by Joan Vincent
Lucian put a hand on her shoulder. “Do not lie.”
“I have no reason to,” she protested.
“Even if she discovered the way into the tunnel?” André counterpoised.
“If they have they will release her when the goods are gone,” Peace argued.
“We cannot permit the goods to leave,” André told her.
“You cannot stop it,” Peace said with a wild chortle.
“Is it more than muskets?” asked Lucian.
“Muskets?” Peace shook her head. “Bolts of wool and thread. Kettles and tableware,” she enunciated the ledger with open disgust. Unease rose as Merristorm walked around the chair and faced her.
“I saw the muskets the morn I ended up in the dung heap.”
“The men—Geary—they are all English. They need money to live but they are not traitors,” she protested.
André strode into her bed chamber and came out carrying a dull brown bag. Its bottom bulged. “But are you Comtesse Bettencourt?” he asked tossing it into her lap.
“I have earned everything in this bag,” she spat. “None of it comes from the Sardinian bastard.”
“Then tell us how we can get into the tunnels,” André said. “Unless you wish Miss Clayton to suffer the same fate that overtook you?”
Peace shuddered and thought frantically what to do. The clock chimed on her mantel. Geary was to come soon for a final visit. If she could keep them here perhaps he—
“Geary has lied to you, Mrs. Jenkinson. Twisted you to his purpose. Neither he nor your men shall let you escape. They shall follow you and take what they believe is theirs.”
The cold statement of her fear shook Peace to the core. She had counted on leaving for so long, had lived only for it.
“I can help you,” André said softly. “Guarantee that you disappear without a trace and reappear somewhere far from here safe and in the station of life to which you were born.”
Peace threw a wild look at him. The man was mad. But his confidence was absolute. She trembled violently and sagged in the chair. If they were gone by the time Geary came she could warn him. They both could be safe. “Your word?”
“On our honour,” Lucian replied for André.
Chapter Twenty-four
St. Cedds Vicarage
Ruth hesitated at a junction not far from where she started and then decided to follow the flow of ever colder air. She stopped again when she came to the stairs. They were narrow and steep. Pitch black lay beyond the first half dozen. Common sense bade her turn back but her fear had grown slack in the silence. Curiosity had sprung in its place.
Just this flight, Ruth promised. Then I’ll go back. Lifting her skirt she stepped carefully from one to the next. Each seemed narrower and they began to turn. Finally she turned sideways and crabbed downwards. The steps grew endless and she recalled Sairy Jane’s telling of the one hundred and ninety nine steps that led from the quay to St. Mary’s Church.
Wishing she had counted, Ruth halted. She dropped her skirts and grabbed hold of a timber support and turned to look down into the seemingly endless pit masked by a black deeper than pitch.
Some distance below she saw a flick of a gleam. Moving the candle about slowly Ruth caught it twice more. It beckoned her downwards. Her abrupt arrival at a landing startled Ruth. She gasped and reached out to steady herself. Her hand landed against cold hard stone. With trembling hands she palmed her way across it until she encountered damp wood and then a handle.
At first the door would not budge. Ruth began to fear it locked and then it gave way with a jerk. The candle leaped out of its sconce. Ruth grabbed at it and caught it very near the top. She snatched the candle in mid air and stumbled through the door. It thudded shut heavily behind her.
For a moment Ruth stared at the door. The flame on the candle whipped about by the draft flickered and she quickly shielded it with her free hand. Unease prickled up her spine. She tugged at the door and froze when it began to give way.
Steps, running steps, spiralled down towards her. Someone who knew the stairs well approached. With a gasp Ruth released the door. She turned, careful to shield the candle and looked about. The chamber was long and narrow with an opening at the far end. As fast as she dared she made for it and when she arrived found another larger chamber. A faint light shone at the end on the left side.
A small rush of air told her the door at the stairs had opened and closed. With her heart in her throat she hurried toward the light. When she reached it she found the chamber narrowed to a tunnel. Lamps glowed down its length and there were openings. About half way to the end Ruth saw an indenture, surely safer than a tunnel if people were about.
