Like the one in Barrow’s hand.
With every bit of muscle he could muster, Oliver wrenched from Barrow’s grip. But the momentum was too much with his hands pinioned at his back. He lurched sideways and fell, his shoulder grinding into the ground. Hard.
But not as hard as Barrow’s club. Oliver’s head jerked aside as the wood smacked into his jaw. He rolled. Yet the blows kept coming. Raining down faster than he could move, until he finally curled into the fetal position to keep from having his guts battered into the gravel.
“What would you do without a shepherd, Ward? Hmm?” Barrow bellowed, then hoisted him up by a handful of hair. Holding him at eye level, he shouted into his face. “You’d get yourself into more trouble than you’re already in. Maybe even get yourself killed. Why, it’s you who ought to be thanking me, that’s what. Keeping you from harm. Bringing you back to the fold. It’s God’s work that I do. Aye, you ought to be real thankful to God and to me.”
In one swift movement, Barrow released him and cracked the heel of his hand into Oliver’s forehead. Off balance, Oliver whumped backwards onto the ground. Warm blood spilled from his nose, his mouth, one of his ears. Every bone ached. Every muscle screamed. But even so, he rolled with a groan and staggered to his knees. “You’re mad!”
“Maybe.” Barrow squatted, face to face. “But at least I’m free.”
The words hit like a sledgehammer to his chest, driving the air from his lungs. Barrow was right. Here he was, bound again, at the mercy of a maniacal lawman. Was he to relive the same hellish nightmare?
No, not if he could help it.
While Barrow stomped towards a horse tethered nearby, Oliver shoved to his feet. If he could make it inside, get help, maybe he might stave off Barrow’s single-minded obsession to haul him back to prison.
He staggered like a tosspot, knees threatening to buckle with each step. Four yards to the door. Three. Two more and—
Laughter barked at his back. “You never quit, do you?”
Barrow grabbed him from behind. The world flipped. Despite his violent wrenching, more rope bit into his flesh as he was tied down to the back end of a horse.
Barrow swung up on the saddle, leather creaking, then he clicked his tongue and the horse walked on. Oliver writhed, straining to break loose. He couldn’t leave now. What would his father think of him disappearing this way? Any chance of making amends would be gone, and his father would forever be disappointed in him. Oliver wrenched again, but the more he wriggled, the deeper the bindings cut.
He jerked up his head, desperate to spy anyone who could help him—and then he froze. The sweat on his brow turned to icy beads. In the window they passed, a red gown swayed near the glass.
Maggie.
His heart stopped. God, no. Please! If Barrow succeeded in hauling him away, not only would his father not know what happened to him—she’d never know. Any hope he’d ever had of making her his own would be shattered if he disappeared like this into the night. Even should he get free again, she wouldn’t dare trust him. He strained his neck higher, memorizing her outline, until the flash of red moved away and disappeared.
The horse rounded the side of the house. Oliver cast about a wild glance. Several coachmen huddled together in the shadows. The scarlet glow of a cigarette passed between them.
“Hey! This man is taking me against my will!”
Barrow shifted on the saddle. “Shut your gob or I’ll give you what for.”
“Help! This man is—”
A loud thwack smacked against his temple.
And everything went black.
Chapter Thirty
Except for periodic outbursts from Ambrose Corbin, the sitting room is deathly quiet. The magistrate, the barrister, Mrs. Corbin, and I all lean towards the jeweler, Mr. Flaversham. He’s already examined the loose jewels broken free from the necklace I’d worn and declared them to be paste. He’s also run the rubies found in Mr. Corbin’s pocket through a gamut of tests. Now, he holds what’s left of the necklace in question up to a gas lamp, giving it a final look through a magnifier that makes one of his eyes the size of a platter.
Finally, he lowers the thing and turns to us. “It is my expert opinion that the necklace found in Mr. Corbin’s pocket is made up of half paste and half rubies.”
Ambrose slams down his tumbler with a curse. He’s already drunk a third of the decanter, so it is no wonder he lists to the side as he strides over to our gathering. “Someone put that thing into my pocket. I am not to be blamed for whatever hellish scam is afoot this night.”
