by Joan Vincent
“All is in hand,” Sairy Jane assured her. “I’ll make you a spot of comfrey tea. Go on now.”
Ruth allowed Marietta to shoo her out of the kitchen and was chuckling as she sank down on the sofa in the parlour. With a sigh she relaxed, luxuriating in this unusual moment of peace.
Ruth leaned back and closed her eyes. She had almost drifted to sleep when a series of muffled thumps from below the floor startled her. She froze.
A fainter set of thumps rose from beneath the floor. Dear Lord, Ruth thought. There was a cavern below this room. The smugglers— She refused to finish the thought and listened. Anger began to overreach fear.
The silence stretched to what seemed an eternity, but still Ruth waited. A shiver ran through her. Ruth realized her slippered feet had grown very cold. She put a hand to the floor beside them. A draft, cold and strong.
From the fireplace, silly goose, Ruth scolded silently but then realized her feet were not in a direct line with the fireplace. She leant over and reached further to the right where solid wall stood before her hand.
Still a draft, Ruth thought with growing excitement. She rose and moved her hand back and forth as she stepped forward and further to the right. The draft persisted almost to the solid wall. If anything it grew stronger.
At the wall Ruth found the draft existed for a span of about three feet. She eyed the moulding. The decorative trim that framed the wall at three foot intervals as well as the area above the mantel had appeared especially extravagant for a vicarage. Now Ruth was certain its purpose was not decorative.
Excitement at the find churned in her stomach. She headed for the door to tell Marietta and Sairy Jane but changed her mind. Anticipating her sister’s reaction when she came with the tea Ruth decided to see if she could discover even more.
Ruth sat back on her heels at the foot of the wall. She had run her fingers along the mouldings and the panels for four times with no success. “Cats and raspberries,” Ruth swore and thumped both heels against the panel before her.
A metallic click whispered, loud to her ears. Ruth gaped at the moulding on the left side of the panel. Had it moved? Is that a ridge? she wondered, exhilarated by the chance it was. Ruth heart beat loudly in her ears.
She brought her hand slowly across the edge. Her breath caught. It was a ridge. Placing both hands on the panel Ruth pushed in steadily. To her amazement the right edge of the panel gave way slightly and then popped back against her hand.
The draft, more a breeze now, spilled through the open edge. It was far colder than the parlour. Ruth shivered from the icy draft but also with a little fear.
What to do? she thought. If only Lucian were here.
No, Ruth thought on the heels of that wish. He would open the door and enter no matter what the danger might be. She rose and tugged at the panel. It glided open without a sound.
Ruth faced the dark recess in the wall. She could see a second wall but two feet behind the parlour’s.
Anyone who knows how to manipulate the door could come and go at any time. Ruth shivered in horror and fervently thanked God that they hadn’t been murdered in their beds.
There was nothing for it but to tell Lucian when he returned. But how to prevent anyone from entering or leaving the house before then. Ruth dismissed nailing it shut because that would entail letting others know the door existed. Jemmy for one wouldn’t be able to resist exploring.
What is beyond this opening? Ruth wondered. Could there a second door that I could secure in some fashion?
Ruth quickly lit one of the candles on the fireplace mantel. It in one hand she picked up her skirts with the other. Poised to flee Ruth took slow careful steps towards the opening. Just past the entrance cobwebs fluttered and caught at her sleeve. Ruth shrugged away and jumped back to avoid those on the back wall. The floor was thick with dust. More than one set of feet had put there marks on it and lately by the look of them.
A chill ran down Ruth’s spine. The thin aurora of safety fabricated since Hobbleday’s appearance evaporated. They had been vulnerable the entire time upon the whim of whoever knew of this passage.
They can’t do this to us, Ruth swore and boldly entered. She was forced to immediately turn to the right and followed the way along the parlour wall until it turned to the left. At the corner Ruth hesitated. She raised her candle up and peered into the darkness her candle proved too feeble to pierce.