Hurrying to it she found it was a fissure into a small hollow. Ruth wriggled and strained until she worked her way through. Her back to the side wall she blew out the candle and waited hardly daring to breath.
* * *
The Wise Owl
Although he seldom dropped a disguise, Donatien dropped the stance of Geary when he put an ear to the outer door to Peace’s private quarters. The low murmur of voices froze him. He pressed closer trying to make out the words but only snippets could he catch now and then.
“I’ll return . . . you shall be safe where I . . . man of my word.”
Rage tore through Donatien. Peace had betrayed him. He gasped at the stab of almost physical pain. Something deep inside sought to deny.
Everyone can be bought. You were bought, a voice chortled viciously.
To think I was going to spirit her back to France. Hide her and protect her. Donatien found the Duc d’Veryl’s dagger in his hand. He stared at the blade his bastard of a father had used to kill the young woman Donatien had loved as a very young man.
Love, he thought with a sneer and pressed his ear to the door once again. There was no sound but not satisfied he waited. Patience had often given him the edge. A soft thump and then a louder one caught his ear. Muffled oaths punctuated a crash.
Donatien eased open the door. Before him, gagged and bound hand and foot to a chair on its side, lay Peace. He watched her jerk her arms and legs trying to work free for a long moment before he cleared his throat and approached her.
“Mmmmmm. Mmmmmm.” Her words incoherent because of the gag Peace ceased to struggle and looked up at him.
The question in her eyes was simple. The answer was not.
Donation crouched beside her and fingered her cheek. “You thought to betray me and were betrayed instead.”
Peace shook her head.
“Who did this to you?” he asked lowly and watched her motion with her head for him to remove the gag. With a flick of the blade concealed in his hand Donatien sliced through it.
Eyes wide, Peace stared and then spit the cloth out. “You were right about de la Croix,” she said, paused, and though flinching on the inside, quickly added, “He knows about the muskets.”
Donatien paused and slowly drew back the dagger from the bindings on her right leg. “He could not know I am here. I didn’t know I was coming until —” He broke off and stood up, and then paced away swearing an indecent eclectic mix of oaths in French. Slamming a fist against the fireplace mantel, he exerted every ounce of will to crush the emotions coursing through him.
Several deep breathes later he turned back to Peace. With cold deliberation he went down on one knee beside her and pressed the dagger to her throat. “What did de la Croix promise you?”
“I did not betray you,” she said, fear in her eyes and voice. “He and Merristorm came to me because Ruth Clayton has disappeared. They thought that connected to the shipment.
“Merristorm saw the muskets the day you dropped him in the dung,” Peace added angrily.
Had personal piqué been his undoing again? Donatien suppressed a wince but unknowingly put more pressure on the blade. Had this woman brought him to this?
“If I had betrayed you would they not have hidden and awaited your arrival?” she pleaded. “I have loved you.”
“It is you who lied to me, used me, you dog of the Sardinian,” Peace said and spat at him. “Not only the English will die but also our countrymen.”
Though inured to insult this bit deep. Donatien drew back the dagger. “I meant to take you to France with me.”
Horror washed across Peace’s face.
She thought he meant to take her to the guillotine, he realized. She believed he could do that.
Resignation settled like hot lava in Donatien’s chest. Best to have her believe the worst then. He bent and kissed her savagely while he applied pressure to the vein in her neck until she slumped in a faint.
Cradling her cheek, Donatien brushed her lips and then her with a light kiss. It took only a moment to do what needed done.
* * *
Lucian led the way back to the vicarage at a gallop. He ignored de la Croix’s shouts to stop until they reached it. He flung out of the saddle landing on both feet only to find the baron in front of him.
“We have to make some sort of plan,” André told him fiercely. “If you want her back alive, want to keep all of us alive, we have to think it through as well as we can.”
