Barnaby’s and Emily’s eyes met.
“Show him in,” Barnaby murmured, elation surging through him. At last, his would-be killer would have a face.
But for all his elation, his heart sank when Simon, a teasing smile lurking on his lips, strolled into the room.
Chapter 22
Emily gasped in shock. Suspecting one of Barnaby’s cousins wanted to murder him had been bad enough, but for it to be Simon! Devastated, she could hardly look at him, this friend of her childhood, this beast who had tried to kill her husband.
Barnaby was equally shocked and aware of a bitter disappointment. He’d liked Simon. But for the culprit to be the youngest Joslyn cousin shouldn’t have been a surprise. When his two brothers had returned to Monks Abby, Simon had remained behind at Windmere . . . to kill him. He and Lamb had discussed the possibility that it could have been Simon that had laid the trap for him the morning Satan had been tripped, but dismissed it. Because, Barnaby admitted savagely, I didn’t want it to be him. I liked him, he thought again, a mixture of rage and sorrow twisting his guts.
Simon sensed something was wrong and his smile faltered. Halting abruptly a few feet away, he said, “Have I arrived at a bad time? I know I should have written first, but something came up and I . . .” He smiled uncertainly. “I can stay in the village if it is inconvenient for me to be here right now.”
Rising to his feet, Barnaby shook his head. “No. No. Nothing is wrong. We were just surprised to have a guest arrive this late.” Meeting Simon in the middle of the room, he shook his hand and, indicating a place at the table, said, “Please, come join us. Have you eaten? Shall I ring for Peckham to bring you something?”
Barnaby’s manner eased the awkwardness and Simon said, “No, that it isn’t necessary—I’ve already eaten . . . at Lord Broadfoot’s.” He grinned at Emily as he took a seat and added, “Laugh if you will, but I came to see him about a horse.”
Trying to react naturally, she exclaimed, “Never say so! You know he is not reliable when it comes to horses.”
Simon chuckled. “I know. I know. But I was in the market for a new pair and he wrote me, extolling the virtues of a stunning pair of chestnuts he has for sale and I thought I’d take a chance that for once he had actually gotten his hands on something worthy. I rode over this morning from Monks Abby.” He sent Emily an apologetic glance. “The moment I arrived at Broadfoot’s I should have had him send one of his servants over with a note. I apologize for not doing so.”
“Oh, pay it no heed,” Emily said. Infusing warmth into her voice, she added, “Of course, you’re always welcome at Windmere. We are family, after all.”
“And Broadfoot’s horses?” Barnaby asked. “Did the pair live up to his praises?”
“Well, they are evenly matched, all right,” Simon replied with dancing eyes, “and both of them tied at the knees and unable to do more than a polite shuffle.”
Emily and Barnaby laughed politely. Toying with his empty cup, Barnaby said, “I’d have been happy to check them out for you first and saved you a trip.”
“Simon should have known better,” Emily muttered. “Broadfoot is the worst judge of horseflesh I’ve ever known—everybody who knows him, knows it.”
“You’re right—I should have known better,” Simon admitted, “but there was always the chance . . .” He shrugged. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
Emily managed to keep her emotions in check, smiling when necessary and acting as normally as possible, but all the while, fury and disbelief raged in her breast. She’d known Simon since childhood: he’d always been kind to her, protecting her from bullying from his older brothers and making her smile with his silly teasing and yet it seemed that he was also capable of cold-blooded murder. Of her husband, she reminded herself fiercely. Unconsciously her fingers curled about a bread knife still on the table and she fought against the urge to hurl it right into Simon’s smiling face.
An hour later, with Simon safely shown to his rooms by Peckham, and Emily and Barnaby retired to her sitting room upstairs, she confessed, “It was all I could do not to take that knife and . . .” She took a deep breath and a note of pain in her voice, she said, “Oh, Barnaby, that it is Simon is unbelievable! He is the last person I would have suspected.”
Barnaby nodded. “I’m having trouble believing it myself, but it has to be him. I’m convinced it was one of my cousins who was meeting with Nolles this afternoon—and there is no sign of Mathew or Thomas.” He grimaced. “Like it or not, Simon is here and they are . . . not.”
