Of Dubious Intent

by J. A. Sutherland

  From a distance the wall looked smooth, but up close it presented Cat with all the handholds she needed. Window sills, overhangs, decorative work, and the odd bit of mortar crumbled away from a gap between stones, were her pathway up — past the ground floor, then the first, to the edge of the rail around the second-floor balcony behind which she’d spotted the light.

  She lowered herself out of sight again, hanging onto the rail with just her fingertips, and edged her way around the balcony to the other side where there were more shadows to hide in. A thick drape obscured the glass doorway on that side. Once there, she pulled herself over the rail and crouched in the shadows — still for the moment as she waited for any outcry or other sign she’d been noticed.

  The light in the room still shone periodically.

  After a moment, Cat peeked her head along the glass of the door until she could see around the drapery.

  She found she’d been right in her assumption that any odd happening would be Roffe, for it was him she saw within the room. He held a candle, but it was shrouded in a thin, metal tube that let its light out in only one direction, and only a bit at that. The bottom of the shroud was bound in leather to protect the holder’s hand from the metal heating up, and Cat could immediately see how useful such a thing would be in keeping the light less visible to others.

  As she watched, Roffe opened a drawer in a large standing chest and shone the light within. He reached a hand in and shifted the drawer’s contents, frowning down at it.

  Well he’s a bold one, burgling the house after eating their dinner.

  Roffe moved on to the next drawer and then the next, taking the time to feel under and behind each drawer before closing it.

  Cat took a moment to examine the room. It was clearly a man’s bedroom, with large, heavy furniture, intricately carved, but evoking images of solidity and the trunks of the trees it had come from. A desk sat against the wall nearest the balcony, as heavy as the rest, and full of drawers and cubby holes — not the delicate sort of writing table one might find in a lady’s chamber. Cat frowned.

  I’d think he’d have more luck in the lady of the house’s rooms, if he’s after valuables.

  That was where the jewels would be, she was certain, but Roffe seemed intent on rifling every nook and cranny of this room. Moreover, Cat could clearly see a box on top of the chest which must certainly contain the man’s cuff links and other items of value, yet Roffe ignored it in favor of rifling drawers and an apparent search for secret compartments.

  Roffe froze and cocked his head as though listening for something, then turned quickly, casting his light and scanning all about the room.

  Cat ducked back out of sight, her heart pounding. Had he seen her? And, if he had, would this be more cause for him to punish her or Emma? That thought chilled her and she regretted following Roffe, but her curiosity still had hold of her.

  The light no longer shone through the glass of the balcony door, so Cat crept to the drapery’s edge again and peered around it. Roffe was standing where he had before, candle set to cast its glow away from the balcony, but he seemed to be looking at her in the darkness.

  Well, if he’d seen her, he gave no sign, and soon smiled and went back about his business of rifling drawers. If he had — she was in it anyway and might as well watch.

  Finally, he seemed to find what he’d been searching for as he pulled a bundle from behind one of the drawers.

  Cat strained to see and Roffe accommodated her by taking the bundle to the desk and seating himself. She edged back into the shadows so that a casual turn of his head wouldn’t allow him to catch sight of her, but also rose a little so that she could see the desk’s top.

  All of this for a bundle of papers?

  For that was what Roffe was leafing through. And not the new banknotes or something else of value, so far as she could tell, but simple letters and leather-bound, handwritten volumes. She wished the light from Roffe’s muted candle were brighter, so she could better see what he found so engrossing about the papers. She could see, though, that the papers were not uniform — they came in a number of types of paper and different hands, some grouped together and bound with ribbons, others inside folded pieces of heavier stock.

  Whatever they were, Roffe was apparently satisfied with them. He rose from the desk, tucked the various papers and volumes into his pockets, and looked around the room.

  Roffe’s head came up and he cocked it to one side, then he hurriedly extinguished his candle and rushed to the bedside where he dropped to the floor and slid himself under the bed just as the room’s door opened, spilling in light from the hall outside.

