The Lady's Legacy (Half Moon House Series Book 3)

by Deb Marlowe

  “Yes! That’s it exactly,” the old man rasped, his cough finally under control. “I am that precisely—death warmed over. I daresay I would be entombed already, had Marstoke not forbade me to die before I met you here.”

  Cade stepped forward, motioning the other man away. “Sir, do you know any of these other people?”

  Wilson didn’t look their way. He scarcely shifted his gaze from Hestia. “What? No.” He flicked his fingers dismissively.

  Cade turned. Francis stayed put, her face turned toward the door. Slowly, the tall man crossed the room. He paused next to her, and then moved on to the drab, tired woman who had accompanied Hestia.

  “How do you know Hestia Wright?” Cade asked her.

  She looked up at him, her shaking fingers setting her hat atremble. “Who?”

  Francis gave her credit for trying.

  Cade gripped her chin. She gasped and tried to jerk away. Shock showed on her pale face and Francis knew that, whoever she was, she’d never been handled roughly before.

  Lucky woman.

  “Her.” Cade pointed her toward Hestia. “What are you to her?”

  “We just met this morning,” she answered shakily. “At the inn, where we stayed last night. I am journeying to London. During the night, the wicked man I hired left me. Took the coach and my money and left me behind.”

  Real tears showed in her eyes. Francis would have been impressed, had she not worried that they were a sign of weakness.

  “That lady was traveling to London as well. She offered to share her carriage.”

  Francis knew she was lying. She wondered if Cade had picked up on her little slips, as well.

  “That’s no lady,” said Cade. “What is your name?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your. Name.”

  “Oh.” The woman started to tremble. “I am Miss Smy—.” She twitched. “Miss Smith, that is.”

  Cade raised a brow at her, then glanced in Francis’s direction. She deliberately suppressed any reaction except impatience. “My master will tan me if I don’t find him soon,” she said, pulling away from the man who held her.

  “Take the driver upstairs and let the doctor see to him,” Cade told the henchmen. “Keep the other two here.”

  “Here, now!” she protested. “I only helped carry the bloke in—and got claret spilled on me fer my troubles.” She swiped at her blood stained trousers. “And now yer goin’ to get me whipped!”

  “Take them all away,” Wilson fretted. “It’s her I want to see.” He still gazed at Hestia.

  “Why are you here, still dancing to that old reprobate’s tune?” Hestia asked him. “All of this effort to acquire me—I should think Marstoke would be here himself.”

  “You know the man,” Wilson complained. “He is attached to his little dramas.”

  “Drama? That’s what this little reunion is meant to be?”

  “It’s meant to be a reenactment,” he told her. “I’m to bring you to him, just as I did, so long ago.” He raised a hand and beckoned. “Come here to me.” Wilson reached for her. “I’ve longed to touch you again, after all of these years.”

  Swift as a flash, Hestia grabbed his hand and twisted it back as she spun around and stepped behind him. Her other hand reached into her bodice, pulled out a small, shining blade and pressed the point to the older man’s neck.

  “Keep back,” she warned.

  One of the lackeys took a step toward them.

  “Do you think I won’t bleed him?” She raised a brow at Cade. “Do you know what he did to me, so long ago?” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “And the most important question—do you want to return to Marstoke with only one of your trophies?”

  Cade shrugged. The others held still and watchful. Wilson struggled to free his arm, gasping like a fish out of water.

  “You never married, did you, Mister Wilson?” Moving quickly, Hestia folded his fingers down, leaving his ring finger pointing back and down towards the floor. Sun streamed in the window behind her and flashed on the metal of the knife as she quickly ran it in a line all the way around the base of the finger.

  The other woman gasped. No one else moved. Wilson’s rasping breath and stream of feeble curses were the only sound in the room.

  “Did you know that he marked us?” Hestia asked in a conversational tone. “All of us, those that he falsely wed? At times he was a pretend bridegroom. Occasionally, he masqueraded as the clergyman. But the brides were all marked in the flesh, to show his triumph, his ownership, his claim. Mine is a burn.”

