by Beth Elliott
She had hardly gone twenty steps when she found another man in front of her, blocking her way. She glanced up to say ‘Excuse me’ and realized it was Greg. He was staring at her as if he could not believe his eyes.
‘What an early bird!’ he said, by way of greeting. He looked at her keenly and then glanced up the road towards the Circus. Suddenly, she knew that he had seen Lord Percival ride past. Surely he did not think she had deliberately been to meet the man? But there was nothing she could say in her own defence. Even the sight of Greg could not cheer her spirits. As he continued to stare at her, she attempted a wan little smile.
‘We all seem to have business in town this morning.’
His hat was tipped forward and under it his face was in shadow. But she made out the black bar of his brows above his nose. A muscle moved in his jaw. ‘Are you out quite alone?’
She nodded, raising a hand to her forehead. ‘I needed some fresh air – I have the headache. It was too early to ask anyone else to accompany me, but I could not sleep.’
He was still watching her. The expression on his face was hard to read. Sarah felt uncomfortable. He was not as friendly as he had been. But she was too tired now to care very much. She just wanted to get home and rest.
He was still blocking her way, so she said, ‘Excuse me, I must not linger now. Lizzie will be looking for me at the breakfast table.’
‘I will see you home.’ His voice was harsh. He glanced up the road towards the Circus again. She had the feeling he wanted to go after Lord Percival.
‘Really,’ she protested, ‘there is no need to go out of your way. It is just along George Street. I will wish you good morning.’
She held out her hand. He was still frowning. He took her hand and tucked it in his arm. ‘Come,’ he said, in a sort of growl and looked both ways before pulling her to cross the road. After a moment’s resistance, Sarah leaned gratefully on his arm. It was such pleasure to feel that strength supporting her. Suddenly her legs would hardly carry her.
Neither of them spoke until they reached the door of General Gardiner’s lodging. Greg beat a tattoo on the knocker and withdrew his arm from hers. As the door opened, he said, ‘My compliments to the general – and to Lizzie, of course.’ Then he gave her a nod and turned and strode away.
Sarah was mortified. He had never been so curt before. She felt bereft at the loss of his goodwill. She went into the parlour, where Lizzie was nibbling at some bread and butter and the general was stirring his tea with a great clinking of the teaspoon. She could not face food. Suddenly her headache was agonizing. She made an excuse to go up to her room and fled up the stairs.
Lizzie very soon followed her up with a cup of tea and lavender water to bathe her temples. When a maid came in, bringing a warming pan, Sarah protested. ‘Please, Lizzie, all I need is an hour on my bed. I will be better after that, I assure you.’
‘Where have you been?’ asked Lizzie in a whisper. Sarah sighed. ‘I was awake so early, and could not get back to sleep. I just wanted some fresh air. Now, of course, I am tired out.’
Lizzie drew the curtains and left her in peace at last.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Greg strode away down Milsom Street. The rage that had gripped him on seeing Sarah talking to Lord Percival still threatened to burst out. He had contained it until he had seen her safely home. Now he desperately wanted to kick something or punch someone very hard. How could she talk to the man, actually stop and hold a conversation with him?
Even worse, what was she doing out wandering the streets alone at such an early hour? Anything could happen. She just did not realize how tempting she was to men, with that lovely face and soft blonde hair. He ground his teeth. He cast a speculative glance at a passer-by, a serving-man by the look of him. The man looked warily at Greg and crossed the street.
‘Spoilsport,’ muttered Greg. His fists were clenched. He shook his head in frustration. This was ridiculous. He must get his priorities back in order. But Sarah had ruined his concentration. Just when he had discovered Lord Percival returning from what looked like a night meeting, as well! He had raced up towards the Circus to get a closer look at Percival’s horse, to judge how far the man had ridden. But he simply could not leave Sarah alone in the street. God knows where else she had planned to go.
