by Joan Smith
“Damme, the villagers didn’t know.”
“Perhaps some spies followed him from London. Yes, I rather expect that’s the way of it,” Joseph decided. “And that’s what happened to your cargo, Vulch. I never thought Lord Edwin had a thing to do with it. Why, it’s infamous, accusing my cousin of thievery. He wouldn’t have the wits...”
He intercepted a killing glare from Mary Anne and fell silent.
“I did think the project a bit beyond him,” Vulch said. He didn’t happen to notice Mary Anne’s expression.
“What is to be done, then?” Joseph demanded.
“Let us get our heads together and make up a plan. We might as well use the Hall—I’m sure Miss Judson won’t mind?”
“Oh—would it not be better to go into town and get the constable’s help?” she asked nervously.
“Help? Ha, it’s news to me if old Duff Evans has a sane thought in his head,” Vulch told her, and strode briskly into the house.
They hadn’t been seated in the saloon a moment when Mary Anne heard an earsplitting shriek from the kitchen. In her heart she knew what had caused it. Mr. Robertson, no, Lord Dicaire, had escaped and was coming to arrest her. She froze to the floor.
* * *
Chapter 14
“Plummer having a fit of the vapors. She probably saw a mouse,” Joseph said.
As no sounds of violence followed the one shriek, Mary Anne had some hope he was correct. Mr. Robertson—she still thought of him as Mr. Robertson—wouldn’t have wasted an instant. He would be in the saloon by now, demanding justice, if he had contrived to escape. But her nerves were raw from her ordeal and she had to be sure.
“I’d best just see if Mrs. Plummer is all right,” she said, and excused herself. “Would you gentlemen care for some coffee?” she asked before leaving.
“That would be fine, my dear.” Vulch nodded.
She got no farther than the top of the kitchen stairs when Mrs. Plummer’s head peered up through the door. “Sorry if I disturbed you, Miss Judson. ‘Twas only the mouse,” she said.
“Good. Could we have coffee for three, please, in the saloon? And if Fitch comes back, tell him Vulch and Joseph are here.” She ran back to the saloon to overhear plans for finding the prisoner who was tied up in the basement of the very house that was headquarters for the search.
Mrs. Plummer closed the staircase door and turned back to face Mr. Robertson, who stood across the room with a pistol aimed at her. “I done what you told me, may God forgive me for a coward. You scared the daylights out of me when you popped up them stairs. They never told me you were there.” Her eyes slid to her butcher knife, which, unfortunately, rested six inches from the erstwhile prisoner’s hand, six feet from her own.
“It won’t be necessary to carve me up, Mrs.—Plummer, is it, that Miss Judson called you?” He stuck the pistol in his pocket.
“That’s my name, always has been,” she allowed. The fellow didn’t look such a bloodthirsty customer at close range. He was polite and all.
“I just want to ask you a few questions, then I’ll leave. Perhaps you could brush my jacket while we talk?” he suggested.
Having a service to perform settled Mrs. Plummer’s nerves and put her a little at her ease. A man would hardly stab you when you were brushing his jacket for him. She might turn him up sweet and save that old ruin of a Lord Eddie from the gallows.
“Miss Judson is very close to her uncle, I think?”
“Close as inkleweavers. He’s been father and mother and best friend to the girl since he brought her here twenty years ago. She worships him like a hero,” she said, and went on to relate Mary Anne’s oft-told tale of her rescue.
Mr. Robertson nodded and asked a few questions.
“What she sees to love in the old sinner is above and beyond me,” she griped. “He doesn’t remember she’s here half the time. Why, for her past two birthdays he didn’t even remember to get her a gift, and she must make do with what Fitch and myself can afford—which isn’t much, with dog’s years of wages due to us. But he has a kind streak in him, when the humor takes him. Her latest birthday, for instance, he gave her a dandy shawl and took her to Folkestone for the day and dinner at the inn, after I had Fitch kill a chicken and baked her favorite raisin cake and all.” As she chatted, she attacked the coat with a stiff brush.
“Dinner at the inn—was that, by any chance, the first of May?”
“That it was—the very night you first came here yourself, sir. I mind I served the raisin cake.”
“And a very fine cake it was, too.” He smiled. The lad had a very civil smile for a draper. “They were in Folkestone that day, you said?”
