“Miss Daisy Lee!”
Applause rings out. Mr. Groat pulls aside the draperies, takes a bow himself, then pivots and fixes his stare on me. I walk forward. He advances my way. As we pass, I slide the rubies into his pocket and continue walking until I am at the center of a half ring of guests. Only then do I smile brilliant and true. It’s done. Mr. Groat carries his own doom.
Strains of music begin. The applause dies. Silently I count the beat, waiting for my cue.
And then I see Ambrose Corbin near the door. His nostrils flare, his eyes are wide, almost bulging, as his gaze fastens on me. My counting screeches to a halt. Though there are rows of guests between me and him, I shudder. He is as intimidating as the night he ran his finger along my bare neck and down my collarbone. His stare is fastened on the rubies at my throat.
My cue comes.
Goes.
And I stand mute.
Every muscle Oliver owned quivered to wrench Corbin’s arm just a tad harder. Apply a bit more pressure. Make the scoundrel cry out and experience in a small way the suffering he had borne the past nine months.
But then he’d be no better a man than Corbin himself. He reined in the urge and held the monster fast at the back of the crowd. Music started. Corbin stiffened. Grim satisfaction filled Oliver. It wouldn’t be long now before manacles clapped tight against Corbin’s wrists, justice finally served.
A few curious gazes drifted their way. One man edged towards them—then stopped, just as the music did, and snapped his gaze up front.
Alarm buzzed in Oliver’s head. Why was Maggie’s resonant voice not filling the room?
The music circled back to repeat the opening strains. Though risky, Oliver released his hold on Corbin and stepped aside to see what was going on. If Corbin made a move, he’d flatten him.
Peering over the heads of those in front, he spied Maggie standing beneath the dazzling light of a crystal chandelier, resplendent in her red gown—and a look of abject terror on her face. Her gaze was pinned on Corbin.
Oliver scowled. If he could run to her, he’d pull her into his arms and hide her eyes against his chest that she may never again have to look upon that beast.
But no time for that. He shot up his hand, and when her gaze startled to the movement and then darted to his own face, he infused every bit of encouragement and strength into the mouthing of a single word.
Sing.
Time stopped. He held his breath. Once again the music swelled. When it softened for her intro, would she open her mouth?
God, please, give Maggie the courage that I cannot.
Her chest rose and fell, frantic at first, then calming. A strange light blazed in her eyes. Had Corbin’s spell been broken, or had she been broken?
Sing, Maggie. Sing!
As if she read his thoughts, her chin lifted, she parted her lips, and the sound of heaven came down to earth. The crowd sucked in a collective breath at the purity of her voice.
And then they were alone, just him and Maggie. Her brown eyes boring into his. Her sweet mouth moving for him and none other. Despite the distance and people and impossible circumstance, the space between them charged like the air before a lightning strike. She was his in that moment. He was hers. Joined as one in the ethereal music flowing from her lips.
Off to the side, a black shape scuttled against the wall. Though it killed Oliver to end the connection, he turned towards the movement to see the tails of Groat’s suit coat flying out one of the other doors.
Blast! What to do? Stay here and make sure Corbin didn’t flee? Or go after the known escapee?
He snuck a quick glance at Corbin, but just like the rest of the guests, the man was entranced by Maggie. Besides, he likely wouldn’t rush away now that he’d seen the ruby necklace at her throat.
Oliver retreated the few steps to the nearest door, then broke into a dead run as Groat fled down the corridor. The man bypassed the main entrance and swung into another passageway, towards the servant stairs, apparently intent on exiting a back door.
Oliver pumped his legs harder. Snagging Groat at the rear of the house would be easier anyway. Fewer waiting carriages. Fewer coachmen to attract attention. A square courtyard bordered by outbuildings instead of a vast and open circular drive.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he gained on the man and landed on the ground floor just paces behind Groat. He might even tackle him before the man reached the door.
But then a scowling butler stepped out from a doorway and blocked him. “Get back to work!”
Ignoring him, Oliver veered aside—just as a scullery maid entered the corridor with a tray. He jerked sideways, praying to miss her as he tore past, but his shoulder caught the platter. The dish flew and shattered on the floor. The maid shrieked.
