Randolph removed his hand from her sleeve and sat back with an expression of serene certainty. ‘Because the timing isn’t right.’
‘What? What are you saying?’
‘By the time Thad became interested in the Queen’s Gift, the Pump Room had already been vandalised once, so these two characters, while presumably guilty of assaulting Mr Sutton, cannot be responsible for all that has happened to the well and its owners.’
Letitia felt some of the tension leave her body, though she remained sceptical. ‘But why doesn’t Oberon know that?’
‘Perhaps his usually sharp wits are clouded by his…interest in the case,’ Randolph said. ‘Then again, your son plays his cards close to his chest, so perhaps he is fully aware of the timing of events. In fact, if I were a betting man—’
‘Which you are,’ Letitia pointed out, as hope flickered to life once more.
‘Which I am,’ Randolph amended, smiling coyly, ‘I’d say your son knows exactly what he is doing.’
The afternoon shadows were growing long when Oberon and Pearson reached the Boar’s Head, a tavern on the road to London. Leaving Pearson with a view of the front, Oberon slipped around the building into the alley at the rear, where a dark figure soon stepped from the gloom.
‘Here, sir,’ Jones said, by way of greeting.
‘Good work,’ Oberon said, with a nod. ‘How many entrances?’
‘Just here and at the front,’ Jones said. ‘And our friends are likely to be tossed out of either one soon.’
‘You’ve been plying them with drink?’
‘That, and they’ve been arguing. Apparently, they aren’t quite sure what to do now that they’ve plucked their goose.’
‘Yes, the boy can hardly fetch the prize for them when he’s incapacitated,’ Oberon said, grimly.
Jones nodded. ‘The one calling himself Tommy is eager to cut their losses and head back to town, but after his initial panic, Billy wants to turn around and have another go at it.’
Or at Thad, Oberon thought, frowning. ‘See if you can get them thrown out the rear.’
Jones nodded and slipped back inside the building, while Oberon whistled softly for his valet. Then they both settled in to watch, one on either side of the dark doorway. And they did not have long to wait.
Soon two drunken figures stumbled out of the tavern into the alley, loudly protesting their expulsion and threatening all manner of retaliation.
‘Be quiet unless you wish to be shot,’ Oberon said, quickly garnering their attention.
‘What’s this, a robbery?’ the shorter fellow said, with a snort. ‘You won’t get nothing from us.’
‘It’s not money I want, but information,’ Oberon said.
Again, he managed to get their attention, even through their haze of alcohol. ‘What’s in it for us?’ the taller one asked in a surly tone.
‘You’ll find out.’
The shorter fellow looked like he was going to bolt, but Pearson stepped out of the shadows to reveal that he, too, had a pistol trained upon them. So the Fairmans changed their tune, making a show of their willingness to cooperate, while, no doubt, planning their escape.
When asked about Queen’s Well, however, they maintained their innocence, and it was only after threats of coercion that they finally admitted to having a private dispute with the owner of the well, which was ‘no one else’s business.’
‘Ah, but since I’m a patron of the well, I am most interested in what’s been happening there: vandalism, destruction of property, breaking and entering,’ Oberon said. He looked to Pearson. ‘Is that all?’
‘You’re forgetting the attempted murder upon the crags, your Grace,’ his valet said.
‘Attempted murder?’ one Fairman said, sputtering.
‘Your grace?’ said the other. ‘Who are you?’
‘Let’s just say that I’ve enough power to toss you two into an extremely unpleasant prison for a very long time.’
The Fairmans were eager to speak, then, and they confessed to having a violent argument over past conflicts with Mr Thadeus Sutton. But they claimed they were forced to defend themselves, and no amount of threats or persuasion could get them to admit to anything else. In fact, they professed ignorance of all the other attacks and denied searching for the gift themselves.
‘What do we know about it?’ the one said, with a bark of laughter. ‘How would we go looking for the thing?’
‘That was Thad’s job,’ the other said, muttering about the boy’s inability to do it.
