Ten Guineas on Love

by Claire Thornton

  There seemed to be very little more to be said and so, with one last look at Owen’s recumbent form, she took her leave of Lady Leydon and returned to her bedchamber.

  * * *

  It was nearly dark, and Mrs Mayfield was still resting after the upsets of the day, but Charity sat quietly in her room, knowing that Sir Humphrey and Lord Riversleigh were already on their way to Hazelhurst, ready to lay the trap for the master thief.

  When they had finally managed to discuss the problem of trapping the thief Sir Humphrey had insisted that he take part in the scheme. Jack had tried to dissuade him, pointing out that if too many people were involved the thief was more likely to become suspicious and perhaps not even come.

  But Sir Humphrey would not agree to remain behind. He had invoked his authority both as a Justice of the Peace and as the father of one of the thief’s victims—and Jack had made no further attempt to exclude him. He would have felt happier without the magistrate’s presence, but in all fairness he could not deny Sir Humphrey’s right to be involved.

  With that decided, they had laid their plans quickly, the only further matter of slight dissension being the number of men they took with them—Sir Humphrey wanted four; Jack didn’t want any. In the end they compromised on two, but Jack was beginning to despair of how they would get so many men into the house unobserved.

  He was certain that the thief would be watching the house, if not all day then at least for an hour or two before he made another attempt to enter it. It was for that reason that Jack wanted his party to arrive in the late afternoon before dark. There was a possibility that the thief wouldn’t be watching the house during the day, especially since he already had the problem of finding somewhere to take his wounded confederate.

  But if he didn’t return that evening he would certainly be back the next—if he didn’t come during the day. It was unlikely—even with the house apparently unoccupied by its owners, there were still several people about—but it was possible. That was why Jack had arranged for his own servant to be present while he himself was absent. He could rely on Alan to react quickly and effectively during an emergency—unlike Charles, who invariably needed guidance in any unfamiliar situation.

  Charity had listened to the discussions quietly. She had made one or two suggestions as to how they could best enter the house unobserved, but apart from that she had taken no part in the arrangements. She had seemed rather withdrawn, but she couldn’t help smiling at the enthusiasm Sir Humphrey displayed for the plan.

  “Well, we’ve some time yet before we must leave,” Sir Humphrey had declared at last. “How about a game of piquet while we wait, Riversleigh?”

  “Certainly,” Jack had smiled.

  “Good, good. I’ll just go and set things in motion, then we can play a quick hand or two.” Sir Humphrey’s eyes had lit up in anticipation as he had hurried off to order his servants to be in readiness later in the afternoon.

  It was then, when she had been left briefly alone with Jack, that Charity had spoken. And it was that moment which she remembered now as she sat on the edge of her bed in the gathering darkness at the end of the short winter day.

  “You will be careful, won’t you? Sir Humphrey is sometimes too impulsive,” she had said.

  “I will act as a restraining influence,” Jack had replied lightly.

  “It’s important,” she had insisted. “He’s a ruthless man, this thief. He’ll hurt you if he has to—perhaps even if he doesn’t. And it’s my house you’re defending. If anything happens to any of you—I will feel responsible.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Jack had said firmly, a slight frown creasing his forehead as he looked at her. “You aren’t responsible for what he does—or for us. Don’t ever think it.”

  “I’m not sure I agree, but, anyway, do be careful,” Charity had repeated as she had heard Sir Humphrey returning.

  She remembered her words now, and she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that she was responsible, and that she should be at Hazelhurst. If her father had been alive he would have been waiting with Jack and Sir Humphrey. It was her home and they were her friends—she should be there.

  She came to a decision and stood up briskly. It wasn’t difficult to leave the house without being observed, and once outside she made her way quickly to the stables.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The house was dark and still. The candles had been extinguished and the fires banked. The doors were bolted and the windows locked, and the only movement in the library came from the gentle billowing of curtains caught in the gentle draught from the closed casement. Upstairs the servants slept; downstairs the only sound came from the ivy leaves brushing against the windows—but six silent men were waiting for the thief.

  Only Alan, Lord Riversleigh’s manservant, had known that Jack would be returning, and he had let Jack and his party in at a side-door while the rest of the household was at supper. It would have been relatively easy at that point to conceal their presence in the house, but both Sir Humphrey and Jack had agreed that such excessive secrecy was probably not advisable.

  Jack in particular was anxious to avoid the kind of chaos which might arise if there was a disturbance and the rest of the household was unaware of his and Sir Humphrey’s presence. At the very least there would be some confusion, but it would be far worse if the thief managed to escape because the men who should have been defending the house were tripping each other up in the dark.

  So they had spoken to Charles and Mrs Wendle. The alarmed housekeeper had agreed to remain in her room until she was told it was safe to come out, but Charles had been determined to join the others, and now he was waiting in the parlour with Alan and the two men Sir Humphrey had brought.

  Only Jack and the magistrate waited in the library. Jack had been firm on that point and, on reflection, Sir Humphrey had agreed with him. After all, he had brought his men to guard his anticipated prisoner—not get in his way while he was catching the villain.