Oliver stumbled, balancing for a split second on one foot, then charged ahead. “Sorry!” he yelled.
Groat was already out the door.
“By all that’s holy!” the butler boomed. “Where do you think you’re—”
Oliver bolted outside, the door slamming against any further rebuke. To his left, Groat’s top-heavy body skittered on long thin legs, straight towards a waiting horse tethered near a watering trough. Oliver sprinted, lungs heaving. Five yards to go. Four. The man was so close now that he could smell his sweat. Two more strides and he’d launch, ride Groat to the ground and—
Something shot out in front of him, shin level. Oliver flew. He whumped to the gravel, air knocked from his lungs. His chin drove hard into the rocky soil. Before he could gasp in a breath, a boot ground into the small of his back. His arms were pinioned behind. Rope cut into his wrists. By the time he could breathe, he was yanked to his feet.
And Groat was riding away.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
My final note hovers on the air. The musicians capture it and skillfully bring the aria to a bittersweet ending. Face uplifted, I smile and blink back tears. It is this thin space before applause that satisfies the most. The magical part when I am caught up in the worship of the moment, just God and me and the breathless wonder of the human voice He so graciously gives. No matter that I stumbled through the cadenza and barely hit the highest octave, it is enough for Him—and for me—that I gave it my all.
A thunder of clapping breaks loud and strong, and I grieve the split second of holy silence just passed. Had the audience heard it? Felt it?
Dipping my head in gratitude, I give in to the crowd’s approval before my nerves fray at the edges. In the grand scheme of things, tonight’s performance wasn’t about me or my singing, but about righting a wrong. Everything hinges on the next few minutes.
I lift my face as a few guests shout, “Brava!” and curtsey my appreciation, taking care not to allow my gaze to slip to the corner where Ambrose Corbin stands—for then I really will lose my nerve. Instead, I meet Mrs. Corbin’s gaze and give a tiny nod.
She screams.
A collective gasp follows.
Mrs. Corbin darts from the crowd, her finger aimed at my neck. “Those are my jewels. My stolen necklace! You are a thief!”
Those behind her cannot see the slight wince that crinkles the sides of her eyes. Though we preplanned her exact words, it is touching that she hesitates to bring such a false accusation against me.
Slapping my hand to my chest, I feign surprise—which hushes the entire room. Blood is in the water and all wish to see the circling shark attack its prey.
But none expect that I am the shark.
Instead of shrinking back, I advance. Every eye fixes upon me. This will have to be my finest performance ever. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mrs. Corbin. These are naught but a bit of paste. As far as I am aware, your husband and Mr. Groat are the last ones to have your jewels.”
“Preposterous!” Ambrose Corbin shoves through the gaping onlookers and stalks straight towards me. “You will give me my wife’s rubies, and you will give them to me now.”
He springs, arm outstretched, fingers extended. I rec
oil.
Too late.
The clasp bites into the back of my neck as he yanks. The chain gives. Gems fly everywhere.
“Now see what you’ve done!” Corbin roars and wheels about, madly scrambling to pick up the fallen rubies. Several other guests do the same. It is a macabre scene, silks and suits grasping about like blind beggars after thrown pennies.
“What is the meaning of this?” Magistrate Hunter breaks through the circle of onlookers. Though he is roughly the same age as Oliver’s father, a tired air hovers about him, with his silvery wisps of thin hair sliding over the top of his head, a vague memory of what used to be sandy waves. This close, he looks older than I first credited him at the hotel restaurant.
Mr. Corbin snatches the rest of the jewels from the hands of his hapless guests. One man frowns. Another lady sticks out her lip in a full-blown pout. Did they seriously think Ambrose Corbin would allow them to leave with such a priceless party favor?
Once the gems are collected, he wheels about, a feral glaze in his eyes. A cornered rat couldn’t look fiercer. “That woman”—he hitches his thumb at me—“is in league with Oliver Ward. Both are criminals. Arrest her this minute!”
“That is a strong accusation, Mr. Corbin.” The barrister pushes through the crowd and pulls up next to the magistrate. He seeks out my gaze, his green eyes calming and strong. “The magistrate would be remiss to issue any warrants without further investigation.”
