Marry in Secret

by Anne Gracie

  He stared at it in shock. A moment earlier and he would have been inside it. Dead. Squashed like a beetle.

  He heard a faint crunching sound in the distance. Footsteps? He looked around but saw nobody. He moved cautiously forward, skirting the fallen branch, looking upward at the tree from which it had fallen. And saw a smooth cut with a jagged finish.

  He examined the fallen branch and found a rope tied to it.

  The accident was no accident. Tie a rope around a branch, then use a saw to cut the branch almost all the way through. Wait until Thomas was in the hide, then pull down on the rope, causing the last bit to break.

  He swiveled around, scanning the surroundings, all senses alert. The culprit had to be lurking close by; they would have to remove the rope so it would look like an accident.

  Cornelius knew how he felt about badger baiting. He’d set this whole thing up.

  “Cornelius!” he roared. “Come out, you filthy coward.”

  But only the wind answered.

  Thomas stormed back to the house. “Where’s Cornelius?” he demanded as he entered the house. “Cornelius!”

  Rose came running. “Thomas, what is it?”

  “That swine Cornelius just tried to kill me!”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, he missed me, but where the hell is the villain? Cornelius!” he roared again.

  Holden emerged from the servants’ area. “I think he and his friends were going to the village, m’lord. To the public house. There’s a skittles match on. They’ll be betting, I’m guessing.”

  “Skittles match? I’ll give him skittles match.” Thomas stormed out.

  He arrived at the public house, strode into the taproom and peered through the fug. “Where is he? Where is that weaselly little rat?”

  “Would you be meaning your cousin, my lord? Mr. Beresford?” the landlord asked politely.

  “That’s the one.”

  The landlord gestured. “In the private sitting room, my lord. He and his friends don’t like to mix with the likes of us.”

  “And we don’t like to mix with the likes o’ they,” someone called from the corner. There was a general laugh.

  Thomas threw open the door to the private sitting room and found Cornelius seated with his two friends, playing cribbage at a table by the fire.

  “There you are,” he snarled.

  Cousin Cornelius jumped. He eyed Thomas nervously. “Is something the matter, cousin?”

  “Cousin? Second cousin twice removed, is it not—”

  “Once,” Cornelius muttered.

  “As far as I’m concerned, that’s not damned well removed far enough,” Thomas snapped.

  There was a muffled sound from the landlord, who had followed him in. Thomas turned around with a savage look, and the landlord’s face became instantly blank.

  Thomas turned back to Cornelius. “How dare you!”

  “Dare what?” Cornelius said nervously.

  “Firstly, you tried to arrange a badger baiting on my land. With one of my badgers.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Thomas said in a voice loud enough to be heard by the ears no doubt pressed against the door, “All animal baiting is from now on forbidden on this estate; no badger baiting, no bear baiting or anything else of that kind. Is that clear?” Not a peep was heard from outside, but the landlord nodded.

  “But you’re wrong about me,” Cornelius insisted. “I did organize one last year, it’s true, but I didn’t realize what it was going to be like. It was horrid, hideous, disgusting.” He shuddered. “Never again.”

  Thomas was inclined to believe him. “Secondly,” he said in a lowered voice, “you tried to kill me this afternoon.”

  “Kill you?” Cornelius’s eyes almost popped from his head. “I didn’t, I swear I didn’t. This afternoon, you say? I couldn’t have. I’ve been here all afternoon and haven’t moved.” He gestured to his friends. “Tell him, Perce, tell him, Monty.” His friends frantically concurred.

  Thomas glanced at the landlord, who nodded to confirm it. “Hasn’t left the place since he arrived a good four hours ago, my lord.”

  “See, Thomas?” Cornelius began in an aggrieved tone. “I think you owe me an apol—” He broke off, seeing Thomas’s expression. He held up his hands pacifically. “No, no, it’s nothing. Don’t owe me anything, Thomas. Never said a word to you. Was talking to Perce here who owes me a monkey, don’t you, Perce?”

  Perce nodded.

  “See, Thomas? No offense taken and none given, I hope.” He gave Thomas a sickly, placatory grin.

  Thomas leaned over their table and in a steely soft voice said, “I’ve had it with you. You and your friends are leaving first thing in the morning, Cornelius.”

  “But Venables—”

  “Can die in a ditch for all I care. Ten o’clock and you’re out of here.”

  “Ten? But that’s an outrag—”

  “Nine then.”

  “But that’s even more inhum—!”

  “Eight o’clock. And if you’re still here by five past eight, I’ll have you and all your belongings thrown into the street. Understand?”

  “Yes, Thomas.”

  * * *

  * * *

  So if Cornelius hadn’t tried to kill him, who had? Thomas worked it out on the way back from the village. Ambrose. The thought made him sick to his stomach.

  It couldn’t be. His oldest living friend—or so he thought. He had to be mistaken.

  But he knew he wasn’t. Why else would he tell Thomas that Cornelius had bribed some village boys to dig up the badger’s sett if it wasn’t true?

  There was no answer to that.

  The case against: He’d specifically warned Thomas against going into the sett.

  Knowing full well that such a warning would prompt Thomas’s curiosity.

