by Emily Larkin
She crouched while noises rushed at her. Shouts. The crackle of flames. Breaking glass. The hooting of an owl. The clamor of night insects. Sounds blended together in a cacophony; she heard people moving in the woods, crashing through the undergrowth, heard them running across the silvery expanse of lawn, their boots crunching the frost. And then a voice jumped out at her from all the other sounds, unmistakably Cosgrove’s—the deep timbre, the note of authority.
Charlotte stood. She shook herself. The movement felt odd as it traveled down her body. She was too long, too low. She had four feet planted on the ground and a tail.
Charlotte walked from the shrubbery, placing each paw with care. Right, left, right, left. Her progress was slow and awkward. After a few paces her legs tangled. She overbalanced and fell over.
She lay on the cold gravel, shivering. Men shouted in the woods. Glass cracked in the fire. A full moon hung overhead, almost as bright as the sun. What was wrong with her? Dogs walked on four legs without any difficulty.
But she wasn’t a dog. She was a human in a body that was the wrong shape.
I can do this.
Charlotte huffed a breath and pushed up onto all four paws. She fastened her gaze on a point several yards distant. Don’t think about how many legs I’ve got, just walk.
She reached the spot without tangling her legs. It took a moment to realize that the strange sensation coming from her hindquarters was her tail wagging.
Charlotte headed back to the fire. Her legs moved of their own accord, a natural rhythm—fast, faster—until she was trotting, her paws making soft crunching sounds on the gravel.
Two men watched the blaze, the rest had dispersed.
The fire looked quite different through her dog’s eyes. The flames were no less fierce, but they were an odd color, the intense reds and oranges gone.
Charlotte circled the conservatory, a slow and slinking path that kept her in the shadows. Dozens of smells overlaid each other. Burning timber and charred vegetation. The horse smell of the stablemen and earthy smell of the gardeners. Lord Cosgrove’s scent, faint but distinct, and a scent that she recognized, to her surprise, as Christopher Albin’s. There were other smells, too—rich, damp soil and layer upon layer of flower scents—and a smell that was oddly out of place, yet familiar . . .
Whale oil. She smelled it on the ground.
Someone had used it to fuel the fire.
Charlotte trotted away from the fire, casting in a wide arc, sniffing, trying to catch the scent of whale oil.
There. Faint but distinct. Heading towards the driveway.
Charlotte lengthened her stride. She was running as fast as a man. Faster. As fast as a horse. It was exhilarating. Her muscles bunched and stretched, bunched and stretched, the frosty ground flashing beneath her paws.
The scent of whale oil led down the driveway. Before the gatehouse, it swung into the woods. Two horses had waited here, concealed in the trees. A pile of droppings steamed gently, the scent rich and sweet. None of Cosgrove’s men had found it yet. Would their human noses smell it, or would they continue blindly past?
The two horses had ridden through the woods, squeezed through a gap in the high yew hedge, and headed east along the road.
Charlotte followed, stretching her legs into a long, ground-covering gallop.
She didn’t know how long she ran for. Perhaps twenty minutes, perhaps half an hour. She passed Sir Barnaby’s manor, with its tall Tudor chimneys, passed farmhouses, passed cottages. Her pace slowed from headlong gallop to steady lope. Above her, the moon hung, heavy and full. Milestones gleamed whitely. Was this the sixth she’d passed? The seventh?
The scent of horses, of men, of whale oil, grew stronger. How far was she behind now? A few minutes?
A village came into sight. She smelled woodsmoke, heard voices and the clatter of horses’ hooves.
Charlotte slowed to a cautious trot. Light spilled onto the road ahead of her—an inn, with an ostler leading away two horses, and a coach-and-four standing ready to depart, a postilion astride one of the wheelers and another mounted on the outside leader.
Her nose told her that the two men standing beside the coach had lit the conservatory fire. They smelled of sweat and smoke and whale oil, of horse, of leather and wool, but each had a distinct odor; one was sourer, the other had a musty, sweeter scent.
She halted. She couldn’t follow a coach-and-four.