Mr. Hunter nods. “Mr. Ward speaks true.” He shoves out his palm. “Hand over the evidence, Mr. Corbin, so that we may get to the bottom of this.”
Mr. Corbin clutches his handful of broken necklace to his chest. “I’ll do nothing of the sort. These belong to me! To my wife.”
Oliver’s father stretches to his full height and looks down his nose at Mr. Corbin. Though his imposing stance is not directed at me, I stiffen. I cannot imagine facing such a nemesis were I the accused in a court of law.
“Refusing to comply with a magistrate’s request is a punishable offense, sir.” The barrister doles out each word like a crack of thunder.
The crowd draws closer. I hold my breath.
Mr. Corbin sneers, then slams his handful of jewels into the magistrate’s waiting fingers.
With them occupied, the barrister dips me a little nod. It’s time.
I draw in a breath, then speak so the entire room may hear. “Mr. Hunter, perhaps you should check Mr. Corbin’s pockets. As I said, he and Mr. Groat are the last ones to have the real jewels. It was Mr. Corbin’s original idea and Mr. Groat’s complicity to fashion my paste replication based on Mrs. Corbin’s.”
The magistrate’s eyebrows crawl up to his hint of a hairline. “Is that so?”
Mr. Corbin’s gaze burns holes through me. “What game is this, Miss Lee?”
Mrs. Corbin steps closer to me. How many times has she had to fend off her husband’s rage? The thought of his bullying her, his unfaithfulness and lechery, surges fresh courage through my veins.
I wave to his suit coat. “If I am lying, then you should have no problem showing the magistrate the contents of your pockets, sir.”
His face reddens to a murderous shade. “I will not have some light skirt ordering me about in my own home. Mr. Hunter, if you do not put a stop to this charade at once, I will—”
“If you’ve nothing to hide, sir, then show me your empty pockets.” The magistrate shifts the broken necklace to his other hand.
Strange how a room once so alive with chatter and laughter can suddenly sound like the grave. No one speaks. No one breathes—save for Mr. Corbin. His chest heaves as he finally digs into his right pocket and turns it inside out. “See? Nothing!”
My chest tightens. Had Oliver insufficient time to plant the necklace?
But the magistrate does not move. “And the left?”
Mr. Corbin shoves his hand into that pocket—and pulls out the half-paste, half-real necklace. He lifts it high, blustering. A murmur runs through the crowd like an unholy wind.
Magistrate Hunter swipes the rubies from the man’s hand. “I’ll take that also, Mr. Corbin.”
Mr. Corbin growls and shoots me an icy glare. “What are you up to, you little witch?”
The crowd shuffles ever closer—but this time Ambrose notices the movement, for the dark scowl etched into his face smooths into a placid smile that he directs towards the magistrate and barrister. A small chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Why, I am sure this is nothing but a small misunderstanding. Let us adjourn to the sitting room and sort it out there.” Swinging his arms wide, he faces his guests. Truly, the man ought to be onstage himself.
“Friends, please. Enjoy the evening. A repast will be served shortly, whereupon Mrs. Corbin and myself shall rejoin this happy gathering. So drink, dance, and make merry.” He retreats several steps and snags his wife’s arm. “Come, darling.”
Skirting the crowd, he pulls her along with long-legged steps.
The barrister turns to Magistrate Hunter. “Will it aid you, sir, if I retrieve Mr. Groat for your questioning, since he was handling the jewels as well?”
Mr. Hunter nods. “Very helpful. Oh and Ward, the jeweler, Mr. Flaversham, the one we spoke with earlier? Bring him too, if you please.”
“As you wish, sir.” Once again Oliver’s father seeks out my gaze just before he turns away. The crowd cannot see his face, neither can the magistrate, but I do. The wink he gives me shores up and fortifies my flagging bravery—and I’ll need every bit of it as the magistrate guides me out of the ballroom and into the sitting room.
We barely cross the threshold when Ambrose Corbin slams the door shut. I jump. So does Mrs. Corbin. Mr. Hunter merely raises a brow.