“In every drapery shop in town, and for all their shopping, he couldn’t find gloves to go with the shawl. Mind you, the shawl was more than she ever expected. Such a pretty piece, all embroidered like a picture.”
Mr. Robertson’s blood quickened with this tale. “In every drapery shop in town” indicated Lord Edwin’s efforts to sell the cargo and was of little importance. It was the embroidered shawl that intrigued him. The shawl would, presumably, be in Mary Anne’s chamber.
“Here you go,” Mrs. Plummer said, and handed him the coat. He slid into it and picked up his wrinkled cravat.
“I’d run upstairs and get you one of Lord Edwin’s, but I’ve got to make coffee for the visitors. If you’d care to wait a minute...”
“I shan’t put you to so much trouble, Mrs. Plummer. You have been very kind. I know where Lord Edwin’s bedchamber is. I’ll help myself to a clean cravat. Could you spare a little of that hot water to allow me to shave?”
Her tactic was to treat Mr. Robertson like a guest, to reinforce her innocence of any havey-cavey goings-on, and by this time she had almost forgotten he wasn’t. She poured out a basin of hot water, and Mr. Robertson went up the servants’ stairs to avoid the company. Mrs. Plummer wanted to warn Mary Anne, but knew she couldn’t do it with Vulch in the house.
Before going for his shave, Mr. Robertson went into Mary Anne’s room and looked all round.
He smiled thoughtfully at its pretty innocence. She and Mrs. Plummer had contrived some thrifty efforts at beautification. There was a dimity canopy on her bed, dyed blue to match the curtains and edged with eyelet. A braided rug was between the bed and the window. He walked to her dresser, noticing its lack of any cosmetics. A somewhat garish gilt dresser set, the gilt worn away to show the white metal beneath, he rightly assigned as an inheritance from her mama. On the dresser sat two miniatures, one of a dark-haired lady who rather resembled Mary Anne, the other of Lord Edwin. Her new diary was on the bedside table. He damped down the urge to open it and read her outpourings. Morals aside, he had to get on to see the shawl.
It hung in the clothespress, carefully arrayed over the shoulders of a blue silk gown. He laid it flat on the bed and studied the pattern. Unthinkingly he reached for pen and paper. A patent pen sat beside the diary, which was the only writing paper easily available. He removed a blank page and studied the embroidery for several minutes, noting stitch and color, and jotted down notes. When he was satisfied that he had interpreted it properly, he took the shawl and folded it into a small square, which he took to Lord Edwin’s room while he shaved.
When he bore some resemblance to the elegant gentleman who had first called at Horton Hall, he returned to Plummer’s kitchen and asked for wrapping paper. From the corner of her eye, Plummer saw what it was he was wrapping.
“What are you taking that for?” she demanded suspiciously.
“I’m afraid it’s part of the stolen cargo of silk, ma’am. I’ll need it for evidence.”
Plummer’s heart went into nervous palpitations. Evidence—he was gathering evidence against them, after grinning as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
Then Mr. Robertson took up his parcel and left, after politely thanking her for her help. He left by the back door. Mrs. Plummer, uncertain what she should do, knew that
informing missie of the man’s escape was her top priority. She scribbled up a note and put it on the tray under the coffeepot. She hoped missie didn’t scald herself when she saw it. “Robertson’s escaped” was all she took time to write.
Lord Dicaire went immediately to the stable and saddled up the mount hired from the inn, safely stowed his parcel in the saddlebag, and left. As he went toward the road, he noticed the mounts tethered under the copper beech in front of the Hall. Vulch’s gelding was recognized at once, and while he didn’t recognize Joseph’s white mare, he knew Miss Judson was sustaining an unwelcome visit from two callers. The poor girl must be on nettles, fearing her fate. It would be cruel to make her wait and wonder all day. With a smile not totally devoid of mischief, he tethered his mount with the others and strode to the Hall.
“Another caller! Who can that be?” Mary Anne exclaimed when the knocker sounded ten seconds later.
She fully expected it would be some officials from London, asking unanswerable questions. They would have been quite welcome as a replacement for who was there— Lord Dicaire. She stared, unable to speak for the dryness of her throat. He had not only escaped, he had managed to make a fresh toilette.
