The House at the End of the Moor

by Michelle Griep

  “No. He…” She pressed her lips together, her gaze drifting past him to a shadowy corner of the room. “He was here when I arrived.”

  The news hit him like a hammer. If Groat knew where they lodged, it would be only a matter of time before Barrow found out—a very short time. Shoving away from the table, he once again took up pacing. They couldn’t stay here, that much was clear. But where to go? Take the risk of calling on some of his friends, see if they would shelter two fugitives? Spend whatever money Maggie had left in her purse to hole up in a nondescript inn somewhere? Go rough and hunker beneath a bridge?

  He tugged at his collar, desperate for air. None of those would work. Nothing would, not with Barrow and Groat on the prowl. No, they’d have to stay somewhere where those two bloodhounds would fear to tread. A place too dangerous to risk entering.

  Oliver grimaced as the seed of a horribly perfect idea took root and grew—and the thought of it nearly doubled him over. There was only one refuge possible to hold the two at bay.

  “Pack your belongings,” he spat out before he changed his mind. “We leave at once.”

  “Where are we going?” She rose, hands flopping out at her sides. “There is no place to hide. Mr. Groat will stop at nothing to get that necklace back. And your Mr. Barrow is clearly not going to give up easily.”

  “True, but neither would dare trespass on the property of the most powerful barrister in Bath.”

  Maggie shook her head, clearly not convinced. “It is a very big assumption that either of them would personally be acquainted with some bigwig barrister.”

  “A man in Groat’s position, with connections to society, would no doubt be familiar with the Hawk of Crown Court. And if Barrow isn’t, Groat is sure to educate him.”

  “But you are a convict on the run, and I am still wanted for breach of contract. How will you convince a mighty man of the law to provide us shelter instead of tossing us both in gaol?”

  Oliver gritted his teeth, hating that the only alternative was the one that would gut him more thoroughly than Barrow ever could.

  “Because that barrister is my father.”

  As the cab judders along a lane leading out of town, I swallow a wave of sickness. What a day. Mr. Groat. Mr. Barrow. Both seep in everywhere, slip through cracks, ooze into thin spaces where they are not wanted. Like a rising river unleashed from its banks, they seem completely unstoppable. Will Oliver’s father truly be able to help us? And if so, why did we not go sooner?

  I glance at Oliver. He sits silent, hands clenched on his thighs, head turned and staring out the window. The only thing carefree about him at the moment is the sweep of dark hair that grazes his collar. What will his father think of this shaggy-headed man? Will he even recognize him?

  “Has it been very long since you last spoke with your father?” My question bounces in rhythm with the jiggling carriage wheels.

  “Years,” he murmurs.

  Years? I huff out a breath, both from surprise and a particularly deep rut that dips the side of the coach. Clearly his brooding silence is valid. What does one say to a loved one after such a long void? My own heart squeezes at the prospect. Considering the circumstances, this will be no easy reunion.

  “Well, then…” I infuse my voice with a lightness I don’t truly feel. “I imagine your father should be happy to hear from you.”

  A snort rips out of him and he faces me, staring as if I’m a lunatic fresh from a ward at Bedlam. “Happy?” His voice strangles. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  Sadness lurks deep in that brown-green gaze, as if a little boy looks out from within, heartsick and needy. I have no idea what’s transpired between the two in the past, what hurts fester, what wounds still bleed. But heedless of scars or resentment or hostility, deep down every son craves the love of his father—whether he admits to it or not.

  I lay my hand on his shirtsleeve and press in what I pray he’ll take as compassion. “People change, Oliver. Time can soften the hardest of hearts.” It’s an old adage, but heartily true. It took years to soften my bitterness towards my father.

  He shakes his head, a raw chuckle in his throat grinding as harsh as the turn of the wheels. “I appreciate you wanting to make this easier, but truly, no amount of placating sentiments will make the situation any better. I shall just have to grit my teeth and get through it.”

