Sauce for the Gander (The Marstone Series Book 1)

by Jayne Davis

  “What is it, Archer? Changed your mind?”

  “No. My lord, if this ends up as a fight…?”

  Will stopped, turning to face the groom. “You think it will?”

  “Sandow ain’t stupid, my lord. He went up the road, but there’s no saying whether he’s really gone or if he’s got wind of something going on. He’s bound to know that me and Danny have been talking to folk, even if he hasn’t caught us at it yet.”

  “True enough.”

  “You think so, too, my lord, else why pistols and a knife?”

  Will patted his pocket—the bulge made by the pistols was obvious. “Your point, Archer?”

  “He won’t fight fair, my lord. You shouldn’t, either.”

  “I’m not regarding this as an exercise in pugilism, Archer, but thank you for the warning.”

  “Kick him in the ballocks if you can, sir. He deserves it.”

  Will turned and walked on, cringing at the thought of being on the receiving end of such a blow. Doing something like that in the heat of a brawl was one thing; planning on unfair tactics seemed different, wrong.

  He recalled the morning in Tothill Fields that had begun all this. Allowing Lord Elberton to take his second shot had been a bloody stupid thing to do—honour be damned. He’d thought he had no-one who depended on him, but his sisters would have been distraught if he’d been killed, and completely unprotected against anything his father might do to them in future.

  Now there was even more at stake, Connie above all. And he finally had the chance to do something that would serve his country.

  Archer was right—this wasn’t an affair of honour. Sandow was a man with no honour.

  Will ducked his head under the low cottage door. Inside, the small windows made the light dim, despite the sunshine outside. Seven men were gathered, one sitting at the small table, the others standing around the walls with folded arms. The furniture was basic—only a couple of chairs and a low cupboard, but the stone-flagged floor was clean. Some lengths of wood leaned against the wall in one corner—makeshift clubs, Will guessed.

  “Danny, keep watch,” Will ordered. The lad nodded and headed back up the street. Archer took up a position by the door to the tiny scullery behind the house, saying something in a low voice to the man nearest to him.

  “I’m Bill Roberts, my lord.” The seated man rose as he spoke, a brief gesture towards the remaining chair being his only concession to courtesy. He had a less weather-beaten face than the other men—a carpenter, Archer had said.

  “Thank you for allowing me to talk to you all.” Will sat, and put his hat on the table. “Only seven of you?”

  “Only seven of us with no families, my lord.”

  Sensible, he had to admit, although a bit more support would have been useful. “Let me start by showing you how profitable your free trading is.”

  “Why’re you doing this at all?” A stocky man with dirty blond hair spoke. “You never bin ’ere more’n a few days a time ’til now, then you stick your nose into our business.”

  Willing to talk, Archer had said. He glanced at his groom, who just shrugged. But it was a fair question.

  “Sandow threatened my wife. He beats up boys and women. He likely does the same to other families, or threatens to.” He scanned his audience; no-one disagreed.

  “Go on, then,” the blond one finally said. No ‘my lord’ there, Will noted. His rank wasn’t going to sway anyone in this room, but that was as it should be. Men who had been persuaded by argument and their own interests would be more reliable.

  “This is an estimate of the profits from a single run.” Will spread his papers out on the table, and went through the explanation he’d given to Archer and Danny a few days before. There was some head scratching, but Roberts and an old man with a beard pulled one of the sheets towards them and talked in low voices.

  A sound from Archer’s position made him look round, and he glimpsed his groom slipping out of the room, two of the villagers following. He resisted the impulse to go after them—Archer would call for help if he needed it.

  “My lord.” Roberts pushed Will’s calculation towards him, some of the figures amended. “Them’s more like the amounts of goods. There’s more profit in it than you thought.”

  The blond man looked over Roberts’ shoulder. “That makes it worse. Sandow’s keeping even more to hisself than you said.” He turned his head. “Jimmy, come and look at this.”