“Good morning, Miss Judson.” He smiled impishly. “I was just passing and noticed Mr. Vulch’s mount out front. Might I have a word with him? I fear he may be worried at my prolonged absence.”
Her hands went out to him in silent supplication. He seized them and fought down the urge to kiss her. “Don’t worry. I shan’t give you away,” he whispered, and walked into the saloon.
“Mr. Robertson!” Vulch exclaimed.
Joseph said “Lord Dicaire!” but in the general melee, the slip went unnoticed.
“Where have you been all night? What happened to you? I was afraid you’d gotten yourself killed!” Vulch said.
“I’m dreadfully sorry. I was unavoidably detained,” Lord Dicaire replied. “I received a tip about the silk and had to follow it up. You understand—the less said, the better.”
Mary Anne stood like a ghost, listening, while her heart pounded and her mind raced with thoughts of escape.
“I’m off to London at once,” Lord Dicaire said, not a moment after his arrival.
“But did you find it?” Vulch asked. “Did you manage to get hold of the, er, the silk?”
“I did. It’s all taken care of. I’ll speak to Codey before leaving. I’ll be in touch, Mr. Vulch.” As he went toward the door, Mary Anne followed him.
“How did you escape?” she asked.
“Why, after you so kindly loosened my binding, a friendly mouse completed the job. Sorry to run off so precipitately, Miss Judson. But then, I fancy you’re happy to see the end of me. Pity it isn’t the end. I shall be back sooner than you think. Good day.”
With a laughing look, he walked out the door, hopped on his mount, and galloped away.
She was certain he was going to call for recruits. He had admitted he was going to speak to Codey. There wasn’t a minute to waste. She had to warn Uncle and get away. At this crucial moment, Mrs. Plummer arrived with the coffee tray. Her bulging eyes hinted at all manner of menacing disclosures she wished to make but could not with company present. She gave two or three important looks at the edge of paper protruding below the coffeepot and left.
The two unwelcome callers had only a quick cup of coffee for politeness’s sake. Mary Anne read the note but didn’t faint or scald herself, as she already knew Robertson had escaped. Vulch was eager to get home and tell his wife that Robertson was a lord, and Joseph wanted to accompany him, to let Bess know Lord Dicaire was not a gentleman whom she had any hope of attaching.
As soon as they were gone, Mary Anne tore down to the kitchen. “What are we going to do? He’s gone off to report us, Mrs. Plummer, and Uncle not even home. Oh, we shall all end up on the gibbet, I know it. He said we hadn’t seen the last of him.”
“He seemed like such a nice lad, too, at first,” Mrs. Plummer said, with a wise nod that said she had been disabused of this notion.
“I should never have loosened the binding on his hands. That’s what did the mischief. It’s all my fault. I was only trying to be kind to him. Fitch had tied them so tightly.”
“I ought to warn you, missie, he’s been upstairs collecting evidence against you. The shawl your uncle gave you for your birthday—he said it was part of the stolen goods and took it away with him.”
“He took my shawl!”
“That he did, as it was part of the stolen cargo,” Mrs. Plummer told her regretfully. “I wondered how Lord Edwin managed to pay for it.”
“Mrs. Plummer, you’ve got to take the gig into town and find Uncle. Tell him what happened. I’ll pack up a few necessities for Uncle and myself. We have to escape.”
“That’s a fool’s errand, and you know it. You can’t escape the law. The thing to do is get in touch with Lord Exholme.”
“Much good that would do us, with Lord Dicaire yelping at our heels. He is a more highly connected gentleman than Exholme.”
“Lord Dicaire—that’s the fellow that had my kitchen searched.’’
“That is also Mr. Robertson!”
“Eh?”
“They’re one and the same man, Mrs. Plummer.”
Mrs. Plummer slapped her cheek. “Then we’re done for.”
“I know, but we must try. Please do as I say.”
Mary Anne went upstairs and hauled the cane case out from the spare room. She hastily grabbed up her linens and a few gowns and threw them in. Then she went into Uncle’s room, where she saw the basin of water and razor. So this was where Lord Dicaire had made his toilette. Pretty cool, stepping upstairs for a shave before leaving. He’d been in her room, too—to get his “evidence” against them. She went back to her room, wincing at its rusticity. Lord Dicaire probably lived in a castle.