  A man entered, presumably the lord’s valet. Cat pressed herself into the deepest shadows, wondering what Roffe would do now — he was on the verge of being caught red-handed rifling through the lord’s bed chamber. All it would take was one look under the bed or a single dropped item. She readied herself to make some noise as a distraction to draw the valet’s attention and allow Roffe to make his escape.

  The valet began arranging the room, turning down the bed, and pulling clothing from various places. Cat realized that it must now be later than she’d thought — that she’d been waiting and watching Roffe for longer, and the party was now over with the household readying for sleep. Roffe’s absence at the end must not have been noted — they’d likely assumed he left without taking his leave. She wondered at that, as his host might think ill of him for it and word might get around to others. It seemed a poor burglar who’d let himself stand out like that on the same night he looted his host’s bedchamber.

  Still she waited, for if the lord of this house was about to be in his bed with Roffe underneath it, then her mentor would have even more need of a distraction to make his escape.

  After a few more minutes, another man entered the bed chamber. This one well-dressed and Cat assumed he was the lord — an assumption proved out as the valet assisted him in changing into bed clothes.

  She heard the murmur of voices and edged closer to the glass of the doors, straining to hear.

  “That will be all, Franklin,” the man said. “I’ve some work to do, but you needn’t attend me.”

  “As you wish, m’lord,” the valet said, but still took the time to pour a small glass of dark red wine from a decanter he’d placed on the desk.

  The valet left and the man in the dressing gown sat at the desk, took a sip of the wine, and pulled a bundle of papers from a drawer. He began leafing through them, his forehead creased with concentration.

  There was movement deeper in the room and she saw Roffe’s leg come out from under the bed. She ducked down further and hoped to become visible to him from his position, fearing that he believed the man had left the room with the valet, though why he might, when the room was still well-lit, she couldn’t tell.

  Is he a fool?

  She’d thought, hoped, that Roffe had more sense than this — instead, she watched in bewilderment as Roffe not only slid from beneath the bed, but stood and made his way toward the man at the desk, then further bewildered as he spoke.

  “Lord Harrington.”

  The man at the desk spun around.

  “What!” His expression went from startled to puzzlement to anger. “Roffe? What are you doing in my chambers, man!”

  “I’m afraid, my lord, that we have some business to attend to.” Roffe almost sounded regretful.

  “Business? Why didn’t you say so earlier? And where did you disappear to? And why, again, are you in my chambers?” Lord Harrington shook his head. “Never mind that, in fact. I think we have no business at all to discuss. Now I’ll ask you to leave!”

  Roffe smiled and moved closer to him. “You may ask, my lord, but still there’s a bit of business.”

  Cat thought that though he called the man “my lord” it didn’t sound respectful at all, he said it with a mocking tone that she could hear even through the glass.

  “You impertinent cur! I’ll have you whipped into the street
!”

  Harrington took a deep breath as though to call for his servants to do just that, but Roffe moved quickly, more quickly than Cat expected and possibly more quickly than she’d seen Clanton do. In the moment of Harrington drawing breath, Roffe was at his side, one hand behind the man’s head at the nape of his neck and the other pressing a blade to his throat.

  Harrington froze, first from surprise, then a look of fear crossed his face. The blade winked in the room’s light as Roffe twisted it against the man’s neck.

  “Think on what you do next, my lord,” Roffe said. “Who will come first if you cry out? Your valet? He’s quite old, I think, and not so very fit. He’ll fall first, but who will come next in response to your cry? Your wife’s rooms are near, are they not? Your daughter? Your son? Will they come to see what causes their dear papa to yell in the night?” Roffe leaned close and stared into Harrington’s eyes. “We have business, my lord, best kept between our two selves. Please nod if you agree this is the case.”

  Harrington nodded slowly, wincing as the blade at his throat pressed tighter. A thin trickle of blood ran down to stain his dressing gown.