The magistrate eyes him for a moment, then turns to me. “And you say Mr. Groat was working with Mr. Corbin?”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
The magistrate rubs his chin. “Since Mr. Corbin possesses only half of the real gems, it seems probable Mr. Groat has the other half.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too broadly at the very conclusion we hoped he would draw. “That does seem quite likely, sir.”
Mr. Corbin flings out his arm, grabbing hold of the magistrate’s sleeve. “For the love of queen and country, man! You don’t really believe that little she-devil, do you?”
“Watch your language, Mr. Corbin.” Oliver’s father steps to my side. “Miss Lee is not the villain here.”
The magistrate plucks off Ambrose’s hand and frowns into the man’s face. “Until all the facts are laid bare, I will not adhere to any belief whatsoever. In the meantime, I think it best if you come along with me, sir, where I can keep an eye on you.”
“I will do no such thing!” With a sneer, Mr. Corbin charges back to the liquor cabinet and splashes more brandy into his cup. Most of it spills. Amber liquid pools on the shiny wood, drips down the side, and stains the carpet beneath.
The barrister dips his head close to Mr. Hunter’s. “Corbin won’t go easy. I’ve rounded up a few men who wait outside the door in preparation for such an outcome as this. Shall I call on them?”
The magistrate cocks a brow at him. “Always one step ahead, eh, Ward?”
“I try, Mr. Hunter.”
The magistrate nods his approval, and Oliver’s father strides away.
“Ladies.” Mr. Hunter’s gaze shifts between Mrs. Corbin and me. “If you’ll be so kind as to wait outside.”
“Wait for what?” Once again Ambrose charges towards us, reeking of cognac and rage. “Do not think for one minute, Hunter, that you and your station are beyond Parliament’s reach.” He stabs his finger into the magistrate’s chest. “Continue down this road and I have the power to make your life very uncomfortable.”
“I should think, sir, comfort might be more of your concern than mine. I hear the holding cell at the gaol is a bit damp this time of year.” He lifts his chin at the men the barrister ushers in. “Constrain Mr. Corbin, gentlemen, and have him brought to my coach, if you please.”
“You cannot take me from my own house! You traitorous—”
Before any filthy language gushes from his mouth, I hook my arm through Mrs. Corbin’s and usher her from the room. I do not stop until we are beyond earshot, where I guide her to one side of the wide corridor and study her face for any signs of swooning. She’s been through a lot, not only this evening but in all the years she spent with such a heinous man.
Though she is as thin as ever and once again twirls the overlarge ring on her bony finger, her colour looks healthy. Her eyes are bright. She doesn’t tremble or waver on her feet. Good signs, all.
Even so, I query, “How are you faring?”
“I should ask the same of you.” Her lips arc into a small smile. “Still, I thank you for your concern. I am better than I expected, actually. I knew this evening would be taxing, but honestly, it is a relief that Ambrose will finally have to account for his sins.”
I smile in full. “You are a strong woman, Mrs. Corbin.”
Little flecks of silver gleam in her pale blue eyes. “There is iron in your spine as well, Miss Lee.”
&n
bsp; Footsteps clap against the tile, and we both turn to see Oliver’s father approach. He stops in front of us, a pillar of strength we both naturally gravitate towards.
“The magistrate will see to Ambrose, locking him up until a trial is arranged. He’s also sent for several men to pursue Mr. Groat. I’d say, ladies, that our job here is finished. Adelia”—his gaze seeks out Mrs. Corbin’s—“would you like me to dismiss your guests for the evening?”
“Thank you, but no.” She stops fiddling with her ring and smooths her hands along her skirt. “I owe them some sort of explanation, or who knows what will appear in tomorrow’s papers.”
“As you wish.” He offers me his arm. “Miss Lee, shall we go meet up with a certain footman and call it a night?”
“I would like nothing better—”
“Pardon me, but if I may have a word with Miss Lee?”