  “Well, as long as you’re gritting…” I sigh and pull back my hand. Averting my gaze, I finger the hem of my sleeve. Since there is no cheering him, I might as well let him know we have but two days to resolve the rift with his father and all our problems before I must meet with Mr. Groat. “I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?” His tone is deadly.

  I pick at a thread, stalling. Perhaps this wasn’t the best occasion to inform him after all, but it’s too late now. “I—” I clear my throat and try again. “I promised Mr. Groat I would meet with him in two days to hand over the necklace.”

  “You what?”

  The question slaps the air, as stinging as Mr. Groat’s strike to my cheek. Oh, why have I come? I should’ve stayed at Morden Hall. Let Oliver manage everything. Yet deep in my soul I know that wouldn’t have worked either.

  My fingernail moves from thread to thread. Sucking in a breath for courage, I lift my face and hold Oliver’s incredulous gaze. “I’m sorry. It couldn’t be helped. Mr. Groat left me no choice.”

  His lips flatten into a hard-edged grimace. Reaching sideways, he stills my frantic picking, then blows out a long breath. “It seems we are both out of options at the moment.” He squeezes my hand, then pulls back. “Don’t worry. I’ll think of something. You will not have to meet with that monster ever again.”

  The protective edge to his words releases a surge of warmth through me, but even so, I look away. I’m not sure what to do with this foreign feeling. It excites. It comforts and thrills. And it completely upends everything I’ve come to believe about men. Oliver Ward cares deeply about others—about me—and with no apparent expectation of a return for that compassion. It is too unsettling to consider, for to believe such a love exists, I would have to tear down the wall I’ve built to hide behind. And then I would be vulnerable—something I vowed never to be the day my father signed me over to Mr. Groat. That betrayal lived on in the young girl part of my heart, forgiven but not forgotten.

  We roll through ornate wrought-iron gates, and my eyes catch a glimmer of a gilded W worked into the pattern. The road curves and a limestone manor looms larger as we near it. Wisteria climbs in green-frosted glory against the sand-coloured backdrop, its buds still tiny clusters but its vines embracing the two stories with the promise of beauty to come. Quite the contrast to the hovel on Avon Street.

  Moments later, the coachman halts the horses beneath a front portico, and I descend onto a crushed shell drive and pay off the driver. Oliver leads me to the door and rings the bell. Tension radiates off him as we wait. His jaw clenches tight. So do his hands. He stares at the door as if it’s a mountain to climb, one that could take his life.

  A tall man in somber black livery appears. His dark hair is shot through with silver, his blue eyes are faded, and little creases crimp the skin near his temples. He is the quintessential butler, wearing his years as stalwartly as his pressed suit. I have no doubt he is as much a fixture in this home as the marble pillars or cut-glass chandelier in the hall behind him. Servants this imposing are the envy of any wealthy gentleman or lady. I creep back a step.

  Oliver advances. “Foster.” He gives the man a curt nod. “Is my father available?”

  The man’s mouth opens, then as suddenly closes. Emotion flashes in his eyes so briefly, it is hard to name it. Surprise, certainly, but something more. Sorrow? Anger? Sympathy?

  “My pardon, Mr. Oliver.” He dips a bow. “But the barrister is out at the moment. Would you care to wait?”

  “Yes,” Oliver answers without pause.

  Foster leads us into a museum. Thick
Turkish rugs cover the floor. Alabaster sculptures tastefully line the walls. Cherubs on pedestals. Grecian urns and Roman profiles. And at center of the grand space, right in front of a carved staircase, is a statue of a Virgilian mother, her young son beholding her with adoration. A shiver wriggles across my shoulders as we pass the symbol of familial love. Knowing what little I do of Oliver and his father, it is a stunning hypocrisy.

  After depositing us in a sitting room, Foster leaves on silent feet. Oliver immediately stalks to the window and stares out as if he desires to leave already. Is he second-guessing his decision to come without even giving his father a chance?

  No matter. We are here.