Greg thumped his hand hard against his forehead. Time to think the matter through. He dived into the first decent-looking ale-house in the street and called for a tankard of home-brewed. Had he been mistaken about Sarah all along, deceived by that lovely face into thinking her an innocent? Theo had warned him to have nothing to do with the Davenport family. And, as far as James and Alice were concerned, he agreed with him.
Absently, Greg took a pull at his beer. Conversations stopped and heads turned as he strode over to a table and sat down. Nobody came near him. He glowered down at the tiny table and saw again Sarah’s face. Now it occurred to him how pale she was with violet shadows under her eyes. He remembered the way she had clutched her head. It was not an act.
Why did he feel so angry? Why was she filling his mind when he was on the verge of proving that Lord Percival was the crook that Theo suspected him to be? This was not the time to be sidetracked by a lovely face. The gossips were whispering that her brother was penniless, having lost everything at play. So was he forcing his sister to entice Lord Percival into cancelling the debt?
At this idea, Greg clutched his hair. It seemed to be the most likely solution. And what choice did she have, a mere woman with – according to gossip – no fortune. She had resisted, but there would come a point where she might break under the relentless pressure. And he had seen how Lord Percival coveted her. Those lascivious eyes – the swine almost drooled each time he managed to get close to her.
Frantic with anger and worry, Greg seized his tankard, but it was empty. How long had he sat here? The tavern had filled up with farmers and market traders so the morning must be getting on. He spent a few moments checking on the people in the alehouse, then rose and went out. He entered a shop, bought a fob that he really did not need and meanwhile kept an eye on the tavern. Nobody came out, so Greg set off again, twisting and turning through several other streets before he came to a coaching inn on the Bristol Road.
Jenkins, his groom, was waiting here with Greg’s horse. In no time, Greg was trotting off along the Bristol road towards Seldon. As soon as he was clear of the town he coaxed his mount to a gallop. He reached the Three Bells feeling better for the fresh air and exercise. He thought of his many horseback journeys across the arid mountains of Spain and smiled at the contrast with this green and gentle landscape.
The ostler at the inn received Greg’s horse with every sign of pleasure.
‘Cor, ’e’s a prime un, sir. I’ll be sure to rub ‘im down, an’ that at once, sir.’
‘See you do,’ responded Greg, noting that there was only one other horse in the stables. It was a large, rangy beast. Greg wondered if it belonged to Mr Josiah Whitby. He had not yet met this person but had a description of him from Preston.
Greg walked round to the front entrance and entered the taproom. It was clean and spacious. The landlord was a burly, middle-aged man. He came bustling forward to greet his new customer and promised that the meal would be well worth the wait.
‘I can believe you,’ said Greg, ‘for the smell of the cooking is making me hungry already.’ He accepted the large mug of home-brewed ale and added, ‘but you have no other customers?’
The landlord laughed. ‘When the Bristol Stage comes through, we shall be busy enough, I warrant you, sir. Would you be wanting a private parlour?’
Greg shook his head. ‘I shall be fine in here, Landlord.’ He went over to a small alcove at the back of the room where there was a window seat and a small round table. He took out a pencil and a notebook and laid the book down, open, with the pencil lying across it. Then he savoured his beer and waited.
As the landlord had said, it was not long before the stagecoach d
rew up. The passengers came in, eager for their meal. The coach driver walked through and disappeared into a back room. A couple of serving-boys came in and began to set out the food. The landlord himself brought Greg a tray laden with dishes.
A tall man came and sat at the next table and he also was served by the landlord. This man was gentlemanly in appearance and dressed very soberly in a dark jacket and buckskins. As they reached the end of their meal he turned to Greg.
‘Excuse me for addressing you, sir,’ he said, ‘but I came through the stables and very much admired your splendid grey horse.’
Greg considered the speaker. He was perhaps in his late thirties, with a thin face, enhanced by a pair of intelligent brown eyes. ‘Thank you,’ he replied, ‘he is indeed a strong fellow and with a good disposition.’
‘He certainly looks as if he could go all day. A really fine piece of horseflesh.’