Ambrose circles me, then flicks his fingers at my face and scowls at Mr. Hunter. “There is foul play afoot this night, and it begins and ends with this woman and Oliver Ward.”
I edge away from him until I bump up against a window. Mrs. Corbin joins my side.
“Now, now, sir.” The magistrate speaks as if to a fretting toddler. “If I recall correctly, Mr. Ward resides at Dartmoor Prison. I fail to see how—”
“He’s here! In this very house.” Mr. Corbin’s face deepens to the shade of a freshly dug beetroot. He spins towards his wife and me. “And the two of you have arranged for this whole charade, have you not?”
Every muscle in me screams to run away and hide from the awful rage that pulses strong in the vein standing out on his neck. But I force my chin high and will my voice not to squeak. “I am here at the request of your wife.”
He snorts. “And you just so happened to wear the same costume as your last performance?”
“Again”—I shrug—“at the request of your wife.”
He hurls his full fury at Mrs. Corbin. “Do not tell me you ally yourself with them as well.”
“Mr. Corbin.” The magistrate steps between us and him. “I suggest you sit down and leave the questioning to me. We will see who is truly in possession of the missing jewels.”
“Bah!” he roars, then strides to a side table, where he pours a tumbler full of brandy and gulps it down.
Beside me, Mrs. Corbin draws in a deep breath. “Mr. Hunter, I wish to state for the record that the necklace in question is mine, not my husband’s. It was bequeathed to me alone at the demise of my mother. She, being a dowager countess, was in full legal possession of the rubies and signed them over to me. So you see, sir, anyone who is found to be holding those jewels other than myself truly is the thief.”
Ambrose spews a mouthful of liquor as he pivots to face her. “You conniving little vixen! You would accuse me? Your own husband?”
Though she trembles beside me, her voice rings out pure. “You ceased to be my husband the day you sought affections elsewhere.”
I want to shout, “Brava!” for her bold truth, but just then the door opens. The barrister and a squat little man, all podgy and perspiring, stroll in, drawing everyone’s attention.
Mr. Hunter dips his head in gr
eeting. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Flaversham. I am certain you can clear this whole thing up with your expert opinion.” The magistrate’s gaze shifts to the barrister. “And Mr. Groat?”
A grim frown wrinkles the barrister’s brow. “I am afraid, sir, that Mr. Groat is nowhere to be found.”
Oliver lunged against his bindings, against Barrow’s hot breath hitting the back of his neck, against the world and all the unfairness of the universe. A beast raged inside of him. Snapping. Snarling. Straining to get out. A primal howl roared past his lips.
“You’ve got the wrong man!”
Barrow’s truncheon dug into the small of his back. “All liars will burn in the pit of hell. Now move.”
Barrow laid his weight into the club, shoving him forward.
Oliver stumbled a few steps, then spun. The brim of Barrow’s hat hid his face in shadows. The rest of him was cloaked in black. The man truly was a fiend of the night—his fiend. His own personal demon from the abyss.
“Listen to me!” Oliver’s voice bounced off the courtyard walls. Were there not a party going on inside, the whole of the house would hear him. “That man on the horse, Groat, the one who just rode off, he’s got the rubies in his pocket. He is the real thief, not me. So is Corbin, inside. You’re making a mistake, Barrow! You’re letting the true criminal get away.”
A mirthless chuckle rumbled up from deep inside the man’s chest. “Every deceiver shall swim in the lake of fire, Ward. Repent now before it’s too late.”
Sweet blessed heavens! There’d be no convincing this hard-headed pretend saint, leastwise not with words.
Ducking his head like a battering ram, Oliver charged. The top of his skull hit full on Barrow’s nose. Cartilage crunched. Barrow staggered, cussing oaths that would make a pirate blush. But before Oliver could run free, the man snagged the fleshy part of his upper arm.
“Now you’ve gone and done it, haven’t you?” Barrow roared.
The chill in his voice instantly froze the hot fury in Oliver’s belly. He’d heard that tone only once, the night before the man from the cell opposite his was found beaten in the yard. Bludgeoned until his face was unrecognizable. More than likely from a truncheon.
The House at the End of the Moor Page 26