A short distance ahead a piece of smooth wood about five inches long projected from the wall at an angle. A lever or handle–but to what? Ruth asked as she approached it. She raised a hand to touch it, hesitated, her heart in her throat.
The sound of what seemed like the heavy tread of boots startled Ruth. She jerked. Her hand brushed the lever. Behind her air moved and soft metal click announced the closing of the panel.
Clapping a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream Ruth stood frozen to the spot as footsteps grew nearer and nearer.
Then Ruth realized their direction. They came from the parlour. Marietta had finally brought her tea.
Mayhaps Lucian has returned. Knock on the panel.
What if it isn’t he? What if it is one of the smugglers?
A tentacle of hysteria inspired a moment of panic. Ruth gritted her teeth and steeled her mind to calm. You can leave anytime you wish. All you need to is touch the lever. Let’s see if there is a way to bar the passageway.
* * *
Lucian’s long stride slowed as he neared the vicarage. His mind still rebelled at the mere thought of reconciliation of any sort with his father but he had decided he must learn the truth. It was one of the things he meant to tell Ruth he would do before they wed.
Wed. Lucian savoured the word though doubt seemed the wiser course. But he grasped tightly the nugget that had sprung from somewhere, ‘haps even from God, Lucian was willing to concede. Ruth had asked why she should wed him. He had an answer. A far better answer than before. God willing, one that would win him the woman he loved more than life.
Seeing that Merristorm was too occupied to notice him, Baron de la Croix pushed away from the stable. “Find anything of interest?” he asked languidly. He posed, flicking back the black wool cloak he wore to reveal a plethora of ruffles and lace at neck and wrist.
A chortle bubbled up in Lucian’s throat at the man’s audacious dress and absurd behaviour. Even now when no one could see, he kept up the pretence. Lucian had seen only glimpses of what must be the true André Ribeymon but knew steel lay under his fine satins, plush velvets and rich lace.
“A veritable fortune,” Lucian said and grinned.
“But not the smuggler’s lode?”
Lucian immediately sobered. “I don’t give a bloody damme about the smuggling.”
“Not even the weapons?”
“Bloody hell,” swore Lucian.
“We can’t let them get to France,” André persisted.
“First I have to get the Claytons out of this house,” Lucian said.
“How do you propose to do that?”
“Propose,” Lucian said cryptically. “Let’s get to the vicarage. I could do with a—with a spot of tea.” He watched André’s jaw drop. The humour of it bubbled up deep inside him. Lucian threw back his head and laughed.
It sounded odd to his ears, rusty and rough yet it cleansed and refreshed. He clapped the baron on the back and laughed anew.
When he finally managed to gain control he motioned André to walk with him to the vicarage. At the door he offered, “Tea with a spot of something a bit more fortifying.”
“I think you’ve done drunk the fortifyin’ part, Merristorm,” André tossed back.
“I’ve a better restorative at hand,” Lucian said entering.
They met Marietta coming from the parlour with a saucer and tea cup in hand.
“Good afternoon, sirs,” she bid them with a slight curtsy. “I was late bringing Ruth her tea,” she explained when they eyed the cup. “She must have gone upstairs for something.”
&n
bsp; Sampson shambled into the hallway. “Tea,” he said brightening.
“Of course, Father. Come and sit and I shall fetch some for Mr. Merristorm and Lord de la Croix.”
“Merristorm?” Sampson puzzled. “That name?” He stared at Lucian. “I’ve a friend that looks much like you, sir. Are you acquainted with Marquess Halstrom?”
After a brief hesitation, Lucian nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“You look enough like him to be his son.” Sampson looked about the hall. “Why do we stand here?”
Marietta snapped her inquisitive gaze away from Merristorm. “Tea, Father,” she prompted and gently led him into the parlour where she pressed him to sit and handed him the saucer and cup.
Eager to discuss the interesting titbit about a marquess Marietta excused herself and hurried up the stairs to the room she shared with Ruth. Finding it empty, she hurried back down and checked the study and then the kitchen.