“We have no idea of the lay of the land below,” Lucian snorted. “What good would any plan do? We avoid getting caught by the smugglers and we find Ruth and get her out of there. That’s the plan.” He pushed André aside and strode toward the kitchen door.
“Ruth?” Lucian demanded when he slammed into the room.
“Nothing. It’s been very quiet,” Marietta told him.
Lucian snatched the lantern from its hook and quickly lit it. With it in hand he covered the ground to parlour in a very few steps. There he crouched by the panel to the right of the fireplace and put both palms against it and pushed. The catch of fear in his throat that the Frenchwoman had lied slipped away as the panel lifted slightly under his hands.
“I told you she told the truth,” André said behind him.
“Blessed lord,” breathed Marietta beside the baron. “This is where Ruth was taken?”
“Taken or went,” Lucian answered. He loosened his sabre in its sheath and then tugged his pistol free. “Do not let Jemmy follow us. Tell him I am counting on him to remain here,” he told Marietta.
Lucian ducked to and began to step inside then looked back at de la Croix, his face dark with determination and question.
With a shrug André let the stiletto up his sleeve slip into his hand.
Seeing that, Lucian disappeared into the dark.
André palmed the small pistol from his pocket and followed.
* * *
St. Cedds Tunnel
“Have you seen the Clayton woman?”
“None here but’n those as supposed to be,” the other replied.
“Keep an eye out fer her.”
“Luke’s told us what ta do if them Claytons interfere. Reckon thet Merristorm ain’t goin’ see the morn.”
“On Luke’s orders?”
“Who else’s? The men’ll follow the blunt and he’s gettin’ us double the price fer this shipment. Ye’d think there were muskets or sumpin’ like in those crates from ta other night.”
“Is that right?”
“Aye, and they be loaded first. Took some doin’ as t’were hardly dusk when the first lugger came to shore.”
“Geary?”
“He were there but left a bit ago. Reckon he wanted a piece o’ Jenkinson’s slut afore he left.”
“He’s goin’ wit the ship?”
“That’s what we heard.”
“I’ll go back and check the vicarage. Might be wrong about Miss Ruth comin’ this way. If’n I don’t find her I’ll come back the other way.”
“I’ll come with you and lock the bottom door. She’ll have to find her way out o’ the tunnels if she’s herein.”
* * *
Inside the indention in the wall Ruth’s heart thumped painfully against her breast bone. She prayed they could not hear it nor her breath, loud and raspy to her ears.
The voices stopped and Ruth heard a slow sluff-scruff and a firmer tread move off the way she had come.
They mean to kill Lucian, Ruth thought, her head light with the rush of fear. She sagged back against the wall; tried to think. I have got to warn him, she thought frantically.
How? I can’t go back the way I came—one of them will catch me. I don’t know the other way. There is only one direction I can go.
Galvanized by her fear for Lucian Ruth clutched the candle and shrugged through the fissure. She looked the way she had come and then picked up her skirts and ran the other direction as if Hobbleday pursued her.
* * *
Sir Brandon Thornley pulled his cloak tighter about him as he watched Merristorm and de la Croix enter the vicarage.
What are the dammed fools about? They gallop into Whitby and then ride hell bent back here.
Thornley clenched his fist and urged his horse into a trot around the stable and to the front of the house. He put a hand to the front door and found it locked. “What is this?” he snorted and rapped loudly on the door.
When it did not open he rapped and again. “Miss Clayton. Sir Brandon Thornley here. Can I be of any assistance? Open the door, please.”
Sounds of a scuffle came from behind the door. A key rattled and the knob turned. The door moved an inch and then was slammed shut.
Thornley put his shoulder to it and it gave way. He jerked to a halt in time to avoid ploughing into Marietta.
Attached to her arm, red faced with anger spluttered Jemmy. “Ye weren’t ta let anyun inside.”
“It’s Sir Thornley,” the young woman protested with a look of vast relief at the gentleman. “He can help us.”
