Scrugthorpe cast a last glance at the empty doorway across the road, then, with every evidence of unconcern, headed off down the street.
The sweeper and link-boy watched him go. Then the link-boy nodded to the sweeper and slipped into the shadows in Scrugthorpe’s wake.
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning, Harry was flat on his stomach deep in dreams, his arms wrapped about his pillow, when a large hand descended on his bare shoulder.
His response was instantaneous—half-rising, eyes wide, muscles tensed, fists clenching.
“Now, now!” Dawlish had wisely backed out of reach. “I wish as you’d get out of that habit—there ain’t no angry husbands ’round here.”
Eyes glittering, Harry hauled in a breath then expelled it irritably. Propping himself on one arm, he raked his hair out of his eyes. “What the devil’s the time?”
“Nine,” Dawlish replied, already at the wardrobe. “But you’ve got visitors.”
“At nine?” Harry turned over and sat up.
“Salter—and he’s brought that agent of the missus’s—Mr Mabberly.”
Harry blinked. Draping his arms over his knees, he stared at Dawlish. “I haven’t married the damned woman yet.”
“Just getting in some practice, like.” Dawlish turned from the robe with a grey coat over his arm. “This do?”
Ten minutes later, Harry descended the narrow staircase, wondering if Lucinda would prefer a grander place when they stayed in town. He hoped she wouldn’t—he’d been renting these rooms for the past ten years; they felt comfortable, like a well-worn coat.
He opened the door to his study and beheld his visitors, Salter standing by the desk, Mabberly, looking thoroughly uncomfortable, perched on the chair before it.
At sight of him, Mabberly rose.
“Good morning, Mabberly.” Harry nodded and shut the door. “Salter.”
Salter returned his nod but refrained from comment, his lips compressed as if holding the words back.
Stiff as a poker, Mr Mabberly inclined his head fractionally. “Mr Lester. I hope you’ll forgive this intrusion but this gentleman—” he glanced at Salter “—is most insistent that I provide answers to questions regarding Mrs Babbacombe’s affairs that I can only describe as highly confidential.” Decidedly prim, Mr Mabberly brought his gaze back to Harry’s face. “He tells me he’s working for you.”
“Indeed.” Harry waved Mr Mabberly back to his chair and took his own behind the desk. “I’m afraid we are in pressing need of the information Mr Salter has requested of you, in a matter pertaining to Mrs Babbacombe’s safety.” As Harry had expected, the mention of Lucinda’s safety stopped Mr Mabberly in his tracks. “That is,” Harry smoothly continued, “assuming you do, in fact, know the answers?”
Mr Mabberly shifted, eyeing Harry somewhat warily. “As it happens, I do—it’s necessary for one in my position, acting as the company’s representative, to be absolutely certain just whose interests I’m representing.” He shot a glance at Salter, then brought his gaze back to Harry. “But you mentioned Mrs Babbacombe’s safety. How can the information you requested be important?”
Succinctly, Harry told him, detailing no more than the bare bones of the presumptive plot; Mr Mabberly was businessman enough to readily follow their hypothesis. As the tale unfolded, his open features reflected shock, outrage—and, eventually, a dogged determination.
“The cads!” Slightly flushed, he glanced at Harry. “You say you intend taking out a warrant against them?”
Salter answered. “We’ve cause enough for a warrant provided we can find evidence on this guardianship business—without that, their motive’s uncertain.”
“So.” Harry fixed Mr Mabberly with a flat green gaze. “The question is will you help us?”
“I’ll do anything I can,” Mr Mabberly vowed, his voice ringing with fervour. Even he heard it. A trifle shocked, he hurried to excuse it. “Mrs Babbacombe’s been very good to me, you understand—there aren’t many who would appoint someone as relatively young as myself to such an important position.”
“Of course.” Harry smiled, endeavouring to make the gesture as unthreatening as he could at that hour of the morning. “And, as a loyal employee of Babbacombe and Company, you would naturally be anxious to assist in ensuring your principals’ personal safety.”