“What is it, miss?” Sairy Jane asked as Marietta stood gazing about the kitchen, consternation clear on her features.
“I cannot find Ruth.”
“Your sister is in the parlour,” the old woman said patiently.
“Neither there nor anywhere to be found in the house. She wouldn’t go out without saying anything so where can she be?”
Sairy Jane looked up sharply. “Nowhere in the house?”
Marietta shook her head. “Most puzzling. I so wish to share the bit of farrago father said about Mr. Merristorm.”
“I heard no one leave or enter until a moment ago,” Sairy Jane said wiping her hands and laying aside the towel. “I’ll go check the chamber used for storage at the top of the stairs.
“Why don’t you take tea to Mr. Merristorm?”
“Baron de la Croix has also come. He is very handsome do you not think?”
“Tea to the gentleman,” Sairy Jane prompted and hurried out of the kitchen.
* * *
Lucian endured the inane and at times incoherent conversation offered by the vicar with the solace that Ruth would soon appear. With each passing minute he grew more uneasy. He circled the room and halted behind Marietta’s chair. Leaning over he said, “Your sister?”
Looking up into the saturnine features, Marietta slid down a bit in the chair. “I don’t know, Mr. Merristorm.”
“You did not find her in your chamber?”
The vicar looked vaguely at them.
André’s gaze turned keen.
Marietta fearfully shook her head. She turned slightly. “Sairy Jane went to check the storage chamber—”
“When?”
“Before I brought the—”
Without a word Lucian turned on his heel. He glanced in the kitchen and study, ran quickly up the stairs and checked all the chambers. He strode back into the parlour, eyes blazing. “Where can she be?” he demanded tightly.
Marietta shrank from him. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice quavering. “We sent her to the parlour to rest but when I brought the tea she was not here.”
Towering over the young woman, Lucian glared down at her Fear riddled his heart and an overwhelming anger boiled over.
“What he means,” André said, his hand steely upon Merristorm’s upper arm, “is that you should try to recall if you heard anything. Anything at all.
“Isn’t that right, Merristorm,” de la Croix said softly.
Lucian forced himself to take a step back hardly noticing the baron’s hand fall away. “Yes,” he muttered.
“What is wrong?” whined Sampson agitatedly wringing his hands. “Why is he angry? Does he mean to hurt me?”
“Of course not,” André said going to the vicar. He put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We just need to ask Marietta a few questions. That will be alright will it not, sir?”
Calmed by the soothing voice the vicar slowed the agitated movement of his hands.
“Halloo,” echoed in from the kitchen and the outer door slammed.
“Jemmy?” called Lucian.
Light steps ran towards them. “Aye, sir?” Jemmy said at the parlour’s door.
“Would you help Mr. Clayton to his study?” Lucian turned to the vicar. “Your sermon, sir. You wished to complete before we sup, did you not?” he suggested quietly.
“Finish?” Sampson wrinkled his brow but did not object as Merristorm helped him from the chair.
Lucian walked with him to the door. He put a hand on Jemmy’s shoulder to stay the boy a moment as the old man shuffled towards the study. “Keep him there if you can without upsetting him,” he ordered lowly.
Jemmy solemnly nodded and hurried after the vicar.
Lucian immediately turned to Marietta but did not approach when André flashed him a warning glance.
De la Croix crouched at the young woman’s feet. “Now Miss Marietta,” he said gently, “did you hear anything after your sister came to the parlour?”
With a shake of her head Marietta opened her mouth and then closed it. She wrinkled her nose and forehead as she considered the question, then sighed. “The only thing was those strange noises. The ones that come from beneath the house. But,” she hurried on when Merristorm stiffened, “they were very faint and not but a time or two.”
“That is all?” André persisted, his voice calmed, soothed.
Marietta smiled shyly. “Yes, my lord—André.”
“No doors opening or closing. Nothing like that?”