  But they had been waiting a long time in the dark, and Sir Humphrey, never the most patient of men, was beginning to get restive.

  “Riversleigh,” he hissed, “why don’t we open a window a little bit? It might encourage the scoundrel.”

  “I don’t think so,” Jack replied in a low voice which gave no hint of the exasperation he felt. “It would make the trap too obvious. Our man is not a fool.”

  The magistrate sighed, because he knew Jack was right, and shifted uncomfortably. He found such inactivity more trying than a hard day in the saddle. In the darkened library all he could see were shadows. If he hadn’t known that Riversleigh was waiting on the other side of the room he would have been convinced he was alone. How was it possible for a man to be so still, and so silent? Apart from that one comment, Jack had made no sound since they had begun their vigil.

  Sir Humphrey became aware of how noisily he seemed to be breathing. He tried to breathe more quietly, taking shallow, careful breaths, but it didn’t seem to help. He was making less noise, but he was also becoming extremely self-conscious about the whole mechanical process of breathing and increasingly desperate to gulp in a huge lungful of air. With an enormous effort of self-discipline he did no such thing, and instead his tortured imagination became obsessed with the notion that his lungs were like bellows. He put his hand on his chest to feel the rise and fall of his ribs and found himself becoming more and more fascinated by his flight of fancy. What a remarkable creature a man was, how admirably designed, how exquisitely made—how loud.

  Riversleigh didn’t seem to be having similar difficulties, Sir Humphrey thought resentfully. Perhaps he’d solved the problem by not breathing at all—he was certainly making no more noise than a dead man. The magistrate was just about to enquire about his companion’s welfare when all thoughts of lungs and bellows were driven completely out of his head.

  He plunged to his feet, his hand reaching instinctively for the hilt of his sword as a woman’s scream splintered the silence.


  She was outside, desperate with terror and, even as Sir Humphrey listened, the sound of her screams began to recede. She was being carried away.

  “Good God! The villain’s attacking a woman!” Sir Humphrey burst out. “Come on, Riversleigh!” he shouted and dived towards the door, nearly colliding with the horrified men who’d erupted from the parlour.

  The woman’s despairing screams could still be heard. She was being carried further away, but the intensity of her fear was as palpable as if she’d been standing beside them.

  Sir Humphrey tugged at the bolts on the front door, the others crowding behind him. Alan looked at his master for guidance and Jack nodded. Then the door was open and they burst out on to the drive, running across the gravel towards the despairing cries of the woman.

  At that moment she gave one last, panic-stricken scream—and all was silent. Sir Humphrey checked for a moment, horrified by the dreadful implications of that silence—then he forced himself to run even faster. But already the younger men were overtaking him, forging their way through the shrubbery.

  Then they were all gone, the distant sounds of their running feet only emphasising the silence of the empty and deserted house.

  A man stepped out from behind the holly tree and ran lightly towards the house. In one hand he carried a shuttered lantern—in the other a pistol.

  The front door was still ajar and he pushed it gently open and stepped cautiously inside. He listened carefully, but no sound came to him from within the unguarded house and he moved quickly into the library.

  He could no longer be certain that the booty he sought was still there, but he had no intention of abandoning his search while there was a possibility that it might be. He knew his servant had been questioned, and the fact that a trap had been laid for him at Hazelhurst seemed to indicate that his opponents had guessed something at least of what he was doing. But he was hoping they’d either failed to understand, or else discounted his servant’s story as nonsense. If they had found the pendant he would have to approach the problem differently.

  He dropped the pistol into his pocket, removed the shutters from the lantern and held it up to look at the bookshelves. Nothing seemed to have changed. The books were still on the shelves and there was no indication that anything had been moved—or that anyone had been searching here.

  He felt an inward surge of relief and set the lantern down on the desk. He knew he would have to work quickly, but he knew what he was looking for; there should be time.

  He reached up to lift down a handful of books, and a voice behind him said, “You’re wasting your time, Gideon. It’s not there any more.”

  For a moment the thief froze, disbelief suspending his actions. Then he spun round, his hand reaching for his pocket—and heard the sharp click as Jack cocked his pistol.

  “I’ll kill you if you make another move,” he said pleasantly, and the thief believed him.

  “Damn you!” he said viciously. “Meddling, impertinent…”

  Jack smiled. “Until you walked in and unshuttered the lantern I had no idea it was you,” he said quietly. “It was quite as much a surprise to me as my presence must be to you. But I’m not sorry. One day you were bound to fail—and I’m glad I’m here to see it. Put your hands in the air and turn round.”

  “And if I don’t?” Insolent blue eyes locked with cold grey eyes in an unspoken contest of will. The tension between the two men was almost visible in its intensity.

  “If you don’t I will put a bullet through your leg,” said Jack.”

  Gideon stared at him for a second longer, but the steady grey eyes were implacable, and he knew that if he didn’t obey Jack would do exactly as he’d said.

  The thief turned round slowly, cursing himself. He’d known that Riversleigh was in the neighbourhood, he’d even heard the rumours and laughed scornfully at the credulous Sussex yokels. But it had never occurred to him that he would have to deal with Jack before he was through. He should have questioned his servant more closely.

