by Emily Larkin
The roundhouse was in Kingswear. It took half an hour to get there, Lucas on the horse he’d hired, Tish and Reid and Cosgrove following in a carriage. Moonlight glinted on the wide, black River Dart.
The constable did indeed know Lord Cosgrove. “My lord,” he said, with a respectful nod.
“Evening, Davies,” Cosgrove said. “I understand you have Lord Riddleston’s brother in your custody.”
The constable looked blank. “Who?”
“Lieutenant Matlock. Lord Riddleston’s brother. He’s injured, I believe.”
Lucas opened his mouth to say Let us see him now! but Reid touched his arm lightly and gave a little shake of his head.
Lucas bit back the words and waited in an agony of urgency while Cosgrove and the constable conversed. Cosgrove was polite and pleasant. He pointed out that Tom was a nobleman’s son and that the roundhouse was perhaps not the best place for him, particularly if he was injured. He offered to assume responsibility for Tom’s custody until such time as the charges could be proved true or false.
Davies hesitated, and fetched a lantern.
The roundhouse was a stone building no larger than a closet, with a domed roof and a thick, oak door. The constable unlocked the door, his keys jangling. Lantern light spilled inside, creating jerky shadows, showing the single wooden bench and the man sprawled on it.
Lucas shoved the constable aside. “Tom?”
The roundhouse smelled of fresh blood, and beneath that, of old vomit and stale sweat and urine. Tom looked worse than he had an hour ago. His eyes were swollen shut, his face a mask of dried blood. He was breathing hoarsely through his mouth, and blood bubbled in his nose with each breath.
Lucas knelt. “Tom?” If he didn’t know it was Tom, he wouldn’t have recognized him. “Tom?”
But Tom didn’t stir, even when Lucas gently shook his arm.
Someone came to stand alongside Lucas. He glanced up and saw Tish, white-faced, and Lord Cosgrove. Cosgrove didn’t look pleasant anymore; he looked grim. “How long has he been out for?”
“Uh . . . nearly two hours now.”
Cosgrove turned to the constable. “Do you wish to explain to Lord Riddleston how you allowed his brother to die in a roundhouse?”
After that, it went swiftly. The constable produced a hurdle, and a horse and cart. With the help of the coachman and a footman, Tom was carefully loaded onto the hurdle and then into the cart. He still didn’t stir. He lay as limply as if he were dead.
“A blanket,” Cosgrove said, and the footman ran to fetch a blanket from the carriage.
Lucas laid the blanket over Tom, tucking it around him—and noticed Tom’s right hand for the first time. It looked as if someone had trodden on it with hobnailed boots, piercing skin and snapping bones.
“His hand!” he said, aghast.
Reid gripped his shoulder. “He’ll be all right.”
“He needs a doctor!” Tom would think broken fingers a thousand times worse than a broken nose.
“Leave it to me,” Cosgrove said, climbing up onto the cart seat and picking up the reins. He gave Reid a short nod. “You’ll see to the rest of it?”
“We will.”
Chapter Thirty
Lucas wanted to stay with Tom, but he climbed into the carriage with Tish and Reid and the constable and went to the Golden Hind instead. The horse he’d hired trotted wearily behind on a long line. He sat gripping his hands tightly together, his right leg jittering, his heel drumming a fast, jerky rhythm on the floor, tap-tap-tap. He forced himself to stop the movement. Tom’s going to be all right. But he wasn’t sure he believed it.
“It was his right hand,” he said. “He’s right-handed.”
Tish slipped her arm through his, and laid both her hands over his. “He’s going to be all right, Lucas.”
His foot was tapping again. “What if he can’t paint again?”
“Lucas, don’t borrow trouble.” Tish leaned her cheek against his shoulder.
He tried to breathe calmly, tried not to tap his foot, tried not to worry—and after ten interminable minutes, the carriage drew up at the Golden Hind. They all climbed out.
The landlord, Strike, was in the taproom with his tapster and half a dozen customers. One of Strike’s eyes was swollen shut. When he saw Lucas, a belligerent expression settled on his face. He stood up with slow deliberation.