Sir Brandon assumed a solicitous expression. “’Twould be my greatest pleasure,” he said with a brief bow at Marietta. He tossed a warning glare at Jemmy as he picked up the key. Shutting the door, he locked it and pocketed the key.
“Best give that here, sir,” Jemmy said, his hand out.
Thornley ignored him and offered his arm to Marietta. “You look quite shaken.” He patted the hand she shyly laid on it and gently led her into the parlour. “What has so upset you? Is Merristorm not here?” Sir Brandon asked. He held her elbow as she took a seat facing the fireplace.
Jemmy burst past them and skidded to a halt against the wall near the fireplace.
Thornley bit back a curse after nearly tripping as he took a seat across from Marietta. His sense of triumph rose beneath her worshipping gaze.
Leaning forward solicitously, he asked again, “What has happened?”
“My sister—”
“Miss Marietta,” Jemmy said curtly.
She threw a disdainful glare at him. “We cannot find Ruth. Mr. Merristorm and—”
“Shouldn’t you get the gent some tea or summit?”
Thornley glared at the boy who stepped forward with fists clenched at his sides. Insolent little devil, Thornley thought and was about to turn his attention back to the young woman when he saw the side of the panel behind Jemmy protruded slightly.
Studying it he prompted, “Mr. Merristorm?”
Marietta leaned toward him eagerly. “He found an opening in the wall there,” she motioned to Jemmy.
“Marietta,” the boy wailed.
“He and Baron de la Croix entered the passageway behind it to rescue Ruth.”
“How long ago?” Thornley asked rising. The possibilities of the situation thrummed in his veins. He strode over to the wall and shoved Jemmy aside. On his second attempt the panel slid open.
“Only minutes,” Marietta said hurrying to his side. “I am so glad you are here to protect us,” she said with a shiver. “I have been positively quaking with fear.”
“Bloody blazes, but yer an ijit,” Jemmy growled.
“I am certain you are perfectly safe here,” Thornley as
sured her. “Have you a lamp I can borrow?”
“Lamp? But you cannot mean to—”
“There are only two of Mr. Merristorm and the baron and many smugglers. If you wish to see your sister safely return . . .” Sir Brandon let his words trail away.
Paling Marietta hurried out of the parlour.
Jemmy crowded against Thornley. “Ye’d best stay here. Mr. Merristorm won’t be happy ye didn’t see to Miss Marietta and her da.”
“Damme Merristorm, you insolent brat,” Thornley growled and backhanded the boy. His ring caught in Jemmy’s cheek and tore it open as the momentum of the blow threw him back and off his feet.
Lurching to his feet Jemmy staggered towards Thornley.
Grinning maliciously Sir Brandon drew his pistol from his waistband and clubbed the lad, who dropped to the floor with a quiet thud and remained still.
Marietta hurried back into the parlour carrying a lit lamp. She jerked to a halt at the slight still heap on the floor. Thrusting the lamp into Thornley’s hands she knelt beside the boy and gently turned him over. “Dear Lord,” she gasped seeing his torn bloody cheek. “What have you done?”
“He attacked me,” Thornley said with feigned regret. “Some wild notion about what Merristorm wanted.” He set the lamp on the fireplace mantel and then swept the boy up in his arms and deposited him on the sofa. “I shall make it up to him when I return with Miss Clayton,” he told Marietta.
Before she could reply he took up the lamp and disappeared into the passageway.
Chapter Twenty-five
St Cedds Tunnels
Ruth stumbled against the wall in the dark and went down on one knee. She leaned her head against the cool damp rock for a moment but the sounds of others nearby spurred her to rise.
Her candle had been lost when she dropped it while fleeing someone’s approach, a pair of men if she was right. The all-encompassing darkness pressed about her with fingers that stroked and prodded at a panic restrained with difficulty. The wrong turns, the dead ends, the small chambers would it never reach the sea? she wondered with growing urgency.
