“Now just one bloody minute!”
The stranger continued inexorably. “Nor, Sir Charles, do I desire to — how do you term it? — rub elbows with your overbred English lords and underwashed English ladies.”
Millbank stiffened. “You can’t just come in here and—”
“Oh, can’t I? I believe I can do nearly anything, even in this strange country of yours. My money permits it. But what I desire is such a simple thing. Perhaps I should find someone else to discuss it with.” He made to leave.
“Damn it, there’s no need to go looking elsewhere! I’m your man.” Millbank’s eyes gleamed with avarice as he bent forward. “Just name the job. For that kind of money it shall be done.”
“So confident, my friend? Perhaps you will not be so confident when I tell you what I want.”
The Englishman laughed and pushed his brandy aside. “For a thousand pieces of gold I’d do anything.”
Dark eyes measured the baronet’s face. The lines at those eyes suggested that they had faced storm and sand and the furies of nature as well as man.
Sir Charles tried not to squirm before that gaze, even as he felt sweat bead his brow.
“Very well,” the stranger said at last. “For your assistance you will receive that bag of gold — and another just like it when the job is done.”
Sir Charles blinked. “And the job?” he asked faintly, unable to believe his amazing good fortune.
“Bring me the highwayman called Blackwood. He is known to frequent Lavender Close Farm.”
“Good God, how do you know that?”
“Again, my sources need not concern you. Only that I want the man brought to me. Alive. Most certainly alive.”
“B-Blackwood. Alive,” Sir Charles repeated dumbly. “But why?”
“The whys of the matter, too, need not concern you. You would do very well to remember that, Englishman.” The coldness of the warning made Millbank pale.
He felt a stab of fear, but he ignored it. He had debts to pay, after all. Crushing debts, in truth. His wife’s dowry had been ample, but not nearly adequate for his style of life. After Jessica’s death that pinch-purse St. Clair had wanted nothing to do with his son-in-law.
Millbank frowned. He had an image to maintain, after all. That meant carriages and servants and prime horseflesh. It meant London tailors and Norwich merchants to settle with.
And lately it meant moneylenders, which drove him even deeper into debt.
No, he’d ask no more questions about this amazing windfall. He’d earn his money and be gone. It would be difficult, of course. Lord Carlisle would not care for him snatching away a prime criminal. He wanted the highwayman’s neck to twist himself.
Still, there were ways and there were ways. Especially when a thousand pounds doubled were at stake.
He nodded jerkily. “When do you want the criminal delivered to you?”
“Within seven days. Not a day longer. To stay in your cold, cheerless country longer than that would displease me.” His black eyes hardened. “Do you understand?”
Again Millbank felt a stab of fear. “Quite. One week, no more. And where shall I bring the fellow?”
“King’s Lynn. My vessel lies moored in the Channel. One of my men will wait for you near the docks.”
Sir Charles barely looked up, too intent on gathering the golden sovereigns and shoving them into his pocket.
Without warning a hard hand stopped his movement. “Do not think to betray me, Englishman. If you take that money, you must hand me over the man — or die in his stead.”
Millbank swallowed jerkily, then nodded.
“Very good. Now be about your business.”
“And the girl?” The baronet licked his fat lips as he shoved the last of the coins to safe haven. “You mentioned Lavender Close Farm and — well, it might be necessary to use her as bait.”
The stranger’s eyes slid half closed. “You are interested in her?”
“Not a bit of it! That is, I—”
“I see. You may have her, in that case. It is the man I want. He is most interesting. Yes, the highwayman makes cowards of you all.”
Sir Charles sputtered a protest, but his visitor cut him off with one beringed hand. “Enough. You cease to amuse me. You have taken my gold. Now bring me Blackwood in one week — or die.”
“I’ll bring him,” Millbank said grimly. As he came to his feet he cast a wistful look at the dark-haired beauty who had come to stand behind the stranger. She was arrayed in gold-shot silk. A glittering veil concealed her face.