Lamplight lit each man’s face as he climbed aboard. Charlotte stared intently, trying to memorize their features. Perhaps it was because she had dog’s eyes, but the two men seemed unremarkable. She couldn’t even tell what color their hair was.
The carriage door slammed shut, the horses moved forward, and the whole equipage swept out of the village.
Charlotte sat down, panting, her tongue hanging from her mouth.
The innkeeper carried his lamp inside and closed the door, shooting the bolts. Sounds came from the stableyard, but all was dark and silent in front of the inn.
Charlotte slunk across the street and plunged her muzzle into the horse trough, drinking greedily. Her long dog’s tongue got in the way. She choked and fell into a fit of coughing.
The ostler came round from the stableyard. “Away with you!” He shied a stone at her.
* * *
The road stretched endlessly in the moonlight. Running was beyond her; the most Charlotte could manage was a weary trot.
When Sir Barnaby’s manor came into sight she stopped and lay down on the road, legs trembling, laboring for breath.
Not much further now.
Charlotte closed her eyes. Exhaustion pressed her into the dirt. It would be so easy to lie here, to sleep . . .
An owl hooted. Charlotte jerked her eyes open and staggered upright. Her pace this time was little more than walking. When she reached the Hazelbrook woods she left the road, squeezing through the hedge.
It was darker between the trees. Thick layers of dead leaves were soft beneath her paws. Water burbled—the river she’d forded that morning with Lord Cosgrove. Thirst spurred her into a slow, lumbering run. She charged into the water and lay down, too tired to stand.
* * *
“Can’t see nothing that looks like tracks, sir.”
Marcus raised his lantern and looked around. Trees loomed out of the darkness. This was futile. Far better that he return to Hazelbrook, saddle one of the horses, and ride over to confront Barnaby.
Movement caught his eye. He swung around.
A dog came through the trees, walking slowly. Even at this distance he saw its ribcage heaving.
“Whose is that?”
“Never seen it afore, sir.”
The dog halted and stared at him, its eyes gleaming in the lamplight. It was dark brown and short-coated, with a long muzzle and legs.
Marcus walked over to it. The dog didn’t cower from him, didn’t snarl, just stood there panting.
He reached down and patted it. Its coat was wet. Its body trembled beneath his hand. “You’re exhausted, poor creature.”
The dog gave a deep sigh, as if it understood his words and agreed, then nudged his leg and walked away between the trees.
Marcus stared after it. That nudge had been like a wordless goodbye. How strange.
He turned back to the gardener. “Tell the others to stop looking. We won’t find anything in this dark.”
“Yes, sir.”
Marcus made a cast through the woods, repeating the order, and then plowed uphill through the trees. No point searching when he knew who’d lit the fire.
With each step, his rage grew. It was the same sick fury that had consumed him after he’d learned of Lavinia’s affair. How could a man he’d grown up with, a man he’d counted as his brother, do this?
He’d just broken out of the trees—full moon, red glow of the fire—when he heard his name being called. “Lord Cosgrove! Sir!”
“Here!” He raised his lantern.
Gravel crunched as someone came towards him
, half-running. “Sir . . .” It was Albin.
“What is it, lad?”
Albin halted and gulped for breath. “I followed them, sir.”
“What?” Excitement surged in his chest. “Who? Tell me, lad. Quickly!”
“Don’t know who they were, sir.” Albin bent over, braced his hands on his knees, panted. “Two men. They had horses in the wood.”
“You ran after two men on horseback?”
“Yes, sir.” Albin sat down on the ground. His hair was wet with sweat, plastered to his brow. “They weren’t that far ahead. I thought—I didn’t want to lose them.”
Marcus crouched alongside him. “Where did they go? Mead Hall?”
“No, sir. They rode to the next village.”
“Betchworth?”
“Don’t know what it’s called, sir. The one past Mead Hall.”
“East? That’s Tewkes Hollow.” Marcus stared at his secretary in disbelief. “You ran all the way to Tewkes Hollow?” He put his lantern on the ground. “Impossible.”
“It’s true, sir.”