Sinking down onto the sofa, Emily kicked off her satin slippers and said, “What a devious character he is—writing to Mathew, claiming to be worried about you, pretending to be concerned for you, when he is the very one trying to kill you!”
“He’s clever, I’ll grant you that.”
“But what are we going to do about him?” Emily asked, watching Barnaby pacing restlessly back and forth in front of her.
Barnaby had no answer for her. He didn’t see much would be gained by confronting Simon with his suspicion—he had no proof, and Simon would most likely brush it all aside and prove to be even wilier. Nor could he go to Mathew with those same suspicions. Even if Mathew was entirely innocent, Mathew’s first instinct would be to protect his brother. He sighed. They’d have to devise a plan to catch Simon in the act.... Not a pleasant thought, when the “act” meant his life would be in peril, he admitted.
Yet, as he considered the situation, a simple idea occurred to him. If tomorrow afternoon he and the others went boldly into the tunnels, perhaps, even with the young riding officer, Lieutenant Deering, and trumpeted their discovery of, hopefully, a large stash of contraband, wouldn’t that solve everything? If the reason behind the attacks on him was to prevent discovery of the use of the tunnels by the Nolles gang, wouldn’t that reason have disappeared? And once the use of the tunnels became known to the revenuers, wouldn’t the smugglers be forced to find a new place to hide their contraband?
Sitting down beside Emily, he put forth his ideas for ending the situation.
Emily wasn’t happy about any of it. Bluntly, she said, “Acting as bait to draw him out is foolish. Even with all of us shadowing you, there is every possibility that Simon still might be able to kill you—and it will do us no good to know your murderer if you are dead.” Her lovely eyes full of anxiety, she said, “I love you . . . I don’t want to become a widow within weeks of having become a bride.”
Taking her into his arms, Barnaby sought to reassure her. He kissed her tenderly and, lifting his lips from hers, he said, “And I love you—I want to grow very old with you by my side and our children and grandchildren gathered around us. Sweetheart, I’m not about to take unnecessary chances.”
“Offering yourself as bait isn’t taking chances?” she asked sharply.
He shrugged. “Perhaps a little, but if Simon couldn’t kill me when I had no idea who it was behind the attacks, what makes you think he’ll be successful now that we know who he is?”
“I don’t like it,” she said, her expression tight and unhappy.
“I’m not particularly keen on it myself,” Barnaby admitted, “but if we don’t expose him and simply find the contraband and dutifully turn it over to Lieutenant Deering, Simon, Nolles and even Peckham will escape justice. They’ll just set up their operation somewhere else in the county.” His jaw tightened. “Of course, Peckham won’t be our butler anymore, but being let go without references doesn’t seem quite punishment enough for my liking.”
Emily made a face. “I agree, and while I don’t like it that Simon and his cohorts would escape punishment, I much prefer that to having you murdered.” Her fingers traced his jaw. “Having you dead would make me dreadfully unhappy.”
He kissed her fingertips, a wave of love flooding him. The last thing he wanted was to die, and he didn’t plan to do so, but he couldn’t dismiss Emily’s fear lightly—if he offered himself as bait, there was always the chance that s
omething would go wrong and Simon would kill him. And then there was Emily herself . . .
Keeping her safe and out of danger was his paramount concern, but his Amazonian bride, he admitted torn between pride and dread, was hardly going to loiter about while Simon attempted to kill him. Barnaby wanted her out of it, but at the moment, he didn’t see any way that could be accomplished.
Abruptly, he said, “We can accomplish no more tonight. We have to talk to Lamb and Luc.”
Barnaby informed Lamb of Simon’s presence in the house late that evening when Lamb returned from visiting Luc. Like Emily and Barnaby, Lamb initially had trouble believing the person trying to kill Barnaby was Simon, but he accepted the idea more readily than had Emily and Barnaby.
Helping Barnaby out of his jacket as he prepared for bed, Lamb said, “It makes sense, if you think about it. Simon’s the youngest of the brothers and his fortune would have been the least of them all. He’d have inherited enough though to finance some smuggling, and if his profits were managed wisely, he could turn a small fortune into a very large one.”
