze darting between a cluster of grapes and the door. I follow his line of sight.

  And my skin crawls.

  Long legs stroll across the threshold. Before I even catch a glimpse of the man’s face, my heart pumps dread and fury. I press a hand to my stomach as he struts over to the table by the potted plant and the greying gentleman with the tumbler.

  Ambrose Corbin is a tall man, turning the heads of those nearby, and no wonder. His golden hair is stylishly slicked back. His blue eyes startle, s
o pure and clear. Power drapes over his broad shoulders like a mantle. Everything about him screams success, from his snow-white high collar to the shined-leather tips of his black shoes. He is beautiful. Mesmerizing. An angel one is tempted to worship and fear.

  But inside that expensive suit and flawless skin is the heart of a demon.

  A flash of hatred burns up from my belly—but not for him. Hating Ambrose Corbin serves no purpose, for even were he to disappear, hundreds of other men could and would easily take his place. It is what he stands for—the lust, greed, and malice—that sickens me. It is not right that he walks free, spreading his poison, while men like Oliver are made to rot away behind bars.

  The man with the silver streaks rises at Ambrose’s approach. They shake hands. After a few words, a ripple of confusion moves from one man’s face to the other. So, they’ve uncovered the ruse. Inevitable—but far too soon. I swallow the hard lump of panic in my throat. If Ambrose leaves now, he’ll catch Oliver in the act of planting the jewels, exposing him and ultimately me. I can only imagine the furious fit Ambrose would throw… And once again I and my father will be in peril.

  Thankfully, the magistrate retakes his seat. But my alarm pounds harder with each beat of my heart when Ambrose remains standing.

  Slowly, he pivots. His wintry gaze moves from table to table, person to person. In a few breaths, it will land on me. What to do? Dart out the servants’ entrance? Duck under the table? Feign a sneeze and hide my face in the napkin?

  That’s it. I finger the white linen—

  And a waiter steps up to my table, blocking my view, but best of all, blocking me from view.

  Thank You, God.

  He stares at me, confusion wrinkling his brow. Then the lines ease. His wide-set eyes flash with thinly veiled adoration. “Pardon me, but I must ask… Aren’t you Daisy Lee?”

  My breath catches, but I glance up at the waiter with what I hope is a pleasant chuckle. “The opera singer? You must be mistaken.”

  His eyes narrow. “Not likely. I remember all my best patrons, and you were ever the kindest.”

  Mouth dry, I lick my lips, hoping to coax out words that will deter but are not outright lies. “I am flattered, but I am sorry to disappoint.”

  His stare is terrible, but finally, he relents and shakes his head. “No, no, it is I who must beg your forgiveness for my boldness, madam. Such an uncanny resemblance, but I see now your hair is different, your eyes not as wide, and I remember Miss Lee wears a beauty mark.”

  And again, thank You, God, for the wonders of makeup—and the difference without.

  “Well, there you have it. I cannot be Miss Lee.”

  He shuffles uneasily. “Even so, it is not my place to take note. Please, if you wouldn’t mind.” He leans closer, concern folding his brow. “May we keep this faux pas between ourselves?”

  Relief unknots the muscles in my shoulders, and I smile. “I won’t breathe a word.”

  “Thank you.” He smiles too. “And may I say that though you are not the great Daisy Lee, you are every bit as gracious and beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Indeed. Well then, are you ready to order?”

  I remove the napkin from my lap and place it on the table. “Actually, the water has quite refreshed me. I require nothing more.”

  “Very well.” He dips a bow. “There is only a nominal fee for such a small service. You may settle with the front desk. Good day to you, madam.” After a nod and a crisp pivot, he strides through the servants’ entrance and the door swings shut behind him.

  I duck my head and gaze through my lashes over to the magistrate’s table, a combination of dread and hope throbbing in a vein in my temple. I don’t want Ambrose to recognize me yet—but neither do I want him to quit the dining room.

  He sits like a king on a throne across from the magistrate. Apparently he’s decided to stay for lunch despite the ambiguity of the invitation.

  I finish off the rest of my drink, gauging the time, minding the minutes. Surely by now Oliver has tucked the ruby necklace into Ambrose’s carriage, but has he gotten far enough away? I wait a bit longer, then rise on shaky legs. As always before I give a performance, I inhale deeply and slowly blow out all the tension. Then I lift my chin.

  It’s now or never.

  Chapter Twenty

  It didn’t matter what he ran from—the past, the present, a crazed prison constable fixed on dragging him back to a rat hole. Running was always the same, whatever the motivation. Oliver’s head and heart pounded, breathing was a chore, and worst of all, he never quite knew what the outcome would be.

  “Stop!”

  Barrow’s roar thundered like a cannonball down the narrow passage. Oliver didn’t dare glance over his shoulder to judge the distance between them.