Marcus gripped Albin’s shoulder. “I don’t doubt you, lad. But . . . Good God! That’s all of seven miles!” The lad was trembling with exhaustion.
“They took a coach-and-four, sir. From the inn. It left just as I got there.”
“Where were they headed?”
“I don’t know, sir. I . . . I thought you’d want to question the innkeeper yourself.”
“By Jove, yes!” Marcus stood. “Come on, lad. Let’s find out who they were—and where they went!”
He hauled Albin to his feet, but it took only a few seconds to realize that the lad wasn’t going anywhere tonight. He shivered convulsively, close to collapse.
Marcus slung Albin’s arm over his shoulder and helped him back to the house. “What would you like most?” he asked, as he half-carried Albin up the steps to the front door. “A bed, or food?”
“Something to drink, sir.”
Candles blazed in the entrance hall. Marcus gave rapid orders to his housekeeper. “Mrs. Kerr, blankets for Mr. Albin, and a tankard of ale and some hot food.” He steered the lad into the library. “And see that the fire is built up in here.” He eased Albin into the armchair closest to the fireplace and turned to his butler. The man’s face was anxious and unshaven. “Gough, send round to the stables. I want a horse saddled for me. Now!”
Chapter Sixteen
Albin was asleep, cocooned in blankets in the armchair, when Marcus returned. An empty tankard and the remains of a substantial repast were on the table alongside. A fire filled the grate, throwing out heat. The lad’s hair was dry, curling up from his brow.
“Excellent, Mrs. Kerr.” Marcus stripped off his riding gloves. “You’ve looked after him well.”
“The conservatory, sir—”
“The fire wasn’t lit by anyone local. Mr. Albin discovered a clue that leads us back to London. I’m leaving as soon as the carriage is brought round.” He glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock. Dawn soon. “A tankard of ale, please, Mrs. Kerr. And a basket of food for the journey.” As if to reinforce this order, his stomach gave a low growl. “Bread and cheese is fine.”
“I should hope I can do better than bread and cheese, sir!” Mrs. Kerr hurried down the corridor in a flurry of skirts.
Marcus turned to his butler. “Gough, please see that my valise is packed and brought down.”
“I’ll attend to it myself, sir.”
Marcus stroked his jaw. Stubble rasped beneath his fingers. There was no time to shave. He crossed to the chair where his secretary slept. “Wake up, lad.” Albin was so deeply asleep that he had to shake him.
For a moment the lad seemed not to know where he was—confusion and alarm crossed his face—then he blinked. “Sir.” He struggled to free himself from the blankets.
“I’m leaving for London in fifteen minutes. You may stay here if you wish and travel back later by post—”
“The two men?”
“Went to London.”
Albin stumbled slightly as he stood. “I’ll come with you, sir.”
“Good lad.” Marcus gripped Albin’s shoulder briefly. “Gough is upstairs. He’ll help you pack.”
He strode around to the smoldering ruins of the conservatory, whistling under his breath. A dozen men stood watching flames gnaw the embers. Marcus beckoned to the bailiff and the head gardener. “Whoever lit the fire wasn’t local. The trail leads back to London. I’m leaving immediately. Clear the debris once it’s cooled. Take it right back to bare earth.”
“Will you be rebuilding, sir?”
“No.” He saw the flash of anxiety on the head gardener’s face, and understood it. “You may assure the men they won’t be turned off. There’ll be employment for all of you—if not here, then on another of my estates. You have my word.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, as the carriage lurched and swayed down the driveway, Albin asked him the same question: “Will you build another conservatory, sir?”
“No. I shall sell Hazelbrook.” With the conservatory razed, the obligation to his mother was gone.
“It . . . it has an unhappy history,” Albin said, clearly trying to show that he understood.
“Yes.” But it wasn’t only Lavinia’s memory that tainted Hazelbrook. “My grandfather purchased it from the profits of the plantation in the West Indies. Slave labor.” Marcus opened the basket Mrs. Kerr had provided. He took out a meat pie wrapped in a linen napkin. His stomach clenched in anticipation. “The conservatory was built from those profits, too.” The thousands of pretty blue and white tiles, imported at great expense from Constantinople, had been paid for by the sweat and blood of slaves in the tropics, as had each pane of glass, each exotic plant, each statue and fountain.