  Francis’s stomach turned when all the men’s eyes turned toward Hestia’s blood spattered glove. Their curiosity was casual and sickening.

  “Others have brands, tattoos. Or scars, as you will have,” Hestia continued. She tossed his hand back in his lap and put the bloodied blade back to his neck. “But the scars on our hearts and minds were where the true damage lies.”

  “Enough.” Cade had a pistol pointed at her now. “Throw down the knife and step away from him.”

  “No need for firearms,” Hestia said clearly, and a little louder than necessary. Nodding, she did as she was bid. Leaning down as she went past him, she told Wilson, “That’s what I’ve been longing to do to you, for all of these years. You are far more his creature than I ever was. You should be marked as well.”

  Wilson, clutching his hand, struggled to breathe. His skin tone had gone grey and he looked to be in real distress now.

  Cade sighed in disgust and shot Hestia an accusing look. “Have that doctor fetched in here when he arrives,” he told the men. “Before he sees to the driver.” He waved the pistol. “Lock the three of them in a room upstairs.”

  Francis tried to protest again, but Cade cut her off. “Save it, street rat. I know who you are.” He walked over to Miss Smith and held her chin once more, turning her head to examine her profile. “Miss Smythe is it?” He gave Hestia a look. “We’ll see what Marstoke has to say about it.”

  Hestia ignored him, but she shot Wilson a look over her shoulder as they were all ushered out of the door. “Feel free to pass on now, Mister Wilson, despite what Marstoke has to say about it. Certainly, you have my blessing.”

  Slowly, moving on silent feet, Rhys backed away from the window.

  A tangle of emotion lodged in the back of his throat. Oh, damn, but he was in it now.

  His lifelong mantra of caution, pride and distance peeled away. He was leaving it behind him bit by bit, like a knight divesting himself of armor as he strode from the field of battle.

  Except, this time, for the first time, Rhys was running straight into the fray.

  Because he had to. He must. What good was a defining maxim if it meant that he could not have Francis?

  No good at all. Rubbish.

  He would not let her fall prey to the tangled, wicked mess his father had created. Lord, but she was brave. He swallowed down pride mixed with fear as he sprinted toward the stables. Hestia, too. He knew who Captain Wilson was. Marstoke had told him the story himself, watching avidly for his reaction to the story of his conception.

  He ran faster, a plan forming in his head.

  Francis was his—and he’d be damned before he allowed Marstoke harm her. All of those rules he’d lived by, they’d been his shield as a child, kept him safe as he’d grown, but he would gladly toss them aside now—as long as he could live with her.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The final amount was staggering. I was a success. My fame skyrocketed. I could choose between the men who wanted me. Ask anything of them. I chose kind men and treated them well. And I traveled to Brittany as often as I could. Visiting Monsieur, allowing him to paint me, and spending time with my son. Those days were the best in my life. My reason for living.

  --from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  “Quit dragging your feet, girl.” The lackey prodded her from behind, urging her to climb the stairs at a quicker pace.

  But Francis craned her neck
as they passed each landing and deliberately moved slower. Where was Isaac? She listened intently for the rumble of his voice.

  Nothing.

  When they reached the top floor, they were shuffled to the end of the passage and shoved into a tiny room, made smaller by a deep-edged dormer window. The door slammed behind them and they all heard the key turn in the lock.

  Hestia pushed away from the bedpost where she’d landed, straightened and turned—and gave a whoof when Francis launched herself into her arms, hugging her tight.

  “I was so afraid we wouldn’t make it in time,” she whispered.

  Hestia smoothed her hair and cupped her face for a moment. “It’s good to see you, too. Who is with you? Was that Isaac I caught a glimpse of, entering the inn?”

  “Yes. He’s in the building somewhere, I think.” Francis marveled. Hestia appeared her usual composed self, unruffled by her confrontation with one of the men whose vile betrayal had altered the course of her life.

  “Who was outside the window, then? I could have sworn I caught a reflection of someone skulking out there.”