  Instead, he pumped his legs all the harder, slipping once when his shoe hit a patch of rotting lettuce. Flailing his arms, he barely prevented himself from falling headlong. Sweat trickled into his eyes. Stung. Fire burned in his lungs, his thighs, his ill-healed ankle. Yet he pressed on.

  No one in their right mind stopped for a hellhound.

  Ahead, where the passageway opened onto another lane, a boy in bunched-up sleeves on a sack coat far too large for him turned. The whites of his eyes shot wide. No wonder. In a few breaths, Oliver would plow him into the gravel. To the boy’s credit, he spun and tore off. Smart lad—especially since Barrow wouldn’t have stopped for him either, and that menace raged all the louder behind Oliver.

  “This ends now, Ward!”

  So did the passage.

  Oliver bolted into the next road, wildly glancing to the right and left. Which was the best escape route? Was there a place to hide? The lane was impossibly narrow. An old mews. Blast! A crowded street would’ve been a better place to vanish in plain sight.

  “Go!” The boy yelled. A horse whip cracked. “Walk on!”

  Oliver whirled. Behind him, parked at the edge of the opening, the boy urged a swaybacked mare hitched to a heaping manure cart into motion. The big wheels rolled. The cart jolted. Dung fell to the pavement. With another crack to the rump and a tug on the horse’s headstall, the boy coaxed the workhorse to the mouth of the passageway and stopped when the big cart blocked it.

  “Move this wagon!” Barrow blasted shocking oaths from behind the noxious load.

  The boy scrambled away, waving towards Oliver with the whip. “Come on!”

  He broke into a sprint. It wouldn’t take long for Barrow to scale that load of horse droppings, and he’d be all the more furious because of it.

  Halfway down the block, the boy swung aside and jumped down a short flight of stairs. So did Oliver, taking care to land on his good foot first. The lad dropped the whip and yanked open the rear door to the hotel, then darted inside. Oliver followed and was instantly hit with heat from a working kitchen.

  A white-aproned mistress with a broad backside stood across the room, bent over a cauldron of some sort of savory broth. Two scullery maids glanced up from chopping carrots at a big table, brows raised. Oliver flashed them a smile and picked up a nearby crate, as if he were on an errand to deliver it somewhere else in the establishment. As soon as they lowered their faces to work, he set the crate down and tugged the boy into a corridor near the stairs. Perfect. This reprieve from Barrow gave him much-needed time to warn Maggie to abandon her mission—if it wasn’t already too late.

  But how?

  He squatted to face the boy, hoping to come up with something that might work. “Thanks for your diversion out there. Now I need you to—”

  “No vagrants in the kitchen!”

  Thunderation! Must everything be against him today?

  Summoning his fast-talking skills, honed from years of arguing with his father and politicians, Oliver rose and pivoted, facing a stern-jawed waiter with an impressive glower. He forced a pleasant smile and a small laugh.

  “Ho ho! But you are mistaken, my good man. This boy here is helping me out of a stick
y female situation. You see…” He leaned closer, as if he and the servant were long-lost friends, used to sharing the utmost confidences. “There are two women in the dining room, one I’ve barely escaped from and the other I’d like to escape with. Perhaps you’ve seen who I’m talking about? She’s of yea height.” Lifting his hand, he indicated Maggie’s stature. “Has brown hair and eyes of a most striking hue, and she looks uncannily like the opera star Daisy Lee.”

  The waiter squinted, taking measure of Oliver. Not good. He could look no better than a dog’s dinner, sweat stained and disheveled thanks to Barrow. Even so, Oliver lifted his chin. Would to God the man might lend a sympathetic ear despite his appearance. And quickly.

  Please, God, for Maggie’s sake.

  “Yes, I’ve seen her,” the waiter finally drawled. “What of her?”

  “We were to meet for a tryst until I was found out. Any chance you could snag her for me? Let her know Oliver awaits and bring her down here so we can slip out undetected? I’d be ever so grateful, and there will be a coin in it for you. Maybe two. I was going to send in the boy here, but will you help?”

  “I cannot—”

  “Please.” Oliver gripped his arm. “Time is of the utmost importance. I would spare that sweet lady from facing the wrath of the woman who thinks she owns me. You don’t want a catfight on your hands in the dining room, do you? Bad for business. Bad for you.” He inclined his head and lowered his voice. “Bad for us all.”

  Oliver released the man’s sleeve and retreated a step, giving him space and time to consider the request, but hopefully not too much. If Maggie had made her move already, he’d have no choice but to come out in the open with the necklace and try to persuade the magistrate she’d been an innocent dupe in this failed scheme.

  The waiter stood silent, lips pinching, looking from him to the boy and back again. Perspiration trickled between Oliver’s shoulder blades. This was taking way too long.

  “Very well. But if this is some sort of skullduggery, I’ll see the two of you arrested.” The man’s words dangled in the air like a hangman’s noose as he wheeled about and ascended the stairs. A tug on Oliver’s sleeve drew his gaze away from the man’s long legs.