Lucas matched him stare for stare. I’ll blacken your other eye for you if you dare to come closer.
Silence spread through the taproom.
“Er, evening, Mr. Strike,” the constable said, and nervously cleared his throat. “I’d like another word with that young lass.”
Strike’s eyes narrowed and his brows drew down. He opened his mouth—and saw Tish, and closed it again.
“In the coffee room,” the constable said, and made another nervous throat-clearing sound. “We’ll wait in there.”
They repaired to the coffee room and took seats. Strike joined them a minute later with the chambermaid. She had lost her pretty pertness; she was pale and tear-stained.
“Sit down, Alice,” Strike told her, not unkindly. “I won’t let ’em bully you.”
The maid sat. Her gaze flicked anxiously from face to face, and settled on the constable.
The constable cleared his throat again, and opened his mouth—and Reid said, “Alice? That’s your name, is it?” His voice was quiet and his smile kind. “We’d like to ask you about what happened today.”
The constable closed his mouth.
“She’s already tole it once,” Strike said, glowering.
“I would like to hear it for myself.”
“And who are you?”
Reid was unintimidated by Strike’s size and hostility. He met Strike’s eyes, let several seconds pass, and then said, “Major Reid.” He turned his gaze back to the chambermaid. “Is it correct that Lieutenant Matlock attacked you today, Alice?”
The maid hesitated, and kneaded her hands together, and cast a scared glance at the landlord.
“You don’t need to tell me the details, Alice. Just yes or no.”
The girl twisted her hands. “I don’t know ’is name.”
“If it was the man who was taken to the roundhouse, it’s Matlock. Lieutenant Matlock. Did he attack you?”
The chambermaid squeezed her hands together until her knuckles turned white, and glanced at Strike again, and blurted, “Yes, sir.”
Reid looked at Tish.
Tish shook her head.
Reid turned his attention back to the maid. He surveyed her for several seconds, and then spoke to Strike. “Mr. Strike, would you mind giving us a few moments’ privacy?”
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” the landlord said, folding his massive arms across his chest. “I know what you’re up to—you’ll give ’er money, and yon varmint will get off scot-free. Well, it ain’t happenin’. Not in my inn, it ain’t. Them as does wrong ought to be punished!”
Reid looked at Strike, and gave a faint shrug. “Very well.” He brought his gaze back to the maid. “Alice, my wife has exceptional hearing. So exceptional that she can hear when people tell lies.”
The maid’s gaze jerked to Tish.
“Please tell me again . . . did Lieutenant Matlock attack you today?”
Lucas watched the chambermaid, watched her eyes dart from Tish’s face, to Reid’s, to Strike’s. The silence lengthened. Ten seconds passed. Twenty seconds. The maid’s expression grew desperate.
“Did any man attack you today, Alice?” Reid asked gently.
The girl’s gaze fastened on him. Tears filled her eyes. She shook her head.
The constable stirred in his seat. Strike didn’t merely stir, he pushed to his feet and lifted one meaty hand.
“Mr. Strike,” Reid said quietly.
Strike lowered his hand. “Get out,” he told the maid, his voice vibrating with rage. “I won’t have your sort workin’ here, whorin’ and lyin’. Get your things an’ get out.”
The maid stood
, tears sliding down her cheeks. “I’m sorry for what happened,” she told Reid. “I didn’t want to lose me job.” She turned to the door, looking small and miserable, and if Lucas hadn’t seen Tom lying on the hurdle with his face smashed and his hand smashed, he’d have felt pity for her.
Tish stood, too. She held out her hand to Reid. Reid seemed to understand the silent message. He handed her his pocketbook.
Tish followed the maid from the room.
Silence fell. Strike was still standing, red-faced and belligerent.
“Did you ask Lieutenant Matlock for his side of the story?” Reid asked.
“No.” The landlord pushed his chin out. “Didn’t think I needed to, not after what Alice tole me.”
Reid sighed, and stood. “Mr. Strike, I agree with you: those who do wrong should be punished. But next time, send for Mr. Davies. Don’t undertake the punishment yourself.”
