by Mary Brendan
* * *
‘I hoped I’d be seeing you again quite soon.’
‘Always happy to oblige,’ Luke drawled as he circled Jeremiah Collins, levelling a pistol at the man’s chest. ‘But I think you’re lying.’
‘How astute you are, Wolfson,’ Jeremiah scoffed through his gritted teeth. In fact, he was cursing his unexpected visitor to damnation and also the fellows who were supposed to be guarding the churchyard. He imagined that Wolfson had overpowered the dolts. ‘And what have you done with Ruff and Dickens?’ he smoothly enquired.
‘Nothing that a good physician won’t be able to cure.’
‘I’ll knock them out again when they come round.’ Jeremiah chortled. ‘I must get myself some better help.’
‘You won’t need it. You’re packing up business. We’re off to see the magistrate.’
‘I don’t think I’ll come...but thank you anyway for the offer,’ Collins spat caustically. ‘I guessed from the start you were up to no good.’ In fact, he’d known nothing of the sort. When the major turned up in Devon, offering his good connections and expertise in exchange for a slice of the profits in kidnapping the Duke of Thornley’s daughter, Jeremiah had been keen on the idea. He hated those above him in the pecking order, and though Wolfson fell into the category, the major had sounded like a man carrying a chip on his shoulder. He’d seemed a kindred spirit to Jeremiah...but of course it had been a clever ruse on Wolfson’s part.
Influential as he was in his own way, Jeremiah would never have had the audacity or the opportunity to attempt the kidnap of a powerful aristocrat’s child. When the major had outlined his scheme and told him he had Thornley’s ear, and that of their mutual friend, the Duke of Wellington, Jeremiah had listened intently.
Naturally, Jeremiah had had the major’s credentials checked by a militiaman who was not averse to taking a bribe. Everything had checked out as it should. Still, Collins had been wary. Why would a fellow who moved in such exalted circles want to bite the hand that fed him? He’d demanded an answer direct from Wolfson and had been told that there were private reasons—not for discussion—for him wanting to even scores and make some money in the process. Jeremiah had accepted that as it fitted in with the major’s brooding moodiness. But he bitterly regretted now letting avarice blind him to the fellow’s true character. He’d fallen for it hook, line and sinker rather than making Wolfson prove himself further.
By the time Jeremiah’s suspicions started outweighing his greed it was too late. Those numbskulls that worked for him had taken it upon themselves to abduct the wrong woman.
‘And how is Miss Chapman?’ Collins jibed although inwardly seething, and investigating every angle to outwit and kill his daunting adversary.
‘She is very well,’ Luke said, pocketing the pistol. At present he had no need of it. Ruff and Dickens were out cold and tied up out of harm’s way. Luke knew he could take Collins easily in a straight fight and the man didn’t appear to have a weapon on his coatless person. Nevertheless, Luke was on his guard. The smuggler could have a knife concealed, probably in a boot, just as Luke did himself.
Luke glanced to right and left in the church. All was quiet and still and the candles burning at the end of the pew where Jeremiah had been seated, drinking brandy, shed a blurry light on his foe’s sinister features.
Then he heard it: a scratching noise and a faint shout.
Luke’s dark eyes whipped back to Jeremiah. ‘You’ve somebody imprisoned down there?’
‘Nobody important.’ Jeremiah flicked some indolent fingers. ‘Not to me at least; perhaps you’ll think differently as you’re smitten with the man’s stepdaughter...or has that fire already extinguished?’ Jeremiah smirked. ‘I told you I’d buy back the buttoned-up spinster when you’d done with her.’
Luke had withdrawn the pistol again and was walking backwards towards the stairs that led below, keeping Jeremiah in his sights. He could scarce credit what the man had said, yet didn’t think that Collins was lying, either.
‘You’ve got Ratcliff?’
At Jeremiah’s bored nod Luke snorted a harsh laugh. ‘Why? You fool! The man’s being dunned, he’s hardly going to find a ransom for himself or a stepdaughter who loathes him.’
‘Being dunned, is he?’ Jeremiah tutted sarcastically. ‘I doubt those creditors know he has a valuable painting. Or rather his wife has it in her possession.’
‘Bring him up!’ Luke snarled. Of all the things that could have gone wrong during his mission to bring Collins to justice he hadn’t thought it would be something as unpredictable as Cecil Ratcliff’s untimely appearance!
He’d had from Fiona’s own lips that she and her mother detested Ratcliff, but Luke couldn’t allow Jeremiah to murder the fellow, which he would once he discovered no cash was to be had for Ratcliff’s release.