  I wander the elegant space, running a finger along the mahogany back of a velvet-cushioned sofa. A black lacquer mantel clock ticks away our lives, one second at a time. My gaze drifts upward. Overhead, the plasterwork on the ceiling is an intricate design of palm fronds, rose petals, and intertwined vines, all tipped with gold paint. The whole room smells of lemon oil and beeswax. Not one vase or freshly cut flower is out of place. I’ve admired many opulent homes over the course of the years, but this one has its own special charm. What would it have been like to grow up here?

  “It is a beautiful home,” I think aloud.

  “It is a beautiful cage.”

  I blink, taken aback, then angle my head. “What do you mean?”

  “Had I become the man my father wished, taken on his mantle of representing none but the rich and privileged, I’d have been trapped here, locked in the chains of status and wealth.” The words are low, monotone, as if he speaks to no one but himself. Finally, he turns from the glass and skewers me with a direct gaze. “Tell me, could you really live in a house such as this now that you’ve experienced abject poverty, known firsthand the deprivations and prejudice directed towards the poor?”

  The raging bitterness in his voice steals my breath—a resentment I’m not sure I understand. I’ve lived in both humble and privileged circumstances, and each holds its own peculiarities. “In a way,” I soften my tone, hoping to soothe whatever piques him so, “the wealthy suffer their own deprivations and prejudice, do they not?”

  “Not to the point of starvation and death.” The words are throaty, passionate—and altogether curious. This vehemence against his own roots burns like fire in his eyes. And then it hits me. He is proud—pleased, even—to cast aside where he’s come from… to shun the family God placed him in simply because of its prosperity.

  “I appreciate your compassion for the poor, Oliver. I really do. But I fear you judge the wealthy too harshly. Not all who are rich are self-centered moneymongers, just as not all who are poor are virtuous. Having lived amongst both the rich and the needy, I find it is the heart of the person that makes the man, not the amount of coin in his pocket.”

  His nostrils flare, and a muscle on his neck stands out like a cord.

  I bite my lip. I’ve said too much. Pushed him at a time when he’s already anxious about an audience with his father. I bow my head. “Forgive me if I’ve spoken too—”

  His hand shoots up, cutting me off. “No need. You’ve spoken as a true diplomat, and your candor is refreshing. If I didn’t know any better, I’d suspect you were trying to change my mind on the matter.”

  A small smile quirks my lips. “Is that such a bad thing?”

  His hazel eyes give no hint of what he’s thinking. Bypassing me, he crosses to a table in the corner and holds up a decanter. “Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thank you.” While he pours, I go back to wandering the room, then pause at the far end. An enormous painting hangs on the wall, and the longer I stare at the pepper-haired gentleman in a flowing black robe, the more my jaw drops. Why did I not notice this when I first entered? The green flecks flashing in brown eyes. The full lips. Granted, wrinkles crease the face of the man in the portrait and the nose is all wrong—much too distinctively hawk-like—but take away several decades, and I’d be staring at Oliver.

  Narrowing my eyes, I look closer. Unspeakable power tilts his head, demanding attention, allegiance, full cooperation. I am naked before that gaze, as if he sees past my facade and beckons my soul to follow wherever he leads. He is a man not to be trifled with, one of intelligence and strong opinions. The hooked beak of his nose makes me feel as if I am but a mouse and he a raptor on the prowl.

  Footsteps stop at my side, but I am too mesmerized to look away. “He looks rather formidable,” I breathe. “Quite like—”

  “Like an overbearing tyrant?”

  “No.” I turn away and smile at Oliver. “I was going to say like you.”

  “Oh?” His brows lift. “You think me formidable, do you?”

  My grin grows. “I might have been cowed by you had you not come to me unconscious and bleeding.”

  “Yes, well…” He glances up at the portrait, and a black scowl darkens his brow. “I assure you I’ve made it a point to be nothing like my father.” His words ring out, almost as loud as those that barrel in from the sitting room door.

  “A pity, that, for you would not be in such a snarl of trouble right now if you were, hmm?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The barrister strode into the room, and immediately Oliver stiffened. With one sweeping glance, his father’s sharp green gaze calculated and stored information—information that could and would later be used against him. It always was.