Although disappointing, their claims were not surprising. Oberon had suspected that the Fairmans arrived in Philtwell too late to be responsible for all that had happened. None the less, he had hoped that the mysteries of Queen’s Well could be wrapped up neatly and disposed of with these two characters, but it was not to be.
‘Well, then, I guess this interview is over,’ Oberon said. He whistled for Jones and Thomas, but the Fairmans, having thought they would be released, made their moves. One dived at Pearson’s feet, while the other launched himself at Oberon.
Truth to tell, Oberon was more than happy to oblige the fellow with a bout of fisticuffs. Not only was he eager to avenge Miss Sutton’s brother, but all the frustration and pent-up feelings he had been suppressing for weeks were clamouring for an outlet. Drawing a deep breath, Oberon swung hard, landing a bellier and facer that left Fairman panting and staggering.
But the brother was fighting for his freedom and lurched forwards for more. He was desperate enough to land a few blows, including one that cracked Oberon’s lip, but he was too drunk to move quickly and he finally fell, sprawling, into the dirt, floored at last.
His groan was loud in the ensuing silence, for his brother had long since been subdued. But Oberon had not let anyone else come between him and his opponent. And while his London associates stood gaping at the man they knew only as a convivial host and contact, Oberon stood over the prone Fairman and spoke with no little satisfaction.
‘That was for Thad.’
Glory was pacing. Every once in a while, she slanted a cautious glance towards the bed to make sure that Thad was still asleep, but she continued moving back and forth across the thick carpet in his room. The tray that a maid had brought her stood untouched upon a nearby table; she had long since given up looking out the windows because only darkness lay beyond the panes.
Both the duchess and Mr Pettit had urged her to join them, but she had begged off because of Thad. And, truth to tell, she would not feel comfortable engaging in meaningless banter while Westfield was off somewhere, doing heaven knew what. He had not taken her into his confidence, but Glory strongly suspected that he and his manservant had set off in search of the Fairmans.
Although he was the acting magistrate, Glory had never expected him to go after the criminals himself. And considering the condition her brother was in, Glory felt her concern was justified. Her only comfort was the knowledge that Westfield was not a typical nobleman, and as she paced, she turned her thoughts to the puzzle of just who—or what—he was.
And no matter how far-fetched it was, Glory could only come to one conclusion that would explain his unusual skills, the disparity between his reputation and himself, and the obligations that he could not disclose. The duke was dangerous all right, for he was doing some sort of clandestine work, perhaps even following in Dr Dee’s footsteps to serve his country. Glory bit back a snort of disbelief, and yet… Was Westfield a spy?
The sound of soft footfalls outside Thad’s room made her shiver, and Glory waited, holding her breath, only to loose it in relief when she heard a low knock followed by Westfield’s voice. Rushing to the door, she threw it open and let her gaze travel lovingly over his tall form, whole and solid. But then she saw his mouth.
‘You’re hurt.’
‘What?’ Stepping inside, Westfield strode towards the mirrored dressing table to peer at his reflection. He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe at a streak of blood. ‘Nothing that can’t be
cleaned up.’
‘Here, let me,’ Glory said, relieved to see that the injury was minor. Taking the handkerchief, she pushed him into a chair and poured some water. ‘I thought it was Pearson’s job to make sure you were presentable.’
‘It was dark and we were on horseback, so you can hardly fault my valet,’ Westfield said.
Glory shook her head as she dipped the cloth into the bowl. ‘And you simply had to thrash them,’ she said, as she gingerly dabbed at his mouth. ‘Why couldn’t you just have shot them?’
‘You are a bit bloodthirsty, aren’t you?’ Westfield said. ‘I always knew it. From the moment you trained your pistol upon me.’
His eyes darkened as Glory’s thumb brushed against his lip, and he pulled her closer until she was standing between his legs. ‘I knew then,’ he said, softly, taking her face in his hands. ‘I knew then.’
And in that instant, something seemed to have changed between them. As his lips took hers, it felt as though all that had gone before was just a dance, a wary circling that had led up to this moment. And when Glory leaned against him, her fingers stealing into the thick strands of his hair, she felt as though everything had been settled between them.