We all turn to face a dandy of a fellow. From the tips of his glossy Italian leather shoes to the pristine top hat he holds in his white-gloved hands, the man is the epitome of a high society gent. His face is somewhat familiar, yet I cannot place him. Not surprising, really. Over the course of the years, I’ve been introduced to more people than can be accounted for.
The barrister slips me a sideways glance. “Do you know this man?”
“No, I…” But as the stranger’s brown eyes hold my gaze, a memory surfaces. An outing to London where I’d sung a few years back. A soiree for the elite. Had he been there? Was he…? Ahh.
“Why, yes. Indeed I do.” I dip a small curtsey at the newcomer. “Good evening, Mr. Lamb. I didn’t realize you were in town.” Then I smile at Oliver’s father. “It’s all right. Mr. Lamb is a theatre manager in London. I’ll join you and your son in a moment.”
Mr. Ward eyes the man, then gives an imperial sniff. “Very well. If you say so.” Then he pulls away from me and offers Mrs. Corbin his arm instead. “Come, Adelia. I’ll see you to the ballroom on my way downstairs.”
As their footsteps fade down the passageway, Mr. Lamb’s tenor voice fills the void. “That was quite a performance tonight. I mean, other than what happened with Mr. Corbin. In light of your recent absence from the stage, your aria was surprisingly divine.”
I cannot help but grin. Coming from the manager of the most prestigious opera venue in all of England, his words are high praise indeed. “Thank you.”
He fingers his hat, edging it in a circle as he speaks. “Allow me to be blunt, Miss Lee. Your former manager, Mr. Groat, made it quite clear that you are on your own now. Which means you are free to accept any offer you like.”
Curious, I nod. “That is true.”
“Brilliant!” He advances a step, then straightens his shoulders. I catch a waft of bergamot and Turkish tobacco.
“I have a proposition for your consideration. A contract for two years, with me. Think of it. The Royal Opera House. Covent Garden.” He waves his hand through the air as if underscoring a freshly painted signboard with my name on it. “It can be yours. All yours. ‘Daisy Lee’ will be on the lips of London’s wealthiest and most powerful. And from there, who knows? It’s only the beginning.”
I gape like a landed halibut, unprofessional and downright unladylike, but completely unstoppable. “Oh… I… well—”
La! I sound like a lunatic. I snap my lips shut before the man has me committed to an asylum.
“Allow me to be clear.” He smiles, his teeth a flash of white in the sconce light. “If you want it, the Royal Opera House is yours. You may set the terms of the contract, within reason.”
My heart skips a beat. I reach for the wall, seeking something solid lest my weak knees give way. This is it. The opportunity of a lifetime—of a hundred lifetimes. There is no more prestigious stage in England. Mr. Lamb’s offer would not only restart my career, it would launch me into the upper realms of the entire music world. Glory. Wealth. Fame. And most of all, the chance to sing unfettered, according to my heart’s desire, free of others’ dictates, sharing the gift of beautiful music with even more people. It’s all within my grasp with the utterance of a single yes.
My gaze drifts past the man who holds my future, skims down the corridor, and stops at the entrance to the ballroom—the last place I’d seen Oliver. Surely he’ll understand if I jump at this chance. He is a politician, after all. An opportunist. How many open doors has he run through in order to gain his standing in the House of Commons? And it’s not like I need his permission. I am finally and fully my own woman. I’d be a fool to turn down Mr. Lamb’s generous offer.
But then I remember that singular moment when my eyes locked with Oliver’s as I sang. The way everyone and everything ceased to exist, and we were the only two souls in the universe. Just thinking of it now rushes a surge of warmth from my head to my toes.
And then I know.
As much as I want to continue sharing the gift God gave me, the joy of singing for strangers pales in comparison to the love of a good man in a quiet home. God gifted me with music to share with Him first of all, and I can do that as well out on the vast expanse of Dartmoor as upon London’s finest stage. Indeed, that is the stage I now yearn for most—a house at the end of a moor where dogs and children can roam free. My children.
Oliver’s children.
I pull away from the wall and snap my gaze back to Mr. Lamb. “I appreciate your offer, sir. It is no small thing that you propose. Trust me when I say I am deeply honored. Were I to sing anywhere, I would covet a position as resident soprano at your theatre.”