  It had to be him. There was no one else.

  But why? The question pounded uselessly at Thomas’s brain. Why? What good would Thomas’s death do him? There was no advantage that Thomas could see.

  Did he hate Thomas? Had he hated him all these years?

  And if so, why?

  He’d always considered Ambrose his friend. His cousin. His only living relation, apart from Cousin Cornelius.

  It dawned on Thomas with sickening certainty that it must have been Ambrose who sent those letters, purporting to be from Uncle Walter and Gerald. Condemning Thomas to life as a slave.

  The memory of Ambrose’s chalky complexion when Thomas had mentioned his slavery came back to him. A slave, Thomas? Is that what you became?

  Had he not realized the power of those damned letters? He must have. Surely.

  It was Ambrose. Ambrose had condemned him to slavery. Ambrose had sent the poisoned marzipan. He must have shot Rose in mistake for Thomas. And today he had tried to crush Thomas with a doctored tree branch.

  The realization was devastating.

  But the question remained: Why?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.

  —JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

  Rose was waiting for him when he reached the house. “Well?”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Ambrose.”

  “Ambrose?” She stared at him in shock. “Are you sure?”

  He nodded.

  “But why?”

  “That, I can’t even guess at, but I’m going to confront him about it now.”

  “Shall I come with you?”

  “No.” He kissed her. “This is one thing I must do on my own.”

  He went to Ambrose’s house and knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He peered in the windows, but it
seemed deserted. He tried the door, just out of frustration, but to his surprise it opened.

  “Ambrose?” he called out. It seemed wrong to intrude upon the man’s home, even when it belonged to him. Even when the man had—it seemed: his heart still struggled against it—tried to murder him several times. And didn’t apparently mind if he got Rose by mistake.

  The door to the estate office was closed. Thomas opened it and looked in. All neat as usual. But a folded note sat on the desk, on top of a pile of ledgers. It bore his name. He opened it.

  I’m sorry, Thomas, more than I could ever say. But these books, dull as they are, will tell the tale.

  Ambrose

  Thomas glanced at the pile of books. Account books. Was that what it was all about? Money?

  Where was Ambrose? He was starting to worry. Thoughts of suicide were loitering at the edge of his mind. He refused to entertain them.

  He returned to the main house and questioned the servants. The Holdens hadn’t seen him for a few hours. “He went out just before you did this afternoon, m’lord. I haven’t seen him since.” Went out, no doubt to pull down a great branch on Thomas’s head.

  Thomas went to the stables, half expecting to see his cousin dangling from the rafters. “Mr. Ambrose, m’lord?” one of the grooms said in answer to his question. “He took the good carriage and four out, mebbe about an hour ago. Took a portmanteau and a little trunk as well. Saw him pack it.”

  “Any idea where he was going?”

  “Don’t know, m’lord, but old Mr. Newling at the gatehouse would know whether he turned right or left.”

  “Good man,” Thomas said. Ambrose had taken the traveling chaise and four horses, which meant that he’d be traveling at speed. “Saddle my horse and bring it up to the house, as quick as you can.”

  He raced back to the house. “He’s gone, taken the good carriage,” he told Rose. “I’m going to follow him.”

  “But it’ll be dark soon. It’s dangerous to travel at night.”

  “If I don’t go now, I’ll never find him. I’m only an hour behind him.” He glanced at the sky. “It’s a few hours yet to sunset and there’s twilight for thirty or forty minutes after that.”

  “But you don’t even know where he’s gone.”

  “Old Mr. Newling will know which way he turned. If it’s left, he’s making for Cheltenham and possibly London after that. If he turned right, he’s heading for Bristol.”

  “Bristol? You mean the port?”

  He nodded. “My guess is he’s planning to leave the country, and the quickest way to do that from here is to catch a ship from Bristol. Leaving at high tide tonight, unless I miss my guess.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, you can’t ride to Bristol in that flimsy—though admittedly very fetching—dress, and I don’t have time to wait for you to change. Ambrose could leave the country in a matter of hours, and if nothing else, I have to know why he’s done these terrible things.” As he spoke, the groom ran up with his saddled horse. “Here’s my horse now. I’m off. Don’t worry.” He kissed her, a hard, swift possessive kiss.

  “But what if he has a gun?”

  “I know how to take care of myself.” He leapt lithely onto his horse and galloped down the driveway.

  * * *

  * * *

  Rose watched him turn the corner and disappear from sight. “Saul,” she called to the groom who was walking back to the stables. “I gather Mr. Ambrose took the traveling chaise.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  “What other carriages are left? I’m going to follow his lordship.”

  He wrinkled his brow, thinking. “There’s the old master’s carriage. Creaky old thing it is, but. Probably fall apart if you hit a bad bump, m’lady. And there’s the dogcart, of course, though that’s missing a wheel at the moment.”

  Rose stamped her foot in frustration. “Isn’t there anything else?”

  “Only Lord Gerald’s curricle.”

  “Lord Gerald’s curricle?” she exclaimed. “Does it have all its wheels?”

  “There are only two wheels on a curricle, m’lady.”

  “I know that, but are they both working? Is the curricle fit to drive?”