  Roffe removed his hand from Harrington’s mouth, but kept the blade in place. With quick motions he pulled leather cords from his pocket, looped them around the man’s arms and the chair, and pulled them tight.

  “I’ll step back now, my lord, for our discussion. Have no doubt I’ll take what steps I must to keep our business between us.”

  Roffe stepped back, the blade disappearing into some pocket of his evening clothes. He grasped the decanter of wine as he did so.

  Harrington seemed to recover his courage with the disappearance of the blade.

  “What is it you want, Roffe? What’s the meaning of all this? You can’t think to get away with it.”

  “I wish to speak to you of your investments, my lord, and do you a service.”

  “What? Investments and a service?” Harrington scowled at him. “You have some scheme you want money for and think this is the way to get it?”

  Roffe shook his head and raised the wine decanter to his lips. He took a long drink.

  “You vulgar little —”

  “I’m afraid you misunderstand me all entire, my lord,” Roffe said, the courtesy of his words offset by his interrupting Harrington. “The investment and service are unrelated matters — or, rather, the acquisition of the investment allows me the opportunity to offer you the service, you see?”

  “No, I do not.”

  Roffe drank again. “Are you acquainted with Chatwin Aubert?”

  “Of course I am, man, that’s a silly question!”

  Roffe nodded. “Indeed. One would assume you are acquainted with the man when you’ve made such an investment in him.”

  “Aubert and I have no joint dealings, what are you —”

  Roffe pulled the bundle of papers and notebooks from a pocket and began leafing through them. As he did so, Harrington broke off speaking and turned quite pale. His eyes darted to the place Roffe had found the papers, then to another drawer, then back to Roffe.

  Roffe raised an eyebrow. “An investment is not always monetary, is it, my lord? An investment of time, of information, of knowledge — all may show returns, yes?”

  He stood and made his way to the standing chest. He set the bundle of papers on its top and slid the drawer Harrington had glanced at from its place.

  “This one, my lord?” he asked. “I missed something, yes?” He felt at the sides and back of the drawer, then held a hand below it and the other inside. “Ah, yes, a false bottom, I see.” He threw the drawers contents to the floor and pried up the thin bottom to remove yet another sheaf of papers. “Clever you, to use more than one device.” Roffe leafed through the papers, murmuring to himself, his eyebrows raised. “So many men attached to your strings, my lord. Debts, indiscretions, peccadilloes …” He rifled through one of the bound journals. “Oh, my, this one’s been a naughty lad with the books, hasn’t he?”

  Harrington swallowed. “So, Aubert hired you to get back the evidence of his indiscretions? You’re some kind of thief, is that it?”

  “Not exactly, my lord, though I’m known to take a thing or two which isn’t strictly mine.”

  Roffe placed the new bundle and those he’d found before onto the bed. He stepped over to Harrington, one hand in his pocket. In a single motion, he clapped a hand over Harrington’s mouth, and knelt, taking his other hand from his pocket and slapping it down on the man’s thigh.

  Harrington jerked in place, his eyes went wide, and Cat heard a muffled scream. He was struggling to get away, but Roffe kept him in his seat. Cat edged forward to see what Roffe was doing that pained the man so, but so far as she could tell, he only gripped the leg tightly. That grip, though, must be excruciatingly painful for the lord. His leg shook with tremors and his face gleamed with sweat.

  After a moment, Harrington’s struggles ceased. He was breathing heavily, as though still in pain but the worst of it having eased.

  “I’ll free your mouth now, my lord, so that we may continue our chat, but you mustn’t scream, you understand? There’ll be more if you scream.”

  Harrington’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. His eyes were still wide, but he nodded.

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Roffe slowly took his hand from Harrington’s mouth and when the man remained silent he stood and backed a pace away, leaving an odd, brass disk nearly an inch thick on Harrington’s leg.

  “Who are you?” Harrington asked, his voice raspy.