Strike’s gaze fell. His chin lowered.
“You’re damned lucky you didn’t kill Matlock,” Reid said. “His brother’s an earl and he’d have made certain you went to the scaffold.”
Strike glanced at Lucas.
Lucas stared coldly back. He had even less sympathy for Strike than he had for the chambermaid.
“Yon bruiser stopped me,” Strike said. “Knocked me out cold.” He nodded at Lucas, and there was apology in the dip of his head. “I’m right sorry, I am.” And then he left the coffee room.
* * *
Lucas went back to Woodhuish House with Tish and Reid, his and Tom’s portmanteaux strapped to the back of the carriage. He stared out the window and thought of Tom. Tom’s ruined face. Tom’s broken fingers.
Lord Cosgrove met them in the entrance hall. “Sorted?”
“Yes,” Reid said.
“How’s Tom?” Lucas said urgently.
“Come and see.”
They followed Cosgrove up the stairs and along a corridor. “Who attacked the maid?” he asked.
“No one,” Reid said.
Cosgrove led them into a bedchamber—and there was Tom, tucked up in a four-poster bed. Sir Barnaby was leaning against one of the posts and Lady Ware sat holding Tom’s left hand.
Lucas crossed to them hurriedly. “Has the doctor been?”
“Decided we didn’t need a doctor,” Sir Barnaby said. “Once we got all the blood washed off, it wasn’t as bad as we thought.” And it looked as if he’d been the one who’d done the washing off; he no longer wore a tailcoat, and his shirt-sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. “Take a look.”
Lucas did.
Tom was still unconscious, but he looked better than Lucas had dared hope, far better, unbelievably better.
“The swelling . . .” he said, in disbelief.
“Cold compresses,” Sir Barnaby said. “Worked wonders.”
Lucas stared, incredulous. “His nose . . .”
“Not broken.”
Not broken, not bleeding, not even swollen. There was a smudge of a bruise on the bridge of Tom’s nose and his eyelids were a little puffy and shading towards purple, but those were the only signs that Strike had hit him.
Tom was six foot four, and yet he looked fragile lying in the big bed, his eyelids softly bruised, his lashes resting tenderly on his cheeks, his lips slightly parted.
“Has he woken yet?”
“For a few minutes. His wits aren’t addled, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“And his hand? His right hand?”
Sir Barnaby leaned over and flipped back the bedclothes. “No broken bones. See?”
Lucas looked closely. Tom’s right hand was a little bruised, and there were half a dozen scabs on the back, but that was all.
He released his breath in a trickle. “He’s all right.” He straightened, and turned to Tish, and felt tears prick his eyes. “He’s all right.”
Sir Barnaby clapped him on the shoulder. “He is. You hungry? I held dinner back.”
* * *
They sat down to a very late and informal dinner: Tish and Reid, the Wares, Lord Cosgrove and his wife, and Lucas. Relief buoyed him through the first course—Tom’s all right—but the second course was tainted by embarrassment. He’d burst into Sir Barnaby’s house and dragged away his guests on an errand of urgency that hadn’t been urgent after all. They must think I’m a complete fool, that I saw the blood and panicked.
His mortification grew as he picked at his syllabub. He recalled how he’d charged into the blue salon without being announced, how frantic he’d been. God, he’d even cried.
The ladies withdrew. The port and brandy were placed on the table.
“I apologize,” Lucas said awkwardly. “For this evening.”
“Forget about it,” Sir Barnaby said, waving the apology aside with one hand. “You’re Letty’s cousin, and so are our wives—that makes us practically family.”
“Thank you. For your help. All of you.”
“You’re welcome,” Sir Barnaby said cheerfully. “Brandy or port?”
Cosgrove leaned back in his chair. “Reid tells me you gave Strike a black eye.”
“Uh, yes.”
“Right hook?”
“Yes.”
“Knocked him out cold?”
Lucas nodded.
Cosgrove stared at him for several seconds, his expression difficult to read. Bemusement? Incredulity? Envy? And then he laughed, and shook his head. “You’re going to be a legend in these parts, Kemp. Strike was in the ring for years and he was never—not once—knocked out. They call him the Invincible.”