  “Yes, m’lady, but you can’t go off in Lord Gerald’s curricle.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Because you’re a lady, m’lady. A sporting curricle is not a fit vehicle for a lady.”

  Rose clenched her fists and breathed in a deep calming breath. “Hitch your fastest pair to the curricle and bring it around.”

  “But m’lady—”

  “Just bring it around, Saul.” She hurried upstairs to put on something warm. The mood Thomas was in, he was likely to kill Ambrose. And if he did . . . Oh, Lord. She prayed she’d be in time to stop him.

  * * *

  * * *

  The pale pearly twilight was just starting to fade when Thomas rode into Bristol. He’d made good time. Like his namesake, Bucephalus showed stamina as well as speed.

  Thomas knew the Bristol docks well; he’d sailed from Bristol on his last ill-fated naval voyage. He made his way to the wharves where he thought Ambrose would most likely be headed. His nostrils flared as he scented the sea, mixed with the other smells of the docks; oil, fish, sweat, spices, rotting wood and more.

  The last shreds of twilight rewarded him when he spotted a familiar-looking traveling chaise and four tired horses, drawn up close to the wharf entrance.

  He dismounted and looked into the carriage. Empty. No sign of Ambrose or any groom. Blast the man, was he just going to leave his exhausted animals to their own devices? Their sweat was still wet; they hadn’t been here long.

  Farther along the docks he could see the usual flurry of activity that accompanied a ship getting ready to sail. He tied Bucephalus’s reins to the carriage and grabbed the attention of a passing boy, the kind of lad ubiquitous to the seafront, alert to any opportunity. “Here, lad, if you mind my horses—those ones over there—and fetch them some fresh clean water, I’ll pay you well.”

  The boy looked him over. “How much?”

  “A gold sovereign. Half a crown now, and the rest when I come back.”

  The boy’s eyes bulged. “A yellow boy? You’re on.”

  Thomas tossed the boy a half crown. “I don’t suppose you saw the man who came in that carriage, did you?”

  The boy nodded. “Geezer carryin’ a portmanteau and a little trunk. Went along there.” He jerked his chin.

  “How long ago?”

  “Coupla minutes.”

  Thomas went in search of Ambrose, praying he hadn’t already boarded his ship. He searched. It wasn’t easy—the wharves were a blaze of light where the work was going on, studded with pockets of intense darkness where no lights were needed.

  At last he saw him, standing waiting in the shadows. The ship’s master must be making the last-minute passengers wait until the cargo was loaded. Thomas would have missed him except that his silhouette stood out against the light farther along the wharf. Thomas approached him stealthily.

  “Ambrose,” he said when he was a few feet away.

  His cousin started violently, grabbed his luggage and tried to run, but he tripped and went sprawling. He scrambled to his feet and reached again for his luggage, but Thomas put his foot on the smaller piece, the little leather-bound trunk.

  Ambrose stared wildly around, then pulled a pistol from his pocket. “Give me that trunk.”

  Thomas shook his head. “Not until you’ve explained.”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I’m leaving. What more explanation do you want?”

  “I want to know why, Ambrose. Why you’ve tried to kill me, several times. Why you left me to rot in that Barbary hellhole.”

  “Because I needed to get out, go someplace else, get away from that
god-damned place. Travel.”

  “Get away? From Brierdon? But I thought you loved the place.”

  “I hate it. I always have.”

  Thomas was stunned. It was the last answer he’d expected. “But you could have left any time you wanted. I never knew you wanted to travel.”

  Ambrose snorted. “You never asked.”

  “Surely you knew I would have helped you. The three of us were always so close, more like brothers than cousins.”

  “When we were children, perhaps, sharing the same tutor. But it was an illusion. You and Gerald were sent away to school, and even though I was clever and worked hard and did well at my books, I was kept at Brierdon and given to the old estate manager to learn his job. Nobody ever asked me if I wanted to go away to school. I did, desperately.”

  “I didn’t realize.”

  His voice was bitter. “Why would you? It was always understood that I would take over and manage the estate on Gerald’s behalf—well, you and I both know that Gerald cared only for his poetry and his painting.”

  Thomas nodded.

  “And then when you were sixteen, and it was clear that Gerald would be going to Cambridge, the earl asked you what you wanted to do.”

  Thomas remembered. For him, as the son of a younger son, the choices were to enter the church, take up politics or become a military man. And since Thomas’s father was a navy man, Thomas chose the navy.

  “So again, you two went away, on your chosen paths, traveling the world, meeting new people. And me? I was clever, but did I get the chance to go to a fine school? Or attend university?”

  Ambrose gestured angrily. The pistol barrel glinted, catching the light of a lantern. “Nobody ever considered that I might want to go to university. Gerald frittered away his time there, painting and scribbling—dabbling, he had no real talent, we both know that—and drinking away the nights with his friends. I would have killed for the chance he had to study at university.”

  Interesting choice of words, Thomas thought.

  “Nobody ever asked me what I wanted to do. Nobody considered the bastard son might have dreams of his own, oh, no. My ordained place was at Brierdon, serving the needs of Brierdon, doing what I’d been trained for from birth.”