  “You know who I am, what will happen next, and you know, though you haven’t quite accepted it yet, that there is nothing you can do to stop me.” Roffe nodded at the disk. “I have a great many more of those, should they prove necessary to convince you, and each will be more painful than the last.”

  Harrington licked his lips. “Some of those men’ll not thank you for the documents’ return. They’ll turn on you, fearing what you know. I can make it worth your while — safely worth your while, understand?” He swallowed. “What do you want? Let me be and I’ll get it for you, I swear.”

  “I’m sorry, my lord, but I do have a contract to fulfill. You understand, reputation is all in my business, yes? You needn’t worry about me, though, I have no intention of attempting to turn these over to their proper owners — none other than those belonging to the gentleman I’m contracted with, that is.”

  Harrington chuckled, winced, tried to ease his leg’s position, and winced more. “You’ll use them yourself, then?” He snorted derision.

  “As necessary, my lord, and your dogs will find me a far easier master than yourself. That was your error, you know? You pushed too hard — made it a better bet for a man to come to me than simply do as you bid.” Roffe smiled. “It’s grown quite late, I’m afraid I must be off, but I do wish to offer you a service before I go.”

  “A service?”

  Roffe nodded. “An exchange might be a better term.” He eyed the bundles of papers. “I don’t believe this is the whole of what you have, nor the best of it, and it would be a shame for your hard work to end with you. Tell me where the other documents are and you will gain my services for one name. Name the man, whisper it in my ear, and he will meet me.” Harrington’s eyes narrowed and Roffe sighed. “No, my lord, I’m afraid that won’t work at all. You may not name me, nor my principal, nor some far off Oriental you imagine I’ll waste my time pursuing to give you a bit of vengeance on me. This is a … a personal service, you understand? Someone known to you. Someone you may wish to have follow you close behind on your coming journey.”

  Harrington looked around the room. He attempted to straighten his leg again, but winced. He closed his eyes, shoulders slumped, as though resigned.

  “Is it a bargain, my lord?” Roffe asked. “Or must I be on my way without a name.”

  “Lady Winthrope,” Harrington said, eyes still closed.

  For the first time, Roffe looked genuinely surprised
.

  “A lady? That is novel. She must have truly angered you in some way — no, I have no need of the reason. The name is sufficient. And the location of the remaining papers, my lord?”

  “Albert Brecht. A solicitor. He has a sealed box in his keeping.”

  “A solicitor? Interesting.”

  “There are some things one doesn’t wish found, if they’re found, in one’s own keeping.”

  Roffe nodded understanding.

  Harrington’s eyes were still closed. He clenched his teeth. “Be about it man. Be done. Only make it quick, will you?”

  Roffe moved again, clamping his hand to Harrington’s mouth and pulling his other from a pocket. Cat caught a glimpse of another bronze disk in it before he clapped it to Harrington’s abdomen.

  The muffled scream came to her even through the door’s glass. Harrington’s whole body tensed, lifting him off the chair, but Roffe stayed with him. The lord writhed and twisted, trying to escape from whatever the disk did to him, but Roffe held him tight. Cat wanted to look away, but she seemed frozen and unable to move. Harrington’s agony seemed to last forever, until he finally sagged to the chair, his head lolling to the side. A thin trickle blood ran from his lips.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” Roffe said softly, retrieving the leather thongs binding Harrington’s body to the chair, “but my contract specified otherwise.”

  Roffe looked around the room. He secreted the bundles of papers and journals in various pockets, returned the removed drawer to the chest along with the false bottom and its former contents. The decanter of wine he returned to the desk.

  He grasped the brass disk on Harrington’s leg and gave the casing a twist. Cat could hear, now that there were no muffled screams, an odd buzzing whir, and then Roffe lifted the disk and placed it back in his pocket. He repeated this with the disk on Harrington’s abdomen.

  Finally, he spun Harrington’s chair around so that it faced the desk and arranged the man’s arms and head to appear as if he’d been working and then slumped forward onto the desk’s surface.