Sir Charles’s eyes narrowed. “In the meantime perhaps you might consider—”
“Leave me!” came the thundered order.
“Of course, er, your — er, sir. Consider me gone.”
After Millbank had left, the stranger went to stand by the window, oblivious to the two women who came to fan him gently. His eyes darkened as he stared out at the night, toying with a carved ivory letter opener. “Wine,” he ordered harshly. “Then oysters. And then send in the new girl.”
As the veiled women hastened to obey his order, the stranger looked down at his hand. A ring gleamed at his finger. A gryphon, half eagle and half lion, crouched across the silver band and twin emeralds glinted for its eyes.
He frowned, thinking of the man whom the English knew only as Blackwood. How stupid these beefy-faced farmers were. It had taken him only a few months to discover the highwayman’s identity. But he could not be obvious in his involvement. Sir Charles Millbank would make a perfect cover. And if things became messy, then the fat baronet would be blamed.
As he turned the sharp letter opener, he thought about how he would punish the man who’d escaped him. He thought of the pain he would mete out until his victim begged for death.
The letter opener snapped in two. Blood welled up over his fingers.
His expression did not change by so much as a muscle as he surveyed the wound. In truth, it was a little thing.
“I am close to you now, old friend. Oh, yes, very close. Revenge will be most sweet.” His lips curved coldly. “And the next blood I see will be yours, Lucien Delamere.”
~ 12 ~
The morning sun streamed down on Silver as she sat in the middle of the conservatory staring grimly at the chaos of bottles, barrels, and cotton wadding scattered around her.
The brutes had been true to their word. At dawn she had discovered the damage to her workroom. Glass distilling bottles were broken, porcelain potpourri jars were smashed, and a number of irreplaceable cut crystal scent flasks with golden stoppers had been stolen from the storerooms.
As the day progressed, things had only gotten worse. A row of lavender bushes had been uprooted near the south side of the farm and a dozen sacks of dried flowers were missing. The shed for storing tools was now missing a door and both windows.
Tinker had let Cromwell out from his usual fenced field the night before, knowing that the dog didn’t like strangers. But there had been too many forays at once. Bram, Tinker, and Cromwell had been busy handling one of them when Millbank and Carlisle had come in search of Blackwood. After that, Tinker had insisted that Silver and Bram stay upstairs in the house with a heavy table dragged in front of the door. When Bram, looking pale and worried, had finally fallen asleep, Silver had read on through her father’s journal.
She had tasted his fear and his anger, but nowhere did he tell her who his enemies were — or what items they had hidden among his seedling crates.
Sighing, Silver stared down at one hundred gleaming bottles of highest grade lavender oil ready to send off to the London parfumeur, Kenton and Sons.
It wasn’t Millefleurs. It wasn’t the perfume that her father had made famous from one end of Europe to the other. It wasn’t the lush fragrance that royal courtesans and titled ladies had delighted in wearing.
No, Millefleurs was lost, its formula gone forever. Her father had carried its secret to the grave.
And with it gone Lavender Close had lost its
best chance at survival.
~ ~ ~
They argued all the way through a lunch of hot bread and pork pie. Tinker wanted to hide in the woods and pick off the scoundrels one by one as they sneaked past the gate. While he did it, he wanted Bram and Silver hidden safely somewhere out of the way.
“It won’t work. They’ll just send others, you know that.” Bram shoved his spectacles up on his nose. “We have to scare them — really scare them so they give up the idea altogether.”
Tinker listened thoughtfully, brow furrowed, pushing a piece of bread around on his plate. “Perhaps you’re right. Meanwhile young Kenton is coming for his lavender order this afternoon. We need that money bad. Bloody shame if these bas — er, villains scare him off.”
“Then we’ll just have to see that nothing happens until after he leaves.” Silver went to get the kettle hissing on the stove at the far end of the airy kitchen. By custom they always ate here together. Today, however, none of them had much appetite.