Even though she knew it had not.
But there were no arguments, no protestations, no excuses, no second thoughts as they kissed—long, deep, indulgent kisses that spread heat throughout her body. There was no talk of obligations or conversation of any kind, their strained breaths the only sound in the silence until a voice rang out from the bed behind them.
‘Did I miss something?’ Thad asked.
Chapter Fifteen
Having tossed and turned much of the night, Glory rose late. Although she knew she ought to check on Thad first thing, she was not eager to speak with her brother. She could only hope that last night he had not seen much or that the laudanum the physician had given him had made him doubt what he did see.
For Glory had no desire to explain just why she had been kissing the Duke of Westfield. At the time, the duke had recovered quickly, smoothly rising to his feet and going to Thad’s side to report upon his apprehension of the Fairmans. And Glory had fled to her room.
Later, when she had the long hours to consider what had happened, Glory told herself that the excitement of the moment had preyed upon her emotions. The candlelight, the quiet, private atmosphere, and Westfield’s seductive kisses had worked upon her, leading to the perception that things were different.
But they could not be.
It was far more likely that the encounter had served as an end to their relationship. That was what had been settled, and, in effect, Glory had received a kiss goodbye. Because, with his duties done, there was no reason for Westfield to linger in Philtwell.
Blinking at the sudden pressure behind her eyes, Glory headed down the stairs to breakfast, hoping that no one else would be in the dining room at this hour. In her current state of distress, she would prefer to avoid everyone, including the duke—if he hadn’t already left Sutton House behind.
That thought made her pause and Glory halted her steps, taking a moment to try to compose herself. She nearly turned to go back to her room, but a thumping noise drew her attention and she headed towards the sound, coming across a young maid who was struggling with a heavy, old-fashioned door.
‘Oh, miss, would you mind helping me?’ the girl asked before glancing furtively about. No doubt the servant would be roundly scolded for engaging her betters in conversation, but Glory was not high in the instep, and she quickly moved to aid the girl.
Between the two of them, they managed to swing open the oaken portal, dark with age. ‘Thank you, miss,’ the girl said. ‘I’m to fetch a bottle of wine from the cellar for Mr Pettit, and I, well, I’ve never been down…there before.’
The poor maid obviously was not eager to descend into the depths below, and Glory could not blame her. Sympathy, along with a healthy dose of curiosity as to what lay under the oldest part of Sutton House, made her give the girl a nod of reassurance.
‘I’ll come along,’ Glory said. ‘I haven’t been down there, either.’ Of course, Thad had probably combed every inch of the residence in his quest for the Queen’s Gift, but Glory had not joined him on his searches.
So when she followed the maid down wide stone steps, sunken with age, Glory glanced about curiously. Unlike the damp cellar below the cottage, with its dirt floor and musty odour, the space below Sutton House was vaulted and vast, its floor neatly tiled, its clutter nearly non-existent. It wasn’t as bright as Glory would like, the only light coming from a couple of small windows, but she was not completely in the dark.
‘Now, let us get down to business.’
Surprised at the change in the maid’s tone, Glory turned, only to halt at the sight of a pistol trained upon her. For a moment, Glory simply stared, flummoxed by the servant glaring at her, weapon in hand. And then she realised just how foolish she had been.
She had stayed at Sutton House long enough to recognise all of the staff, and none of them would have begged assistance from a guest. Yet, Glory had fallen easily into the trap. Her only excuse was that she had been thinking, not of Queen’s Well, but of something far more important to her: Westfield.
But hadn’t he already apprehended the villains responsible for the spa’s woes? Glory frowned. Had the Fairmans engaged a woman to work with them? The only reports of a possible accomplice had been the mysterious lad… Blinking at the woman, Glory decided that she was young enough to pass as a boy, if dressed as such. And then it dawned on her.
‘Miss…Thorpe?’ Glory asked, uncertainly.
‘Yes. Are you quaking in your slippers, Sutton, now that I’ve returned to get back some of my own?’