  Will moved away, allowing room for the remaining villagers to gather around the table. From the snatches he heard, they were weighing up the risks of defying Sandow against the financial benefits of everyone having a greater share in the profits. There was a chance, of course, that they would decide to manage the smuggling themselves, but the fact that they had let Sandow continue unchallenged for so long showed a lack of initiative.

  He moved over to the rear door, curious to see where Archer had got to. A muffled shout and a metallic clatter had him reaching down to check that the knife inside his right boot was loose in its scabbard. If it came to a fight in here, he should not try to use his pistols; there was too great a chance of hitting the wrong men. Talk at the table stopped.

  Scuffling, then another metallic clatter followed by a dull thud. The door opened and Archer slipped through, his clothing dishevelled and a red mark down one side of his face. “Two of ’em, my lord. Tied up now. Danny says Sandow is on his way with one more.”

  “Someone told?” Roberts glared at the other villagers.

  “You can worry about that later, Roberts,” Will said. The two villagers who had helped Archer came back into the room, and the man nearest the clubs started to pass them round. If Sandow did venture in without checking on the two men he had sent to the back door, nine men might be too many in such a small space.

  The silence grew tense, the villagers gripping their clubs and turning towards the door at any small noise. Even Will started when the back door opened, but it was only Danny slipping inside.

  “He’s coming. Got Kelly with him.”

  If all the accounts of Sandow’s behaviour were true, Will would do the world a favour by shooting him when he walked in, but even with Archer’s warning about the man not playing fair, he couldn’t bring himself to do that.

  The front door opened, and everyone turned in that direction, the villagers’ knuckles whitening as they gripped their clubs.

  Chapter 43

  Connie set the preserving jars in a row on the stillroom table, and checked the number of them against an old list. She had to be doing something while Will was away, to stop her mind dwelling on her fears. Unfounded fears, she hoped.

  “There’s more in another cupboard,” Mrs Curnow said, coming into the room.

  “I…Thank you.” Talk, that’s what she needed—to talk to someone. Not about Will, but about something else altogether. “How… how much sugar do we need for making jam?”

  “He’ll be all right, you’ll see,” Mrs Curnow said. “What you said about his lordship—Lord Marstone, I mean—I made sure Mary told her mother in the village. Stubbs, too. Sandow’s a nasty one, all right, but he’s not stupid.”

  Connie hoped she was right.

  As Connie had said, Sandow was nothing special to look at, but the expression in his eyes sent a shiver of anticipation down Will’s spine. Sandow moved forward into the room, followed by a much larger man. The nearest villagers took a step back.

  “If it isn’t the little lordling,” Sandow sneered, coming to a halt in front of Will.

  This was the bastard who had frightened Connie. Will made an effort to calm his breathing. Don’t think about that now. Pretend it’s a fencing match. No, a tavern brawl—no need to fight fair.

  He raised one brow and looked Sandow up and down in the best imitation of his father he could manage.

  “Sandow, I presume? I believe you met my wife a few days ago.”

  Sandow stepped forwards, putting his face close to Will’s. “Nice piece, she was. Bit
too much of a Long Meg for me, but I’ll have the pleasure of her if you don’t keep your nose out of my business.”

  Ignore the threat.

  Will moved one foot backwards, bracing it on the floor. “I think not.” He waited until Sandow opened his mouth to speak again, bent his head and thrust forwards, the top of his head meeting Sandow’s nose.

  Sandow staggered back, a stream of curses muffled by the hand held to his face. The villagers stared open-mouthed as blood dripped through his fingers and ran down his chin.

  Kelly stepped out from behind Sandow as Will steadied himself. Will flung up one arm to block a fist aimed at his face. His return blow landed on Kelly’s ear as he dodged out of the way, but then Will froze. A shiny knife blade was waving not six inches from his eyes. The snarl on Kelly’s face made it clear that he was only too ready to use it.

  “My lord!” That was Archer.

  Will spun away from the knife and then staggered sideways as an impact on the side of his head made his ears ring.