  “Father.” Oliver bowed out of respect for the barrister’s position, nothing more.

  His father dipped his head in a curt nod. “Oliver.”

  Deep lines spidered out from the corners of his eyes. His hair, once black as jet, was now the colour of sun-bleached bones. His lips were thinner, the skin above his cravat wrinkled like a walnut, and there was a new slight bend to his shoulders—none of which made the man any less imposing. If anything, the years added more of an imperial tilt to his head.

  “I would be lying if I did not admit surprise at seeing you.” The barrister’s face knotted into a scowl, his mouth a blade, cutting without further words. But as his gaze drifted to Maggie, his glower softened to a near smile. “I see you have not come alone.”

  Oliver reached towards her, stopping short of resting his hand on the small of her back, suddenly unsure of what she might think of such a show of possession. “Father, allow me to introduce Miss—”

  “Daisy Lee.” The barrister bowed over her hand with a gallant kiss to her fingers. “Your reputation precedes you, my dear. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  She shot Oliver a glance, uncertainty quirking her brow, then broke into a smile and curtseyed, as if his father were nothing but an audience to woo. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Ward.”

  “Please, have a seat.” He swept his hand towards the sofa. “I hope my son has not been negligent in his hospitality.” Looking past her shoulder, he frowned at Oliver, little folds of disapproval creasing the sides of his mouth.

  “On the contrary. He’s been nothing but a gentleman.” Maggie’s sweet voice filled the room, expanding to fill his heart. Was it her dulcet tone that flared heat in his chest or her stalwart defense of his character?

  “I am happy to hear it. Shall we?” Quick to offer his arm, the barrister led Maggie to the sofa before Oliver could draw another breath.

  He followed the pair, stifling a grudging gratitude when his father took the seat adjacent and left the cushion next to Maggie open for him. Once they were seated, the barrister’s dark green eyes bored into him, imperial and disturbing. The man could see things, look beyond words, cast aside the inconsequential and expose the truth for what it was. A trait Oliver had inherited—yet one he abhorred when turned back on himself.

  His mouth dried to bones, and he shifted uneasily. Sweet heavens! He could argue for days on end against his most prestigious opponents when it came to legislation. He could even tongue-wag the Speaker of the House into a corner without breaking a sweat. But here? Now? Suddenly he was a little boy again, unsure of himself,
even though he knew he was in the right. Must it always be like this with his father?

  “As I said, this is quite unexpected.” His father ran his hand along the chair’s arm as he spoke. “I had not heard you were released from Dartmoor.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “I see.” His hand stopped, the abrupt stillness jarring. One side of his mouth curved into a sharp smile, like a hook floating in the water, waiting to snag an unwitting pike.

  Oliver’s gut clenched. The man was trolling for an opportunity to spear him through the heart. “No, Father, you don’t see. You never have.”

  “Excuse me.” Maggie edged forward on the cushion, blocking his view of his father. “But I think what your son would like to say, sir, is that despite past misunderstandings, he—we—need your help.”

  “Thank you for the clarification, Miss Lee. What kind of help, exactly, are you both hoping I might provide?”

  Oliver snorted. A lawful inquiry could never be fully considered without a proper presentation of context, and his father was ever a stickler for details.

  Oliver shoved to his feet, paced behind the sofa, and—hands clenched at his back—faced his father. “First, I think a little background is in order. Despite what you think of me, I did not steal the jewels for which I was accused. Miss Lee and I have proof—verbal—that Ambrose Corbin and Wendell Groat are the true criminals. They swapped Mrs. Corbin’s ruby necklace with a paste replica, intending to sell the real gems. They expected to secret away not only the funds from that illegal sale but the insurance payout as well. Things didn’t go as originally planned, yet Corbin—ever the opportunist—managed to charge me with theft and pocket the insurance money.”

  His father’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know all this?”

  “Mr. Groat said as much to Miss Lee—when he attacked her.”