“I’m not arguing with you,” Barnaby said, ripping off his cravat and tossing it on the chair. Glancing at Lamb, he asked, “Will you go to Luc tonight?”
Lamb shook his head. “Too many people might wonder why, having just returned from the Dower House, I suddenly need to return. I’ll see him in the morning.” He looked at Barnaby, frowning. “She absolutely has to be part of this?”
Barnaby grinned at him. “If you remember, you’re the one who named her ‘Amazon.’ Do you really think we can keep her out of it?”
Lamb grimaced. “Probably not.”
It was afternoon when Barnaby and Emily met with Lamb and Luc at the Dower House. Cornelia had been delighted by Simon’s visit and neither Barnaby nor Emily had the heart to tell her the truth. Cornelia’s presence, however, helped Simon’s stay seem normal, but by the time Cornelia disappeared upstairs for her afternoon nap and Simon had ridden off to the village, Emily was exhausted from smiling and pretending everything was fine.
Being greeted by Walker at the Dower House lifted her spirits and she was smiling when she and Barnaby walked into the burgundy-and-gray sitting room where Lamb and Luc awaited them. Once Walker left the room and Emily had taken a seat in a figured gray velvet chair by the fire, Luc said, “What a devilish coil!” Looking at Barnaby who had taken up a position just behind his wife near the fire, he asked, “How do you intend to flush him out?”
Barnaby sighed, knowing Emily wasn’t going to like the plan that he’d finally thought best. Letting Simon and Nolles walk away didn’t set well with him. Not looking at Emily, he said, “I see only one way and that is for me to exhibit myself like a piece of raw meat before a tiger and hope he takes the bait.” He smiled at Lamb and Luc. “And once he has me between his claws, that you, my two stalwart fellows, pounce on him before he does me very much damage.”
His wife looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “That’s the very worst idea,” she said tightly, “I’ve ever heard.”
“Actually,” Lamb said, rubbing his chin, “Luc and I discussed something similar this morning. Of course, we could just tell the authorities, but I mislike letting rats scamper free.” Avoiding Emily’s glare, he said, “We might not be able to catch Nolles in our net, but if we catch Simon, Nolles will have lost his big London backer, which will hurt him—that and the loss of the Windmere tunnels.” He eyed Barnaby. “But in order to catch Simon, we have to draw him out someway and you’re the only thing he wants.”
Outraged, Emily snapped, “Easy for you to say—it’s not your life at risk.”
“This is true,” Luc said, “but Simon doesn’t want Lamb, he wants your husband—better we control the situation than allow Simon to do so.”
Her head down bent, Emily said in a small voice, “I don’t want them to escape unscathed either, but I want my husband alive more than I want them to suffer retribution. There has to be another way.”
Barnaby came around and sat a hip on the arm of her chair. Forcing her chin up, his eyes on hers, he said, “I’ll take all the precautions I can—remember we have an advantage. We know who is trying to kill me and we know why Simon wants me out of the picture.”
She didn’t take much comfort from his words and she demanded, “Is there nothing I can say that will dissuade you?”
His heart ached for causing her distress, but Barnaby shook his head. “Not unless you can come up with a better idea.”
She couldn’t and though she listened intently as they discussed plans to keep Barnaby safe, adding her own biting comments from time to time, she wasn’t reassured. The only thing she agreed with was that they explore the tunnels as soon as possible and discover if the smugglers were actually using them.
“The tunnels should be entered through the old barn,” Emily said. “That way we avoid Peckham or any of the other servants wondering why we’re interested in the wine cellar. If the smugglers are using the tunnels, the contraband will be stored in a place that provides the easiest entrance and exit—the old barn. The tunnel was widened at the end and, as I recall, there’s a large cavern—perfectly suitable for storing a large amount of contraband.” Her jaw set, she glowered at Barnaby and continued. “There’s no reason for all of us to go trooping through the tunnels. Obviously, I need to go but I only want one other person with me . . . and that person will not be you. Lamb or Luc can accompany me.”