  Sandow.

  He ducked, and Sandow’s clawing fingers grazed his head instead of gouging his eyes. He swung, but his fist met only air.

  What the hell is everyone else doing?

  “Come on you bastards!” Archer’s voice rang out again. Will’s eyes, focused on Sandow, registered movement at the edge of his vision.

  Sandow, too, had a knife. Space, he needed more space. The back of his thighs met the table. Instead of retreating he had to step sideways to dodge Sandow’s blade.

  He had a knife in his boot. Time—just a second to distract Sandow and give him a chance to reach it.

  His hat, on the table.

  He reached and swung it towards Sandow’s face as the man lunged forwards. Instead of grabbing his own knife, Will caught Sandow’s wrist, forcing the man’s blade away from his eyes. Sandow’s momentum pushed Will backwards until he sprawled on his back on the table with Sandow a heavy weight on top of him.

  “No!” A boy’s voice, almost a scream.

  Sandow’s head lurched down towards his own, coming hard into contact with his nose. Will pushed, and to his surprise Sandow rolled off him, flopping to the floor with a groan.

  Danny Trasker stood above the prone body, a club in one hand. He raised wide eyes to Will’s face. “Have I killed him?”

  Will bent forward to see. Sandow’s chest was moving. “No, lad.”

  Sandow’s eyelids flickered. Will’s fist connected with the man’s jaw as he opened his eyes. His head snapped sideways.

  Not enough. Sandow was hurt, but still half conscious.

  Will stood astride and wound his fists into the front of Sandow’s coat, pulling him upright as the man struggled feebly to free himself. If he came round properly someone else would get hurt.

  Steadying Sandow with one hand, Will hit him again, as hard as he could. This time Sandow fell to the floor, his head striking one corner of the hearth with a sickening crunch.

  One of the villagers pushed past, bending over the prone body. Roberts.

  It had taken the villagers long enough to join in, Will thought, cradling his aching hand. But the fight had been quick, and there was scarcely room to move with so many men in such a small space.

  Archer and two of the villagers had overpowered Sandow’s henchman. The groom stood with one foot on Kelly’s back while the other two tied him up.

  Will became aware of his nose throbbing, and warmth spreading down his chin. Groping in a pocket for his handkerchief, he pressed it against his nose and bent over to see why Sandow was still unmoving. Roberts had fingers resting against the side of the man’s neck.

  He looked up at Will. “He’s dead.”

  Will rubbed his free hand in his hair. Dead?

  He’d never killed a man before.

  The villagers stood still, staring at the body. Finally, Danny spoke. “He’s really dead?”

  Roberts put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “He is. It’s over, and you done well, lad. I reckon you saved Lord Wingrave’s life.”

  Danny’s eyes focused once more on the still form of Sandow on the floor.

  “Danny, can you take a message to the big house for me?” Will asked, his voice muffled by the handkerchief.

  The boy nodded, wiping one sleeve across his face.

  “Tell Lady Wingrave that Archer and I are safe. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

  Danny nodded again.

  Roberts looked around. “Moore, Porter, go with him.”

  One of the men put his arm around Danny’s shoulders as they ushered him out. Roberts picked up a toppled chair and gestured for Will to sit in it. Will gingerly removed the handkerchief from his nose, but it was still bleeding.

  Now he only had a dead body and three prisoners to deal with.

  “Could drop the lot of them in the sea,” one of the villagers suggested, to murmurs of agreement.

  It was tempting, but then one of them might feel justified in doing the same to someone else in the future.

  “No.” Will said the word with enough force that they all turned and looked at him.

  “Sandow assaulted me, and I killed him while defending myself.” That had the advantage of being the truth. “The magistrate will accept that story.”

  Roberts pursed his lips. “All right.”

  “The other three will be handed over for trial on the same charge of assault.” Were there other gang members who would testify in their favour? “The magistrate will take my word for it,” he went on. “If necessary I can arrange to have them tried further away than Exeter.”