‘Would you care to see him properly?’
The other man nodded eagerly. They went out to the stables and as soon as they were in the open air, the man said in a low voice, ‘You have guessed I am Lord Liverpool’s agent?’
Greg nodded. ‘I know the emblem as well.’ He indicated the signet ring on Whitby’s little finger. ‘Any news?’
‘There was a big gathering of men last night. A convoy is due from the Americas any day. Money changed hands for information about the cargo – tobacco and bullion – and they made arrangements for smuggling goods from the ships before they dock.’
‘How do they do that?’ asked Greg.
‘Some local fishermen are part of their gang,’ replied Whitby through his teeth. ‘We have not been able to work out how many.’
‘Did you see Lord Percival among the plotters last night?’
Whitby shook his head. ‘It was dangerous even to be close enough to hear them. They met in a barn and I was able to hide in there.’
‘But could you not recognize his voice?’ insisted Greg. ‘He has a very affected drawl….’
Whitby shook his head. By now they had reached the stables. They spoke more loudly and about their horses as the ostler came to join them. Shortly afterwards, Greg shook hands with his new acquaintance in the taproom, politely wishing him an enjoyable stay in the area.
He set off towards Bath, feeling pretty certain that Lord Percival was the informer about the precious cargo. Whitby had alerted the Riding Officers, so a watch would be set. But Percival had powerful friends in Whitehall. Greg knew it would require very clear evidence before they could arrest the man. He and Josiah Whitby would need to witness him taking part in the smuggling operation and get proof that he had accepted the goods.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Late that afternoon Greg called on Lizzie and Sarah. He had left Jupiter, his grey horse, at home and come back into town in his curricle. Lizzie was alone in the sitting-room when he arrived. She was all smiles as she told him about the driving expedition of the previous day.
‘The main thing is that Richard did not mistreat my horses … or let them get away with you,’ said Greg, a teasing light in his eye, ‘but I am glad you found it enjoyable as well.’
Lizzie frowned indignantly at him. ‘I declare you are even more disagreeable than Sarah.’
Greg looked round. ‘Where is she, by the way?’
Lizzie shrugged. ‘She was asleep when last I peeped into her room.’ She twisted her fingers in her lap, hesitating, then glanced up. ‘Oh, Greg, I am very worried about Sarah.’ She moved to a seat next to him. ‘I shall have to whisper this very quietly. Her brother keeps losing money at cards and now he says he has even lost his estate. It does not seem possible. It has been in their family forever and Sarah loves her home so much. I love it too. You know, I used to stay there in my school holidays.’ She stared at him, her eyes round with horror.
‘Does she have any money of her own?’ he whispered back. He thought of the haunting sadness in Sarah’s eyes and found he was clenching his hands into fists. He wished he could wrap them round that worthless brother’s scrawny neck and choke some sense into him.
‘Very little – not enough to live on. What choices does she have now?’ Lizzie murmured in his ear.
At that instant the door opened and Sarah walked in. She stopped short, her eyes widening. ‘Oh, I b-beg your pardon,’ she stuttered, ‘I did not realize there was anyone here.’ She turned her gaze to Lizzie. ‘Shall I go away?’
Both Greg and Lizzie jumped up guiltily. There was a tinge of colour along Greg’s cheekbones. He felt embarrassed to have been caught gossiping about Sarah and wondered how much she had heard. Beside him, Lizzie bit her lip and, for once, had nothing to say.
Sarah cast an anguished look from one to the other. ‘Excuse me,’ she whispered and fled. They heard her running up the stairs. The next moment, somebody knocked hard on the front door. Lizzie darted back to her seat on the other side of the fireplace.
The maidservant tapped and announced, ‘Lord Davenport.’
James walked into the room and started violently when he saw Greg. It was all Greg could do not to pin the fellow against the wall and vent his anger on him for his selfish behaviour towards his sister. But since this was the general’s home and he was in the presence of a lady, he forced himself to stay still and acknowledge James’s greeting with a very slight inclination of his head.