Barnaby would have argued, but the glitter in her eyes told him she would not back down from her stand and further comment would be useless. “Very well. Who do you want to go with you?”
Without hesitation, she said, “Lamb.”
Luc looked disappointed, but her choice made sense. If he was going to be poking about in a tunnel with the possibility that he might come face-to-face with a smuggler, he’d prefer Lamb at his side rather than a man who had just risen from his sickbed not many days ago.
“When?” Barnaby asked, not happy with his wife risking her neck while he remained safely behind.
“Now,” she said, rising to her feet and shaking out the skirts of her indigo velvet riding habit. “It is the middle of the day and none of the smugglers will be about. Simon is in the village and Peckham is at the house. Our horses are saddled and ready. Lamb and I should be gone less than an hour.”
Barnaby looked at Lamb. “Bring her back to me safe and sound.”
Lamb nodded.
Watching Emily and Lamb walk out of the room was the most difficult, painful thing Barnaby had ever been forced to do. Every instinct demanded that he stop her from leaving, the need to protect her, to keep her safe clawing at his vitals. He fought down the frantic urge to call her back, but he knew it would be futile—just as he would not be prevented from offering himself as bait, so would his wife not be diverted from her task. He scowled. Sometimes, he decided bitterly, they were too damned much alike for comfort.
There was only one exchange between Emily and Lamb as they mounted their horses and prepared to ride away from the Dower House.
Eyeing her closed expression, Lamb said, “You’re angry.” She flashed him a look that scorched his bones and retorted in a voice that did not invite further conversation, “No, I’m not, angry. I’m furious.”
Pointing to a track through the woods that avoided the main drive and would give them cover, Emily kicked her horse into a canter and Lamb meekly followed. Brave he might be, but not even he was prepared to take on a blazing-eyed Amazon.
Twelve minutes later, Emily turned her horse off the narrow path they’d been following around the bottom of a series of sloping hills. She guided her horse several yards into a patch of trees that crowded along the side of the path before halting. Dismounting, she said, “From here we are hidden by those hills over there, but as the crow flies, we are less than an eighth of a mile from the house. The barn is about fifty yards ahead, through that stand of beeches. Tie your horse and follow me.”
Lamb admired her co
olness and the silent way she slipped through the woods. The Amazon knew what she was about and he decided that if his back was against the wall, he’d be honored to have her at his side. The woods thinned and the barn came into view. Emily examined the area carefully and then leaving the cover of the trees hurried across an open expanse and sidled up next to the rear of the old wooden barn.
Looking over her shoulder at Lamb she said softly, “The main opening faces the road, but around the corner from us there is a smaller door—we’ll enter that way.”
A moment later, they were inside the barn, both noting that the door opened easily—perhaps, a little too easily for an old seldom-used building. It was gloomy inside the structure, the scent of hay and livestock filling their noses. Emily took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light and then she moved forward purposefully. A row of sagging stalls stood along one side of the building and on the other, bundles of hay and straw were piled high, leaving a wide aisle-way running down the middle of the barn.
Dust motes floated in the air—kicked up from their feet as Emily, followed closely by Lamb, crept forward. Their progress was careful in the dimness of the interior, all of their senses alert for the presence of others. They did a hasty reconnoiter, determining at the moment that they were the only inhabitants. Stopping in the middle of the barn, Emily stared at the thick carpet of hay and straw strewn across the floor.
Softly she said, “If anybody looked, the hay would hide any signs of their activity.”
Lamb nodded. “Probably laid down on their way out after unloading the contraband.” He looked around. “Where’s the entrance?”
“Over here,” she said, moving away. Halfway down the row of stalls, she stopped and, throwing open the heavy stall door, with Lamb at her heels, she stepped inside the stall. The ease with which she had opened the door to the stall told its own story, and a quick examination of the catch and hinges revealed that they had been well oiled. The floor of the stall was heaped with straw, but it took only a moment to kick it aside, exposing a trapdoor. Lamb grasped the handle hidden in the straw and lifted. The door opened soundlessly. A black hole yawned at their feet, the tip of a ladder showing at the edge of the darkness.
Rapture Becomes Her Page 35