  From the mutterings and exchanged glances, not all the men were happy. He could deal with that some other time—his main objective for the evening had been achieved.

  “Archer, get the body and the prisoners brought up to Ashton Tracey.”

  “Right, my lord.”

  “Roberts, we can discuss the free trading tomorrow. I can offer several advantages in terms of credit, and so on. But if you want me to be involved, I’ll have no more violence. Let me know when the rest of the villagers are ready.”

  “Aye, I’ll do that. my lord.”

  Good. Now all he had to do tonight was to face Connie with a bruised face and bloody nose.

  By the time Will had been gone for two hours, Connie and Mrs Curnow had progressed to drinking tea and eating cake while the cook reminisced about the days when Lady Marstone had come here every summer.

  “She didn’t used to entertain, but cooking for them lads kept me busy, right enough. Mind, we had a lot more staff th—”

  Connie turned her head at a sound from the scullery and shot to her feet as the door burst open and Danny Trasker dashed in.

  Will…?

  “His lordship sent me to say he’s safe,” the lad gasped. “Mr Archer, too.”

  Connie sank back into her chair, limp with relief, as Mrs Curnow walked across to the open door. Connie drew in a sharp breath at the sight of two men standing there, hats in their hands.

  “We were sent up with the lad, mum, to make sure he got here safe.”

  Mrs Curnow stared at them for a moment, then gave a quick nod. “You want some food?”

  “No, thank you, we best be getting back.”

  They vanished, and Mrs Curnow bustled about, putting the kettle to boil and cutting a large slab of cake. “Sit down, Danny. You’ll be wanting something to eat.”

  “You are not hurt, are you Danny?” Connie asked, as the boy pulled his chair up to the table. Streaks in the dirt on his face looked like tear tracks.

  “No, my lady.”

  Connie resisted the impulse to ask Danny what had happened while he ate. Will was safe, which was all that mattered, and she’d get a more coherent account from him when he returned.

  Danny didn’t seem to know what to do with himself when he’d finished eating, so Connie suggested he keep watch at the front of the house.

  It was nearly an hour before he came dashing back, saying a lot of men and a cart we
re coming up the drive.

  The front door opened, spilling light onto the top of the steps as Will trudged up the drive. “Take them to the stables,” he said, and Archer led the horse and cart round the side of the house.

  In spite of the pain of his battered nose and bruised face, Will felt energised when he saw Connie silhouetted in the doorway. She was safe now—even if Sandow had more sympathisers in Ashmouth, the rest of the villagers would have the confidence to deal with them without his intervention.

  “You’re hurt,” Connie exclaimed as the light fell on his face.

  “A bit bruised, that’s all.” Her eyes turned to the blood staining his neckcloth and shirt. “Just a bloody nose, Connie, honestly.”

  “What happened? No, have something to eat first. Do you need bandages or…? That looks like—”

  Will took hold of her shoulders and pulled her towards him. “Connie, I’m fine, but I could do with something to drink.”

  She gazed into his eyes. “I’ll get something. Go and sit down.”

  Five minutes later they sat in the library, Will with a mug of ale in one hand.

  “What was in the cart?” Connie asked.

  “Three prisoners, and Sandow.”

  “Sandow…?” Her eyes widened in alarm.

  “He won’t trouble us any more.”

  “He’s dead? How…?” She took a deep breath. “Not now—you can tell me about it tomorrow. But will there be no more threats, then, to anyone?”

  “No. The other three, they’ll be tried for assault.” He kneaded the back of his neck, now stiff and sore.

  “Do you need to do anything else tonight?”

  “Not tonight, no. Tomorrow I need to find the local magistrate, get all this mess sorted out legally.”

  “Pretend you’re an upstanding, law-abiding citizen?” Her mouth curved up a little.

  “Ha, yes.” Ironic, for a future smuggler, but there was no need to break more laws than he had to. He looked down at his coat. “I’ll get myself cleaned up, then it’s time to retire.”