Sir Barnaby grinned. “Not any longer.”
Cosgrove reached for his brandy and took a sip. “Used to see you at Jackson’s Saloon a lot, didn’t I?”
Lucas nodded. Cosgrove was an outstanding boxer; he’d often watched the man spar with Jackson. His mortification grew. I blubbered like a schoolgirl in front of him.
“Jackson once told me it was a shame you were so well-breeched, that you could have had a career in the ring. He said you had a right hook to watch out for.”
“He was correct,” Reid said dryly, “if you put that colossus down.”
Lucas tried to smile. He gulped some brandy.
“How long are you staying?” Cosgrove asked. “Fancy a friendly bout?”
It should have made him feel better that all three men were politely ignoring the fact that he’d made a fool of himself, but it didn’t. Lucas sat, and drank his brandy, and felt hot with humiliation.
Chapter Thirty-One
December 20th, 1808
Woodhuish, Devonshire
Tom woke to a headache and a feeling of tiredness. The clock on the mantelpiece told him it was nearly noon. He ate breakfast sitting up in bed—or maybe it was luncheon—and watched servants bring in a copper bathtub and fill it with steaming water.
The breakfast tray was removed. Tom climbed stiffly out of the four-poster. Lord, but he felt old today—old, tired, melancholy.
The bath helped a bit. He had a good wash, rinsing his hair over and over until it no longer smelled of blood. A manservant handed him a towel and offered to shave him. Tom accepted the offer; his right hand was clumsy today.
Once shaved, he dressed. Lucas’s bite marks were visible, especially the one on his shoulder. Tom was too tired to care what the manservant thought.
He let the man tie his neckcloth.
“Please wait here, sir,” the manservant said, once he’d helped Tom into his tailcoat.
For how long? But he couldn’t be bothered asking.
He looked at his face in the mirror while he waited. Hadn’t he heard his nose break? Obviously not. There was a faint bruise like a thumbprint high on the bridge, but other than that his nose was exactly the same as it had been yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. That thumbprint and the shadowy purplish bruises under his eyes were the only sign that Strike had punched him.
He flexed his right hand, trying to ease the stiffness. He had no memory of hurting it. Had h
e hit Strike? It seemed unlikely, and it didn’t account for the puncture wounds. He stared at the pattern the scabs made and came up with an answer: a hobnailed boot.
The manservant returned, with Sir Barnaby and Lady Ware.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” Lady Ware said, with brisk cheerfulness. “Please sit down.”
Tom sat.
“How do you feel?”
“Very well, thank you,” he said politely.
“No, truthfully.”
“Tired,” Tom admitted. “My head aches.”
“Which part of your head?”
“My cheekbones, mostly.”
Lady Ware spent several minutes examining him. She seemed to touch every part of his skull. Her hands were small and cool. When she’d finished, his cheekbones no longer hurt and his headache had receded. “And your right hand?”
“It’s fine,” Tom said. “Just a bit stiff.”
She took his hand and felt her way along each bone, from his wrist to the tips of his fingers. “Better?” she asked, when she’d finished.
“Yes,” Tom said, and he wasn’t just being polite. He looked at her curiously. “What did you do?”
“My wife has magic hands.” Sir Barnaby said it as a joke, with a wink and a grin. “Come downstairs, Matlock. Your friends are anxious to see you.”
* * *
He went downstairs with the Wares. Tish and Reid and Lucas were sitting in a sunny parlor over the remains of their luncheon. They all stood hastily.
His awkwardness with Lucas was hidden in the chatter—Reid asking how he was, Tish teasing him that his eyelids were almost the exact shade of lilac as the gown she was wearing, Lady Ware suggesting a stroll down to Woodhuish Abbey to view the walled gardens, Sir Barnaby seconding the idea.
Lucas didn’t say much. He seemed subdued.
Tom wished he and Lucas were alone so he could apologize for being such a cod’s head yesterday. His moment came when they were out on the terrace.
“Lu, I’m sorry for what I said yesterday. I was out of line.”
“Forget about it,” Lucas said.