His face, however, told another tale and James could see it. He cast a wary look at Greg even as he asked, ‘What has happened to Sarah? We have been waiting for her at the Pump Room this age.’
Lizzie’s eyes sparkled with anger. ‘James, whatever you told her last night made her unwell. She is still in her room.’
James scowled. ‘How can that be? George particularly wishes to speak with her.’
‘Well, she is not leaving the house today,’ snapped Lizzie.
James digested this. He looked round rather desperately. ‘Can I see her?’ he asked.
‘No!’ said Lizzie and Greg together. They glanced at each other, startled by each other’s determination to protect Sarah. James gave his twitch of the shoulder. ‘In that case, there is nothing to keep me here any longer. Good day.’ He swished around and pulled the door open violently. Greg strode after him.
‘Just a moment, Davenport,’ he called, snatching up his hat and following James out into the street, ‘we will walk together.’
James looked over his shoulder in dismay.
‘You must know that Hazelwick says you can confirm a few details about my brother’s last days,’ said Greg, striding along in step with James.
James shook his head. ‘ ’Fraid not,’ he mumbled, walking even faster.
Greg caught him by the arm, forcing him to stop.
‘What the devil? Let go of me,’ protested James, trying to pull free.
Greg’s nostrils flared. He slammed James back against a wall and held him there, then he pushed his face close to James’s. ‘I said,’ he growled through clenched teeth, ‘Hazelwick says you know the truth of what happened in the card room, when Henry played with your friend, Percival. So will you tell me what sum was lost and by whom?’
There was real terror in James’s eyes. He wet his lips, hesitated and finally shook his head. ‘There is nothing I can tell you.’ His eyes dilated as Greg bared his teeth in fury. This was not the polite society gentleman but the battle-hardened warrior. James shrank away with a moan of fear.
‘By God, you will tell me the truth. Your very silence is an admission of foul play,’ snarled Greg.
James stared at him helplessly. He shook his head. ‘I can say nothing,’ he croaked.
Greg glared at him through narrowed eyes. This weak-minded creature was so in thrall to a flashy gamester that he dared not go against his wishes. The anger flared up again as he remembered how James was seeking to use Sarah to pay off his own debts. Greg had seen such things before and always found these deals contemptible. His eyes burned in his set face as he stepped back.
‘Go then,’ he growled,
‘but be sure the next time I ask you, it will be in a place where you will have to give me a true answer.’
James drew a shaking hand across his mouth. He eyed Greg for an instant, then sidled away. When he judged he was out of reach, he set off at a smart pace, glancing back over his shoulder several times. Greg drew a deep breath and willed himself to be calm. He turned and walked back up the street. By the time he reached Lizzie’s house he had decided against calling again so he went on up to the inn where he had left his curricle. It had been an eventful day. The intrigue was definitely thickening.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The next morning dawned bright and sunny, although very cold. Greg and Richard had their usual fencing match, under the sharp eye of the master. This time, Greg knew his arm was more skilful and his moves were faster. When Maitre Henri signed to him that he had won, he shook his right arm in a little victory salute and grinned at his brother.
Richard mopped his forehead. ‘There was no way I could keep up with you there.’
Greg nodded. He stretched out his arms and gave a laugh. ‘It feels good to be getting back to normal. But the foil is just to help me regain movement and speed. Next, little brother, we need to try with sabres.’
Richard groaned. ‘I have no skill with those weapons. They are for cavalrymen.’
‘I shall soon teach you,’ promised Greg, walking over to select a suitable pair of swords. He handed one to Richard. ‘Once I can handle this properly, I shall progress to the shooting range.’
‘This is all very warlike,’ said Richard, giving him a curious look. ‘I thought you had resigned from the army for good.’
‘Of course,’ said Greg, with a little grimace, ‘but I do not plan to let my skills get rusty. It is always wise to be prepared.’