“Indeed.” Obviously more comfortable, Mr Mabberly sat back. “Mrs Babbacombe is indeed Miss Babbacombe’s sole legal guardian.” Again, a slight flush rose in his cheeks. “I’m perfectly sure because, when I first took up my position, I was uncertain as to the point—so I asked. Mrs Babbacombe’s always a model of business etiquette—she insisted I see the guardianship deed.”
Salter straightened, his expression lightening. “So—not only do you know she’s the sole guardian—you can swear to it?”
Mr Mabberly nodded, swivelling to look at Salter. “Certainly. I naturally felt obliged to read the document and verify the seal. It was unquestionably genuine.”
“Excellent!” Harry looked at Salter—the big man’s face was alight, his frame suddenly thrumming with harnessed energy. “So we can get that warrant without further delay?”
“If Mr Mabberly here will come with me to the magistrate and swear to Mrs Babbacombe’s status, I can’t see anything that’ll stop us. I’ve already got friends in the force standing by—they’ll do the actual arrest but I, for one, definitely want to be there when they take Joliffe into custody.”
“I’m prepared to come with you immediately, sir.” Mr Mabberly stood. “From the sounds of it, the sooner this Joliffe person is a guest of His Majesty’s government the better.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Harry stood and offered Mr Mabberly his hand. “And while you two are tying up Joliffe and his crew, I’ll keep Mrs Babbacombe under my eye.”
“Aye—that’d be wise.” Salter shook hands with Harry and they all turned to the door. “Joliffe’s got the makings of a fairly desperate character. It wouldn’t hurt to keep the lady close—just until we’ve got him safely stowed. I’ll send word the instant we’ve got the blackguards in custody, sir.”
“Send word to me at Hallows House,” Harry told him.
After seeing his guests to the hall, Harry returned to the study and quickly glanced through his letters. He looked up as Dawlish entered with a cup of coffee. “Here you are.” Dawlish set the cup down on the blotter. “So—what’s the sum of it, then?”
Harry told him.
“Hmm—so that clerk fellow’s not so useless after all?”
Harry took a sip of his coffee. “I never said he was useless. Gormless. And I’m willing to accept that I might have misjudged him.”
Dawlish nodded. “Good! Last day of this ramshackle business, then. Can’t say I’m sad.”
Harry snorted. “Nor I.”
“I’ll get breakfast on the table.” Dawlish glanced at the long-case clock in the corner. “We’ve still an hour to go before we’re due at Hallows House.”
Harry set down his cup. “We’d best use the time to get all tidy here—I expect to leave for Lester Hall later this evening.”
Dawlish looked back from the door, brows flying. “Ohho! Finally going to take the plunge, are you? ’Bout time, if you ask me. Mind—wouldn’t have thought you’d choose a family picnic to do it at—but it’s your funeral.”
Harry lifted his head and glared but the door had already closed.
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Harry recalled Dawlish’s observation with grim resignation. Not in his wildest dreams had he imagined playing the most important scene of his life on such a stage.
They were seated on colourful coach rugs on a long grassy slope leading down to the gently rippling River Lea. Some miles north of Islington, not far from Stamford Hill, the woods and meadows close by the river provided a pleasant spot for young families and those seeking a draught of country peace. Although some way down the low escarpment, their position afforded them an uninterrupted view over the
river valley, meadows giving way to marshland, water glinting in the sun. Roads meandered through the marshes, leading to Walthamstow, just beyond the valley. Oaks and beeches at their backs shielded them from the sun; the haze of a glorious afternoon surrounded them. Bees buzzed, flitting from fieldflower to hedgerow bloom; doves cooed overhead.
Harry drew in a deep breath—and shot a considering glance at Lucinda, stretched out beside him. Beyond her reclined Em, her hat over her face. On a neighbouring rug sat Heather and Gerald, engrossed in animated discourse. Beyond them, at a suitable distance, perched on and about a collection of fallen logs, sat Agatha and Em’s even more severe dresser, together with Em’s coachman, Dawlish, Joshua, Sim and the little maid Amy. In their dark clothes, they looked like so many crows.