Silver could see from the hardness in Tinker’s gray eyes that he was considering their limited possibilities. She poured hot water into an earthenware teapot in the shape of a smiling cat and carried it back to the old polished table. “How would you do it, Bram? Scare them off, I mean.”
Her brother’s eyes lit with excitement. “Well, we could trick them, I think. Pretend there were more of us than there really are. Make them see it won’t be as easy as they think.”
She filled a cup for Tinker. “I’m all for trying.”
Tinker put down his bread and shook his head. “It’s as fair a harebrained scheme as any I’ve heard. I only wish I had a better idea.” He looked at Silver, his jaw hard. That cold look told her that he did have other ideas, but he would wait to see if Bram’s way worked first. “Since I don’t…”He looked at the clock on the wall. “We haven’t much time until Kenton arrives. Whatever we do had better be good.”
“Capital!” Bram eagerly pushed away his plate and tugged a sheet of paper from his pocket. He’d barely touched his food, Silver noticed anxiously. And his face was far too pale. But at least he wasn’t wheezing.
Not yet, at least.
Pushing up his spectacles, the boy peered down at the well-marked sheet. “We can start with a small ditch here and some lines strung through the fields. Then a few traps rigged outside the drying rooms. I’ve already made a map. I think I have rather a talent for sketching, in fact.”
Interested in spite of himself, Tinker leaned forward. “Oh, you have, have you, stripling? So where are we to start?”
~ ~ ~
Two hours later Silver was fingering one of the green glass bottles containing private blends made up for certain of the Kentons’ select clients who had ordered from her father. The oils were in perfect condition, preserved in the icehouse since their distilling the prior August.
Not Millefleurs, but still useful. Young James Kenton was to bring her a bank draft immediately upon his arrival, and the money would come just in time. Silver was already one week behind in wages to the few workers she could still afford, mostly women who helped her at the peak times when flowers were being harvested for a first distilling.
Outside the first of the wagons, well packed and cushioned by layers of cotton wadding, creaked off on the two-day trip to London.
A moment later James Kenton bounded in, all creased broadcloth and smiles. “All done, I believe, Miss St. Clair. May I compliment you again on your fine products. Lavender Close Farm will soon be a force to be reckoned with. Now that Mitcham produces so little lavender, Kenton and Sons needs new suppliers, and I am confident that you will be our very best.” He held up a small vial of Silver and Bram’s latest perfume blend and studied it intently, noting its translucence and mellow golden color. Then he uncorked it and sniffed lightly. “Yes, a fine fragrance, full but delicate. A pity it’s not Millefleurs, of course. Still, it’s quite superior to any I have tested these five years and more. Whether here or in France, I might add. In short, you are a success, Miss St. Clair. And I shall see that every ton beauty and society matron in London knows that.”
If we’re still here, Silver thought bitterly. If we still have any lavender fields left…
“You are very kind, Mr. Kenton.” Silver tried to ignore the warmth in the gentleman’s eye. “I am delighted that our lavender meets your high standards.” When the perfumer continued to stare at her, she crooked her head and smiled. “Was there something else?”
It seemed to fire him to sudden motion. “Miss St. Clair — Silver—” He strode across the room and caught her hand. “Forgive me, but I must speak. When I’ve come to Norfolk in the last two years and seen you here amid the lavender, it’s been heaven and hell for me. I know that I asked you a question last year at this time — I also remember your answer. I have not plagued you, I hope, but I must assure you that my feelings remain unchanged. You would do me a great honor in agreeing to become my wife.”
Silver felt a tightness in her throat. James Kenton was energetic and responsible. In two years he would be a full partner in his father’s thriving enterprise; in five years he would be the acting director, no doubt.
But as much as she liked the young man, and as many interests as they shared, Silver knew her answer must remain the same.