“Pretty words, Miss Lee.” He frowns. “Yet I get the feeling you are about to turn me down.”
“I am.”
“Well.” He dons his hat and straightens his sleeves, then looks me full in the face. “Whoever he is, I hope he is worth it.”
I blink. “What makes you think it’s a man?”
“Only a woman befuddled by love could turn down so magnificent an offer.” He smiles and withdraws a small calling card, offering it to me. “Look me up next time you’re in London. I think I can manage to get you a few tickets. And whoever this beguiling man is who’s stolen your heart, I hope to meet him someday.”
“Thank you.” I pluck the card from his gloved fingers. “Would that I had signed with you at the start of my career.”
“Would that you had as well. Good evening, Miss Lee.”
He bows then strides down the corridor, taking my golden opportunity along with him. Inwardly I search for the slightest hint of regret, for the niggling feeling in my feet that I should run after him. But all I feel is a desire to dash down the passageway in the opposite direction and throw myself into Oliver’s strong arms.
So I do. My slippers fly across the carpet. I know the way to the back staircase as if I am skipping down a corridor at Morden Hall. It is the same escape route I used last year, only this time as I scamper down the steps, I am not running from a man but towards one.
I swing into the small storage closet, breathless with hope for an even brighter future than that promised by Mr. Lamb. The barrister faces me as I enter—but he is alone. I glance back out the door on the off chance that Oliver is even now coming down the corridor.
He is not.
I face his father. “Where is Oliver?”
“Actually, my dear.” The barrister frowns. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Early the next morning, I fold up my red gown and lay it in my travel bag. The fabric pools like spilled blood, and I shiver. It is a forlorn sight, so final and bittersweet. Never again will I grace a stage in such a fine costume. Though I am ready to be done with my public life, it still comes with an emotional cost now that it is officially ended. This sorrow, however, is nothing compared to the sharp ache in my heart for my father. Two loves lost in as many days. I only hope I do not lose a third. As far as I know, Oliver is still unaccounted for… unless he intends to surprise both the barrister and me at breakfast.
I snap the bag shut and hurry out th
e bedroom door. Eggs and toast are the last things on my mind. I am hungry for a dark-haired, hazel-eyed man.
As I near the dining room, I slow my steps, tuck in a last stray curl, and swirl into the room with a smile, ready to greet the man who owns my heart.
But the curl flops back onto my brow, and my smile fades. I stop at the head of the unoccupied table. The barrister is not here.
Neither is Oliver.
I approach the sideboard with a frown. Snubbing the covered dishes and urn of coffee, I pour a cup of tea. For now, it is all I can stomach. Holding the cup in two hands, I survey the empty room.
Doubt scalds as hot as my first sip. I thought Oliver cared for me. After all, he’d asked to call on me once his name was cleared. But am I deceived? Had he only used me to get Corbin arrested and then when he got what he wanted, left both me and his father? Lord knows it wouldn’t be the first time I’d been betrayed by a man.
The cup shakes. Tea dribbles over the rim. I set it on the table, half-drunk. No. I will not believe Oliver capable of such a duplicitous act. I cannot. The pain would be too great. He will show up. He will! And he’ll know where to find me. It shouldn’t take me but a few minutes to pack up my belongings and begin the trek back to Morden Hall. With my career officially ended and my father gone, there is nothing more for me here in Bath.
I stride towards the door—just as the barrister rounds the corner and nearly bumps into me.
With a quick reach of his hand, he steadies my arm. “Pardon me, Miss Lee, but you are just the person I was hoping to see.”
He wears his black riding cloak, smelling of leather and horses. Mud flecks spatter the fabric, especially near the hem. Though he’s doffed his hat, his silver hair is wild, as if he jumped from his bed without a thought to pomading it back. Had he?
I look past him, into the corridor, hoping to see Oliver’s strong outline, for surely that’s what the barrister has been about this morning. What else could possibly coax him out for a robust ride at such an early hour?
The House at the End of the Moor Page 27