Marcus bit into the pie. He’d sell Hazelbrook, buy another plantation, give the slaves their freedom. The money would go full circle.
Across from him, Albin yawned. “Sir, what did you discover at the village?”
Marcus chewed and swallowed. “The two men arrived yesterday, by post-chaise from London. They hired horses from the inn and went out twice—in the afternoon, and at midnight. They arranged for the post-chaise to convey them back to London at an unspecified time this morning.” Five o’clock, as it had turned out. “They paid well, so the landlord asked no questions.”
Albin nodded and smothered another yawn.
“The post-chaise was from the Bull and Mouth in London. With any luck, we’ll find them there, or information that will lead us to them.”
“What were their names, sir?”
“Smith. Clearly false.” Marcus bit into the pie again.
Albin asked no further questions. By the time Marcus finished the pie, he’d fallen asleep.
Marcus covered the lad with a blanket and settled back in his own corner. He rummaged in the basket, whistling softly. He was rid of Hazelbrook, and in a few hours he’d know who was behind the arson, and perhaps the attack and the vandalism, too.
He took out a second pie and sank his teeth into it. Outside, wisps of pink and gold lit the sky.
* * *
They reached the Bull and Mouth just on midday. Albin was so deeply asleep that Marcus hadn’t the heart to wake him. He leapt down from the carriage and crossed the courtyard, anticipation humming in his veins. The clamor of the posting-inn engulfed him—shouts, the clatter of hooves and coach wheels, a baby’s wail. He sidestepped a pile of trunks and skirted an argument between two postilions and a red-faced country squire. The taproom was crowded, the din of voices pushing out through the door.
Marcus stood in the doorway and scanned faces. Were the men he wanted in here? In the coffee room? Upstairs asleep?
He halted a waiter carrying a tray piled with plates of roast meat. “The post-chaise-and-four that arrived from Tewkes Hollow this morning, where would I find the passengers?”
The waiter shrugged and continued on his way.
Marcus plunged fur
ther into the bustle of the hostelry in search of the innkeeper. “The post-chaise-and-four from Tewkes Hollow this morning,” he repeated, when he found the man. “Where would I find the passengers?”
As the waiter had done, the innkeeper took in his appearance with a glance—hair unbrushed, face unshaven, wearing the clothes he’d thrown on in the middle of the night, no waistcoat or neckcloth, everything filthy and stinking of smoke—and dismissed him with a shrug.
Marcus gritted his teeth. I’m an earl, not a vagabond. He resisted the urge to comb his hair with his fingers and instead dug into his pocket for a guinea. “The passengers who arrived from Tewkes Hollow in one of your post-chaises. Where would I find them?”
The innkeeper was most apologetic. The chaise had arrived half an hour previously and the passengers had immediately departed, not pausing to dine or slake their thirst. No, he had never seen them before. No, he didn’t feel he could describe them—they had been a most ordinary pair. No, he couldn’t remember their names, but he had a record . . . ah, there it was . . . Smith.
“The postilions? May I speak with them?”
“Joseph’s gone home to bed, but Samuel may still be here,” the innkeeper said, his eyes on the golden coin.
“I’d like to speak with him.”
The postilion was in the stables, chatting with a stableman and nursing a tankard of ale. At the sight of his employer, the stableman remembered the broom he was leaning on and began sweeping up scraps of straw.
“Samuel,” the innkeeper called curtly. “Here!”
The postilion drained his tankard and obeyed. “Sir?”
“Answer this gentleman’s questions, then off to bed with you.” The innkeeper took the empty tankard, cast a glance of disapprobation at the stableman, and hurried back into the inn.
The postilion huffed a scornful breath through his nose. “An old woman, ’e is.”
Marcus fished in his pocket for a half-crown. “The passengers you took to Tewkes Hollow and back. Tell me about them.”
The postilion’s eyes fastened on the coin. “What d’ you want to know?”