With a shake of her head Marietta looked from the dark gentleman to the fair one at her feet. “Is something wrong? Has something happened to Ruth?”
André rose. “We have no reason to believe so,” he assured Marietta. “Would you ask— Sairy Jane, to come speak with us.”
“We must find her,” Lucian said.
Glad to escape Merristorm’s menacing presence Marietta hurried from the parlour.
Lucian began to pace too and fro. André sat and adjusted the flare of his frock coat with minute care.
Running steps on the stairs announced Marietta’s pell-mell entry. “She is gone,” the young girl said, her features pale and frightened. “Vanished. What is happening?”
Her fright rang like the bugled Charge across Lucian’s fevered nerves. A deep calm descended over him. “Be easy,” he told Marietta. “We shall find them both.” He put his hands on the young girl’s shoulders.
“Can you keep your father calm? Ruth would not wish him upset.”
She nodded.
“De la Croix and I must go out for a time. Lock the doors behind us and carry on as if nothing is wrong. Make whatever excuses your father will accept for our absence and Ruth’s. We shall return as quickly as possible.
“You can do this,” Lucian said willing her and himself to believe it. “It shall be all right.”
* * *
The Wise Owl
“We must enter as if nothing is wrong,” André said as they dismounted before the tavern.
“I know that,” Lucian snapped.
“Then let me handle Mrs. Jenkinson,” André told him.
It galled Lucian but he realized the baron was liable to have much more success than he and success was all that mattered. “Very well,” he said tightly. “I hope to God that wild idea you have is right.”
“We shall see,” André murmured under his breath. He gave an exaggerated twitch to the lace at his throat.
Watching him Lucian let out a deep breath and visibly relaxed. “Bon chance,” he said with a light salute.
André waited for Merristorm to open the door and then minced inside the tavern.
They were greeted by silence and an obvious lack of patrons. Even the man at the bar was not in attendance.
“Bloody hell,” swore Lucian.
André quirked his head toward the private chamber’s door.
The baron moved with a stealth that reminded Lucian of the night at the London dockside. Silence had never been a fine point in battle. He followed as quietly as he could but hit a board that squeaked loudly about th
ree feet from the door.
From nowhere Lucian saw a small pistol appear in André’s hand. The door was open and the baron stole through it before he blinked. “Thank God for the man,” he muttered and strode after him. By the time he was well inside, André was wrestling a spitfire that could only be Peace Jenkinson.
Lucian grabbed her from behind and with difficulty pinned her arms to her side.
“Enough,” snapped André in French and continued in that language. “We mean you no harm. If you will listen we shall explain.”
* * *
Peace’s first thought when the French baron appeared as if by magic, was to run. He caught her before she got two paces.
Striking out wildly she battered at him but to her surprise his strength was greater than hers. With a cry she wrenched violently in his grasp only to have two hands grab her from behind in an immoveable grip.
Gasping for breath, Peace stared at the man before her. He was no dandy, no insipid fop. Geary had been correct. They were after him. She struggled but Merristorm’s hands bit into her arms even as de la Croix spoke.
If they released her she would have a chance. Peace jerked her head in a nod. She braced against Merristorm’s hold but then allowed him to draw her to a chair. Sitting before he could thrust her down Peace wrapped her arms tightly about her.
“I have done you no harm,” she told the baron, speaking in French as he had. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Ruth Clayton has disappeared, as has her cook Sairy Jane,” he replied as he straightened his waistcoat.
Peace blinked, not understanding.
“Do you know where Ruth is?” Merristorm said behind her.
Looking up over her shoulder Peace could barely restrain the shudder that went through her at the look in his eyes. She shook her head.
André put his hands on the chair’s arms on either side of her. “Where is the entrance to the tunnels in the vicarage?”
“How would I—”
“A shipment of goods is going out this eve,” André said menacingly. “Miss Clayton has been taken by the—”
“No, they would not,” protested Peace.