Harry grimaced and looked away. Fate had chosen a fine moment to turn fickle.
The instant he had realised that it was Heather’s guardianship that was Joliffe and Mortimer Babbacombe’s goal, he had determined to come between them and Lucinda with all possible speed. By marrying her, he would assume legal responsibility in all such matters—automatically, without question. It was the one, absolutely guaranteed way of protecting her, of shielding her from their machinations.
But her yesterday had been filled with preparations for the soirée; the household had been at sixes and sevens. He hadn’t liked his prospects of finding a quiet moment, let alone a quiet corner to propose.
As for today, they had organised this outing a week ago as a quiet relaxation away from the ton after the excitement of the soirée. They had come in two carriages, Em’s and Lucinda’s, the menservants riding atop; Agatha and Amy had shared Lucinda’s carriage with their mistress and himself. They had lunched surrounded by sunshine and peace. Now Em looked set for her postprandial nap; it would probably be at least an hour before hunger again prodded Heather and Gerald to a more general awareness.
So, since learning of her danger, this was his first chance to remove her from it. Hiding his determination behind an easy expression, Harry got to his feet. Lucinda looked up, putting up her hand to shield her eyes. Harry smiled reassuringly down at her before lifting his gaze to her drab watchdogs. With a slight movement of his head, he summoned Dawlish, then strolled back towards the trees. When he was out of earshot of his intended and his aunt, he stopped and waited for Dawlish to reach him.
“Something wrong?”
Harry smiled politely. “No. I just thought I’d let it be known that, when I take Mrs Babbacombe for a stroll in a few moments, we won’t need an escort.” When Dawlish screwed up his eyes, as if considering arguing, Harry continued, his tone growing steely, “She’ll be perfectly safe with me.”
Dawlish humphed. “Can’t say as I blame you. Cramp anyone’s style, it would, having to go down on your knees before an audience.”
Harry raised his eyes heavenwards in a mute gesture of appeal.
“I’ll tell the others.”
Harry hurriedly lowered his gaze but Dawlish was already stomping back through the trees. Muttering a curse, Harry did the same, returning to the rugs on the grass.
“Come for a walk.”
Lucinda glanced up at the soft words—which cloaked what sounded like a command. Beside her, Em was gently snoring; Heather and Gerald were in a world of their own. She met Harry’s eyes, very green; he raised a brow and held out his hand. Lucinda studied it for an instant, savouring the thrill of anticipation that shot through her, then, with studied calm, laid her fingers in his.
Harry drew her to her feet. Tucking her hand in his arm, he turned her towards the leafy woods.
The woods were not extensive, merely stands of trees separating fields and meadows. They strolled without words, leaving the others behind, until they came to a large field left fallow. The meadow grasses and flowers had taken over; the ground was carpeted in a shifting sea of small bright blooms.
Lucinda sighed. “How lovely.” She smiled up at Harry.
Engaged in scanning their surroundings, he glanced back at her in time to return her smile. The trees screened them from their companions and any others strolling the river banks; they were not isolated but as private as, in the circumstances, it was probably wise to be. He gestured ahead; by unvoiced agreement, they strolled to the centre of the field where a large rock, weathered to smoothness, created a natural seat.
With a swirl of her blue muslin skirts, Lucinda sat. Harry noticed that her gown matched the cornflowers scattered through the grass. She had worn a new bonnet but had let it fall to dangle by its ribbons on her back, leaving her face unshadowed. She lifted her head and her gaze met his.
Stillness held them, then her delicate brows arched slightly, in query, in invitation.
Harry scanned her face, then drew in a deep breath.
“Ah-hem!”
They both turned to see Dawlish striding across the field. Harry bit back a curse. “What now?”
Dawlish cast him a sympathetic glance. “There’s a messenger come—’bout that business this morning.”
Harry groaned. “Now?”
Dawlish met his eye. “Thought as how you might think it better to get that matter all tied and tight—before you get…distracted, like.”
Harry grimaced—Dawlish had a point.
“Set on seeing you specifically, this messenger—said as that was his orders.” Dawlish nodded back at the trees. “Said he’d wait by the stile yonder.”