  “I don’t know. One of Marstoke’s flunkies?” Her heart sank. If she hadn’t been so rash, so over-confident, she might have been able to tell Hestia that her son could be counted on to help them. But she’d driven Rhys away instead of bringing him home, and now she was going to have to confess her failure.

  She had to lower her head and blink away a swell of tears.

  “Anyone else we might expect?” This was Hestia, adding up resources, making plans. “Aldmere? Truitt?”

  Francis shook her head. “Callie and Lord Truitt were already in London. Isaac sent Aldmere and Brynne to help them at Half Moon House.”

  “Very wise. It would be just like Marstoke to strike on two fronts.” She smoothed the tousled locks of Francis’s wig. “Any sign of Stoneacre?”

  “No.” Francis stepped back. “Not that I know of.”

  Hestia heaved a sigh. “I suppose I should not be surprised.” She was still calm, still in control, but there was something pensive behind her eyes, and Francis felt her own well with tears once more.

  “Here, now. What’s this?” Hestia grinned at her. “We’ve been in worse scrapes, my dear.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Hestia’s expression turned suddenly knowing. “Have you been up to something, Francis? Is that why your name has been conspicuously absent from the reports I’ve been getting from Isaac?”

  She could not suppress the rise of a sudden sob.

  “Oh, dear.” Real concern showed in her mentor’s face. “That bad, is it? I can see we are overdue for a talk.” She glanced about the room. “Let’s get out of here first, though, shall we? I suspect we’ll need time and tea for this discussion.” She turned and went to the window. It lifted easily. “I suppose they thought it too high to worry over,” she said, looking down.

  Francis wiped her face and went to open the wardrobe in the corner. “It’s big enough,” she said peering inside. She withdrew and gave Hestia a look, raising doubtful eyebrows toward the third member of their group.

  “Oh, yes.” Hestia left the window open and crossed over to the bed, where Miss Smythe sat, slumped in misery. “Miss Smythe, I would like you to meet my associate and dearest friend, Miss Francis Headley. I know you’ll overlook her scandalous attire, since she assumed her role in order to come to our aid.”

  The woman didn’t even glance at Francis. Instead, she raised a teary gaze to Hestia. “I’m sorry!” Anguish rang true in her words. “I’ve ruined it, haven’t I? I’m no good at any of this. Worse than useless! And now, I’ll never be left alone!” She buried her face in her hands.

  “Now, do not worry.” Hestia patted her arm. “We’ll get out of this quandary and we’ll see you settled quietly. Somewhere small and out of the way, where no one will bother you.”

  Hestia addressed Francis, then, with a serious expression. “My dear, I need you to hear me. I trust that nothing will go wrong and we will worm free of this, as we have before. However, if something does go awry, then I am telling you that Miss Smythe’s safety is your mission. See her away safely and into Stoneacre’s hands. That is your priority.”

  “But—”

  “No,” Hestia interrupted. The look she wore meant she would brook no opposition. “I’ll have your word.”

  Francis nodded.

  Hestia stood and drew her away, back to the window. “And if something does go amiss, and I cannot do it myself, then you tell Stoneacre that I have noticed the pattern.” She frowned. “He will likely pretend not to know what you mean, but you just tell him to ask the Prince Regent, if he needs further enlightenment.”

  “I understand.” She didn’t ask questions. Hestia had her methods and Francis had learned long ago that there was no need to question them.

  “Now, then. Let’s get to work,” Hestia said briskly. “Can you braid, Miss Smythe?”

  The woman stood and looked around. “Yes, of course.” She looked puzzled. “But braid . . . what?”

  Hestia pulled the blanket from the bed and stripping a sheet from it, ripped a large strip. “This, to begin with,” she said with a grin.

  It took both sheets, a couple of pillow shams, the lone blanket and the effort of all three women, but in an hour they had a braided rope. They tied one end to the bedpost and took the rest to the window.

  Francis looked down and pursed her lips. “Even if we pull the bed to the window, it won’t be long enough.”