Then her eyes fell on the bed, where her diary and pen had been cast aside in his hurry. He had even read her diary! The man was an ogre! She blushed at the secrets it held. Her girlish outpourings about meeting him. How he must have laughed! Then she quickly reviewed whether she had mentioned the stolen silk. No, she hadn’t written anything last night. That was why he hadn’t taken it for more evidence. She stuffed it into the suitcase and closed the fastening. She didn’t like to go into Fitch’s room. He could add his few necessities when they got back.
When the suitcase was packed, there was nothing to do but wait. She made a slow tour of her favorite rooms, remembering a hundred, a thousand, pleasant times. Christmas in the dining room, with suckling pig and plum pudding. Long and lovely idle evenings in the study, browsing through Uncle’s ancient tomes while he glanced through month-old journals, and the wind whistled outside, stirring the dark curtains. He used to drink brandy— “my medicine” he called it, when she was young.
Uncle’s study, where he tried to teach her to read and cipher, and had given up when he discovered he couldn’t do long division himself. It must have strained his thin purse to provide her lessons in the village with Bess Vulch, but he had done it, insisted on paying his share of the tutor’s fee, though not always on time.
She heard the rattle of the front door and dashed out to meet Uncle as he came in with Fitch and Mrs. Plummer.
“We’re ditched,” Lord Edwin said. “Missie, you’re going to Exholme’s place. They won’t dare go after you there.”
“We’re all going,” she announced calmly. “I’ve already packed. Fitch, you must gather up your own things. Will you come with us, Mrs. Plummer, or stay behind?”
“I’m going with you, to Lord Exholme’s. We decided it between us, missie. It’s for the best. There’s no reason you should hang with Lord Edwin and Fitch. This imbroglio wasn’t your doing,” she said with a fierce eye at the perpetrators.
“Not one step shall I stir without Uncle,” Mary Anne insisted.
“I can’t go,” Lord Edwin explained. “They must have someone to hang, but there’s no reason for us
all to die. I’ve persuaded Fitch he must drive the carriage, and I shall stay behind to accept full responsibility.”
For the first time in his life he was accepting responsibility for his deeds, and no one noticed, not even he himself. His main sensation was annoyance that Mary Anne insisted on arguing.
“No!” Mary Anne said firmly. “We all stay or we all go. It’s up to you, Uncle.”
He held his grizzled head in his hands and moaned. “Oh, why is everyone so impossible? Robertson turning into a lord before our very eyes and abusing my hospitality in this underbred manner. If he’s a lord, why can’t he behave like one? I never wanted him here. He insisted on staying. Why didn’t he escape last night, before we had to bring him to the Hall? I never gave that order, Fitch. That was your doing.”
“I couldn’t leave him in the barn, in case Codey came by.”
“Codey—there is another thorn in my side. No doubt he’s at the barn stealing my silk, after all the trouble I went to to get it from the Frenchies.”
“Stealing from the Frenchies shouldn’t be a crime,” Mrs. Plummer stated. “Not when they were such gossoons as to run away and abandon the ship. Why, anyone with a wit in his head would know enough to salvage it.”
Lord Edwin cast a questioning eye at her. The words “abandon the ship,” and especially “salvage,” stirred dim memories of his days at Whitehall.
“I daresay a good, sharp lawyer could get me off,” he said thoughtfully. Mary Anne saw his fingers begin to tap his cheek, and she looked hopeful.
Fitch, whose mind moved more slowly, said, “You’re wiser to stay away from lawyers. You’ll be bitten to death by their fees.”
“There is something in marine law about the cargo of an abandoned ship being fair game for salvagers,” Lord Edwin said. “I heard some such thing when I was with the Admiralty. There’s another point in my defense—my illustrious career with the Admiralty. Why, between that and a man’s patriotic duty in outwitting the French and my having only salvaged goods from an abandoned ship, they haven’t a leg to stand on. And there’s habeas corpus,” he added, his mind going astray. “Cui bono—yes, indeed. I may sue them for false arrest and make a bundle of blunt. You’d best take a run down to the barn and scare Codey away if he’s there, Fitch. And make sure Belle don’t climb up to the loft and eat the rest of the stuff.”