  He felt Riversleigh come up behind him and take the pistol from his pocket, but he made no attempt to retaliate. Some men might drop their guard when they believed their mastery of the situation was complete—but not Jack; no, certainly not, Jack, not after what had happened before.

  Gideon was aware of a grudging flicker of respect—the same respect he’d first had for Jack nearly sixteen years ago when they’d both been schoolboys, and Jack the younger of the two. He frowned; the memory of what had happened all those years ago had sparked an idea for escape. He was no longer interested in searching for the pendant, only in saving his own life. If he hadn’t gone by the time the others returned he would almost certainly hang for what he had done.

  “May I turn round?” he said.

  “Yes.” The pistol in Jack’s hand didn’t waver, but he was curious to know more of his opponent. It had been half a lifetime since they had last encountered each other, but all the old animosity still existed between them.

  “Are you going to keep me covered with that pistol like a common criminal until your friends return?” Gideon asked insolently. “I am a gentleman.”

  “No, you are a thief,” said Jack. “A thief, a liar and possibly even a murderer. I wish I could say that you’ve improved since last we met—but I can’t.”

  “When last we met I proved conclusively that a money-lender’s son is no match for a true gentleman,” Gideon replied arrogantly.

  Jack smiled. “Is that what you proved?” he said quietly. “My recollection of the affair is somewhat different.”

  “Of course it is,” Gideon agreed. “No loser can bear to remember honestly how he came to be defeated!” He paused, watching Jack closely. “I could do it again,” he continued softly. “You and I both know that. That’s why you’re hiding behind that pistol until your friends can come and tie me up. Because if we met with our swords as gentlemen—you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  The scorn in his voice would have roused a marble statue to fury, but the only indication that Jack had heard was a slight narrowing of his eyes as he looked at Gideon.

  Then he laughed. “No,” he said. “Not this time.”

  For a moment Gideon thought he’d failed, that he’d have no opportunity to cross swords with Jack, but then he saw the look in Jack’s eyes and knew that he’d have his fight after all.

  But not because of anything he’d said. His words hadn’t roused Jack to blind fury, only to cold and calculating anger. Perhaps he’d even wanted the fight and Gideon’s words had only furnished him with the excuse he’d needed.

  Gideon had no lack of faith in his own ability, but the unexpected thought chilled him, and for the first time he began to wonder whether his plan would be successful.

  “Push back the desk,” said Jack. “And the chairs.”

  “Are you afraid you’ll trip over them?” Gideon taunted, but he did as Jack said. He had no desire to fall over furniture in the half-light either.

  “Draw your sword,” said Jack.

  They met in the centre of the room, barely saluting each other before their blades tangled. Both men were intent on their opponent; neither of them knew they were no longer alone.

  Charity had been standing in the hall, listening to what they said and trying to make sense of it. But now she stood in the doorway, watching them fight by the flickering light of the lantern.

  She could see Gideon’s face and his expression chilled her. He would kill Jack if he could, even though he only needed to disable him to escape.

  She was terrified. She had never known that such fear could exist. Her thoughts were so paralysed that she did not even berate herself for not having intervened sooner. She could only watch—and pray.

  She couldn’t see what was happening properly. Jack’s back was towards her, and she was afraid to move into his line of vision in case her presence distracted him. But she had to know what was happening.

  She’d been clutching convulsively at the doorframe, but now sh
e released it and began to edge along the wall into the corner of the library. She was still behind Jack, but now she could see more.

  The blades moved so fast that she could never have described the encounter, but she had a sense that neither of the two men had fully committed himself to the attack. They were waiting, watching, trying to discover the other’s weaknesses.

  The swords gleamed dully in the inadequate light, and Charity began to feel dizzy and confused, uncertain of what was happening—or of who was winning.

  Gideon lunged, his movements so fluid that his sword seemed like an extension of his arm. Jack parried and Charity heard the sickening slither of steel. She saw that his sleeve had been torn, and she began to feel as if she were suffocating.

  This could not go on. The pace had quickened, both men were fighting hard now, and Jack was beginning to press the attack. Gideon’s blade missed him by less than half an inch and Charity closed her eyes.

  Then she opened them resolutely. She must not be afraid and she must not flinch, because if Jack fell—God forbid—then it would be up to her.

  Before she had left Leydon House she had spent several minutes debating the wisdom of bringing a pistol. She could not forget that she had already shot one man—she didn’t think she ever would—and she never wanted to repeat the experience. But, though she had been sorely tempted to come unarmed, in the end it had seemed to her that to do so would not be to show common sense—but simply to surrender to her fear. So she had taken one of Sir Humphrey’s duelling pistols from his study.

  She had never really thought she’d need it, but now she took it out with shaking hands and pointed it at Gideon. She mustn’t tremble—she must not tremble! She blocked out all other thoughts and kept the pistol levelled at the thief. Her concentration was complete and her hands were steady. Whatever happened, there would be no escape for Gideon now.

  Gideon didn’t even know Charity was there. His breath was coming in short sharp gasps and the sweat was trickling into his eyes, but he didn’t dare to wipe it away. There was nothing casual about this encounter and he was growing desperate.