  “Close enough,” Hestia said with shrug.

  “Close enough?” Miss Smythe repeated, horrified. She peered downward again. “We’ll break our legs.”

  “You must trust us, my dear. And do everything we say.” Hestia straightened suddenly. “Listen!”

  Francis leaned out. Their window faced the back of the inn. Off to the right, she could hear a commotion. Pounding. Shouting.

  “The horses!” someone cried.

  She looked back at Hestia. “Something is happening. We have to get ready now.”

  Hestia nodded, then threw the rope out of the window.

  “We need something else,” Francis said, frowning. “Something convincing.” Inspiration hit. She stood, yanked the wig from her head, held it out and let it drop to the ground beneath them.

  “Good. But there must be something more, I think,” Hestia mused. “Oh, yes.” She retrieved Miss Smythe’s hat where it had been placed on the side table. Bringing it back to the window, she drew back and sent it sailing out. It drifted a long way, the brim having caught the wind, and landed near the edge of the inn, towards the stables, from where shouting still echoed.

  “Very nice,” Francis said, approvingly.

  “I don’t understand,” Miss Smythe said, bewildered.

  But Francis drew back from the window, pulling the others as well. The yelling was drawing nearer.

  “Hurry, now.” Hestia took Miss Smythe’s hand and led her to the wardrobe. “In you go, my dear. It will be close, but we will all fit. With luck, we won’t be in there long—but we must stay utterly still and silent.”

  Miss Smythe blinked. “Are we not climbing down the rope?”

  “No,” Francis told her. “But they will think we did.”

  Understanding dawned, and the lady climbed in willingly. Hestia followed. Francis pulled her cap from her head, stuffed it in a pocket and ran her fingers through her hair, listening. Another shout rang outside, rather nearer their window. A moment later, footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  She stepped in, pulling the door closed after her. It was a tight fit.

  “Be still, now,” Hestia whispered. “Someone comes.”

  The pounding grew louder. Nearer. The key rasped in the lock again and someone rushed in. They all crouched, frozen, hardly daring to breathe.

  The footsteps crossed to the window. “They are out,” a man’s voice said, sounding muted from their hiding spot. He yelled it louder. “They are out! They’ve flown the coop! D
amn the sneaky wenches!” He left the room at a run and they could hear his shouts echoing up the stairwell as he hurried downward.

  “Did he lock the door?” Miss Smythe whispered.

  “I don’t think he even closed it,” Francis answered quietly.

  ‘Shhh . . . someone might come checking after him,” Hestia warned. “We should stay put for a few moments.”

  But no one came. They exited the wardrobe quietly and found the door left open a crack.

  Francis heaved a sigh of relief. “Let’s go. Isaac and I were watching the inn from a spot a little up the road, waiting for a sign of your arrival. We left two horses tethered there. If we go out the back of the inn, we can go through the woods and get there unseen.”

  Hestia nodded. “We’ll move quickly, but quietly,” she told Miss Smythe. “Keep to the wall and walk on the side of the stairs, rather than down the middle. There will be less chance of creaking, there. Stay close and do whatever we ask, right away.”

  Miss Smythe nodded, looking determined.

  Francis put her hand on the latch of the door. Nodding over her shoulder at Hestia, she drew it open, stepped out—and straight into a solid wall.

  She reeled back in a panic, but found herself swept up, arms pinned, before she could pull back for a blow. Struggling furiously, she jerked back, looking up . . . into a familiar set of blue eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Until the day that Lord M—s men came, following me to Brittany, asking questions about the child in Monsieur’s house. My fame had spread too far. Caught Lord M—s attention. We were successful in deceiving them, but they would be back. I knew what I had to do—but I fought the certainty of it for several months.

  --from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  Francis’s legs nearly crumpled beneath her.

  Ironic, as her heart lifted like a balloon she’d once seen aloft in Hyde Park.

  “Rhys!” she gasped. She let him hustle her back into the room and stared as he closed the door again behind them. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d gone to—”