Swallowing his irritation, Harry shot a considering glance at Lucinda; she met it with an affectionate smile. Spending five minutes to acknowledge the end of Joliffe’s threat would leave him free to concentrate on her—wholly, fully, without reservation. Without further interruption. Harry looked at Dawlish. “Which stile?”
“It’s along the fence a little way.”
“We didn’t pass a fence.”
Dawlish frowned and surveyed the woods through which he’d come. “It’s that way—and around to the left, I think.” He scratched his head. “Or is it the right?”
“Why don’t you just show Mr Lester the way?”
Harry turned at Lucinda’s words. She had plucked some blooms and started to plait them. He frowned. “I’ll find the stile. Dawlish will stay here with you.”
Lucinda snorted. “Nonsense! You’ll take twice as long.” She picked a cornflower from her lap, then tilted her face to look up at him, one brow arching. “The sooner you get there, the sooner you’ll be back.”
Harry hesitated, then shook his head. Joliffe might be behind bars but his protective instincts still ran strong. “No. I’ll—”
“Don’t be absurd! I’m perfectly capable of sitting on a rock in the sunshine for a few minutes alone.” Lucinda lifted both arms to gesture about her. “What do you imagine could happen in such a sylvan setting?”
Harry glared, briefly, aware she would very likely be perfectly safe. Hands on hips, he scanned the surrounding trees. There was open space all around her; no one could creep up and surprise her. She was a mature and sensible woman; she would scream if anything untoward occurred. And they were all close enough to hear.
And the sooner he met with Salter’s messenger, the sooner he could concentrate on her, on them, on their future.
“Very well.” His expression hard, he pointed a finger at her. “But stay there and don’t move!”
Her answering smile was fondly condescending.
Harry turned and strode quickly across the field; the damned woman’s confidence in herself was catching.
Like many countrymen, Dawlish could retrace his steps to anywhere but could never describe the way. He took the lead; within a matter of minutes, they found the fence line. They followed it to a small clearing in which stood the stile—surrounded by a small army of people.
Harry halted. “What the devil…?”
Salter pushed through the crowd. Harry caught sight of Mabberley and three representatives of Bow Street among a motley crew of ostlers, grooms and stablelads, link-boys, jarveys, street urchins,
sweepers—basically any likely looking scruffs to be found on the streets of London. Obviously Salter’s “people”.
Then Salter stood before him, his face decidedly grim. “We got the warrant but when we went to serve it, Joliffe and his crew had done a bunk.”
Harry stiffened. “I thought you were watching them?”
“We were.” Salter’s expression grew bleaker. “But someone must have tripped up somewhere—we found our two watchers coshed over the head this morning—and no sign of our pigeons anywhere.”
Harry’s mind raced; chill fingers clutched his gut. “Have they taken the coach?”
“Yep,” came from one of the ostlers. “Seems like they left ’bout ten—just afore the captain here came with his bill.”
Mr Mabberly stepped forward. “We thought we should warn you to keep an especially close eye on Mrs Babbacombe—until we can get this villain behind bars.”
Harry barely heard him. His expression had blanked. “Oh, my God!”
He whirled and raced back the way he’d come, Dawlish on his heels. The rest, galvanised by Harry’s fear, followed.
Harry broke from the trees and scanned the field—then came to a skidding halt.
Before him the meadow grasses swayed in the breeze. All was peaceful and serene, the field luxuriating in the heat. The sun beat down on the rock in its centre—now empty.
Harry stared. Then he strode forward, his expression like flint. A short chain of blue cornflowers had been left on the rock—laid down gently, not flung or mauled.
Breathing rapidly, Harry, hands on hips, lifted his head and looked about. “Lucinda?”
His call faded into the trees—no one answered.
Harry swore. “They’ve got her.” The words burned his throat.
“They can’t have got far.” Salter gestured to his people. “It’s the lady we’re after—tallish, dark-haired—most of you’ve seen her. Name of Mrs Babbacombe.”
An Unwilling Conquest Page 26