‘Your own?’ Glory asked. She didn’t know what Miss Thorpe had in mind, but the weapon couldn’t be a good sign, and Glory was without her reticule. Her only hope was to distract the woman long enough to make an escape.
‘Yes, mine,’ Miss Thorpe said. ‘You Suttons took what was rightfully ours and fled Philtwell.’
‘Now, just a moment,’ Glory said, outrage overcoming her caution. ‘Any debt to your family was paid in full by the sale of this house, which had been our ancestral home for centuries.’
‘Blood money,’ the young woman said, practically spitting the words. ‘We were entitled to Queen’s Well and the Queen’s Gift, not some paltry sum.’
‘Paltry?’ Glory said. Businesses failed all the time and the funds put into them lost. ‘You were lucky to receive your investment back after the fire that closed the spa and killed my grandfather.’
Miss Thorpe took a step forward. ‘Lucky?’ she repeated. ‘That’s not what my father said. And I listened to him for years, his bitter complaints about what was taken from him, his talk about what could have been. But the waters worked against him, saddling him with a wife who bore him too many girls and spent too freely, and you Suttons put an end to all of his chances to provide for them. You destroyed him.’
It sounded like Mr Thorpe was the author of his own destruction, but Glory was not about to say so when his daughter was aiming a pistol at her. She took a deep breath, determined to return the conversation to an even tone, and perhaps someone would note that she was missing and come looking for her.
‘But surely you are too young to have ever even been to Queen’s Well,’ Glory said in a conciliatory tone.
‘I’m the youngest. It fell to me to take care of him when he sank into the despair that finally killed him, despair brought on by your betrayal. He never had the strength to come back and take what was rightfully his,’ Miss Thorpe said, her expression twisting in contempt. ‘But now that he’s gone I’m here to do it.’
Glory shook her head. Even if Miss Thorpe did her worst, she would never gain ownership of Queen’s Well. ‘You have no claim to the spa.’
‘I don’t care a whit for your muddy slop or the hogs that pay for the privilege of swilling it down,’ the young woman said, her voice turning
brittle. ‘I’m here for the Queen’s Gift.’
Glory felt a measure of relief that there would be no dispute over her family’s heritage, legal or otherwise. But Miss Thorpe was not entitled to anything, including the Queen’s Gift, should it even exist. However, Glory decided not to debate that point, for she didn’t think the woman would take kindly to the news that there was no prize, as the Fairmans had discovered before her.
Glory chose her words carefully. ‘You can’t expect to find something that’s been lost for centuries and then waltz off with it.’
‘Oh, but I will,’ Miss Thorpe said. ‘Once it is in my possession, I can go wherever I want and do whatever I please.’
Was this wishful thinking, or did the woman really have some knowledge of the relic? Obviously, she considered it valuable enough to fund both her escape and her future. Glory frowned, considering the mural in the dining room above. ‘Then you believe it is a crown?’
Miss Thorpe laughed. ‘The Queen’s Gift is far more valuable than a jewelled bauble, some trinket to be sold for mere money. What I’m after is power, and with the Gift, I shall have it.’
‘Power?’ Glory said, confused. Did the woman plan to blackmail the royal family or try to seize a title? If so, she’d likely be tossed into gaol, never to be seen again.
‘Yes, power, a kind of power that very few have harnessed,’ Miss Thorpe said, her eyes narrowing.
‘And who is going to give you this power?’
‘Not who, but what,’ Miss Thorpe said, scornfully. ‘The power resides in the Gift itself for someone who knows its true worth, and I have uncovered its long-forgotten secrets. Only I am the successor to the arch conjurer, the master of the uncanny arts who hid it away, lest ordinary fools seek arcane knowledge beyond their ken.’
‘To he who hid it away? Do you mean Dr Dee?’ Glory asked, trying to make sense of the woman’s gibberish.
‘What do you know of him?’ Miss Thorpe asked, moving forwards, and Glory was hard pressed not to step back, away from the hatred that glittered in the woman’s eyes.
Glory and the Rake Page 20