She could not marry where her heart was not given. She remembered her own parents’ happiness too clearly to accept anything less in a marriage.
She glanced anxiously toward the door, afraid that Tinker or Bram might appear. “Mr. Kenton, I really—”
“Cannot you call me James? Not even once?”
“Very well, James. You pay me a great compliment, I assure you, but alas, I can give you no different answer. I wish it were so, believe me, but…” She sighed, twisting a sprig of lavender in her fingers, letting the clean, fresh fragrance fill her lungs.
“Is there someone else?”
“No.”
“Then forgive me, Miss St. Clair, but I must speak. I cannot help noticing that you are not comfortably positioned here. Your expenses grow with each year. You need more capital to invest in improving your seeds, expanding your area of cultivation, and trying new varieties. I could help you do all that. Kenton and Sons is perfectly prepared to—”
Silver stood quickly. “Pray, do not continue. Your offer is all it ought to be, James. And your interest in our few acres is most gratifying.”
“Few acres! These are the finest lavender fields in England!”
“Very well. But it can have no bearing on my decision. I will not marry where my heart is not bound. And, forgive my directness, though I like you a very great deal, I do not love you.”
The sandy-haired visitor studied her wistfully. “That might change. I hope, I pray, that you might grow to love me. Let me try, Miss St. Clair. I can make you happy, I know I can.”
Silver thought again of Sir Charles Millbank’s venality and his threats to send Bram off to school. Maybe she was being selfish. Maybe she should marry James Kenton. He was a decent man. Lord knows, he and Bram would have enough to talk about for two lifetimes.
But she knew it would never work. She could not think of marrying where her heart was not given.
Because her heart was already given?
She sighed. “You are a fine man and you will make some woman an admirable husband. Unfortunately, that woman cannot be me.”
“But why? You talk of love, but is it so very important? We are comfortable together, we like the same things, speak the same language. Isn’t that enough to base a lifetime on?”
Silver’s fingers knotted. “No. At least — not for me. Besides, I would be an altogether unsatisfactory wife. I would always be disagreeing, always wanting to do things my own way.” She gave him a slightly wistful smile. “You’d wish me at the very devil after a single week.”
“Never,” Kenton said fiercely. “But is it because of the boy? He could come with us, you know. He could have the run of the London warehouse. I daresay we could find
him a tutor, too, if you do not care to have him sent to school.”
“You are very kind. But no, it cannot be.”
Kenton studied her closely. “You are certain? Your answer will not change?”
Silver nodded, unable to speak.
“Then I shall not plague you further. You have made your feelings clear, and I thank you for that.” He turned and slowly drew on his gloves. “I must think of my father, you see. He grows anxious for grandchildren and an heir to carry on his enterprises.” He looked away. “I — I think it better that I not return for the summer inspection. I will send my foreman instead. He is a thorough fellow.” Kenton studied the lavender fields and sighed. “I expect I shall marry within the next year. Father’s been after me these last six months and more and — well, I don’t imagine we’ll meet again, Miss St. Clair. But I shall carry the memory of you in my heart.” His lips tightened. “It has been a pleasure to do business with you.”
With a formal bow he turned and made his way to the waiting carriage that would convey him back to London.
There will be men you can trust and men you cannot, my daughter. You must learn to see the difference as the web of danger grows tighter around you. Trust not their words or even their fine gifts. Let your heart lead you, for only with your heart can you find the measure of another being.
Perhaps I spent too much time among my herbs and plants. I did not know how to mistrust, you see. I did not suspect the treachery that men are capable of.
I learned my mistake far too late.
Silver was still standing at the window thinking about the entry in her father’s diary when Tinker came in, brushing dirt from his hands.
He fixed her with a knowing look and shook his head in disgust. “He asked you, didn’t he?”
She nodded.
“And you, stubborn female, stood there and turned him down.”
Come the Night (The Dangerous Delameres - Book 1) Page 12