Fiona was a sweet fair-minded person; she had every reason to loathe the man her mother had married, but she wouldn’t want his death on her conscience. She’d blame herself for running away and drawing her stepfather into danger. And the thought of Fiona’s future happiness being threatened stabbed at Luke’s guts like a hot knife. He’d known for a long while that he was falling in love with her, but had suppressed the emotion by trying to convince himself that he was confusing lust with finer feelings. He regretted propositioning her when he could just as easily have asked her to marry him. It seemed incredible that in such a short time he should be so enslaved and ready to settle down. But with calm acceptance he knew it to be true. There’d been nobody in his past, and he sensed that neither would any woman in the future match up to Fiona as his future wife and the mother of his children.
‘Get him up here!’ Luke’s bellow brought Jeremiah to his feet.
‘I’ll bring the fellow up when Mrs Ratcliff arrives and hands over the painting.’ Jeremiah threw back his head and hooted a guffaw. ‘You really don’t know, do you, that the whole family is now congregated in the neighbourhood?’
Luke lunged at Jeremiah, curling a large, savage hand about his throat, prepared to throttle the devil to get every scrap of information out of him.
‘Mrs Ratcliff was first to come searching for her daughter, then the stepfather turned up. I have spies out—these things soon reach my ears...sooner than they do yours, by the look of things,’ Jeremiah wheezed out merrily. ‘I imagine you might have some explaining to do when the chit’s belly starts to swell.’
Shoving Collins away before he succumbed to the temptation to strangle him, Luke gritted with specious softness, ‘Bring the fellow up here.’ He raised the pistol. ‘Or I will kill you and God knows you’ll not be meeting your maker before time.’
A few moments later Cecil Ratcliff was pushed, stumbling, up the same stone stairs from which, not long ago, Fiona had emerged into dim candle flame. Luke, staring, thought his eyes were deceiving him. Then, on striding closer for a better inspection, he noticed the cunning light in the fellow’s pale eyes and knew he wasn’t mistaken.
Luke glanced at Jem Collins. ‘This is Cecil Ratcliff?’
‘The very same,’ the smuggler croaked through his crushed windpipe, his mean eyes darting between the two men.
‘Tell him who you are.’ The pistol moved slightly to encompass the prisoner.
‘Cecil Ratcliff. And who pray are you?’
‘Your erstwhile commanding officer, Rowland...not forgotten me already, surely?’ Luke said softly. Lieutenant Charlie Rowland might have cut his sparse hair short and shaved off his beard, but he was still recognisable as the army deserter and all-round blackguard Luke knew of old.
Cecil licked his lips. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Of course you have—you’re still up to your old tricks, then. But your time’s up now, just as it is for him.’ Luke jerked his head in Collins’s direction.
‘What in damnatio
n?’ Jeremiah snarled, glowering at his prize. ‘If your wife’s not on her way with that canvas, you’ve not long to live.’ In a deft swooping movement that attested to much practice, Jeremiah had whipped a blade from his boot, then leapt to hold it to Cecil’s throat.
‘His wife’s not on her way.’ Luke advanced on the two men. ‘His wife’s in Bedlam, and since committing her he’s had at least another two bigamous marriages that I know about, not including the one to Miss Chapman’s mother. He’s also had more sojourns in the Fleet than you’ve had kegs of brandy off Dawlish Beach.’
‘Don’t listen to him...he’s lying. I don’t know him,’ Cecil spluttered before realising that both men were enemies and his greatest peril was from the fellow pressing the knife to his jugular.
‘You’ve got yourself a pig in a poke, Jeremiah,’ Luke stated coolly. ‘The authorities will be almost as keen to apprehend this felon as they will you. You might as well let him go. He’s bankrupt...he always is...’ Luke cocked the loaded pistol in a very deliberate way. ‘Who’s carrying the message to Mrs Ratcliff?’
Jeremiah licked his dry lips. His informant in the dragoons had told him to take care if crossing Wolfson as the man had a fearsome reputation with a range of weapons, both on and off the battlefield.
Jeremiah knew he risked a bullet in the brain before he’d finished slicing his captive from ear to ear. But he managed a careless shrug, his free hand gesturing obscenely his refusal to answer any questions.
Luke suddenly barked a laugh. ‘Ah... I see... Dickens was on his way, was he, when I caught him saddling up outside.’ Luke got great satisfaction from knowing that Fiona’s mother wasn’t about to burst in and swoon at the sight before her.
Jeremiah knew he must upset Wolfson’s equilibrium to have a chance of escaping. At present his lethally composed opponent would be difficult to conquer. If Wolfson overpowered him, his next stop, after gaol, would be Gallows Hill.
‘Whoever you are, I doubt you knew that this fine major has been tumbling your wife’s daughter. What do you think about that, eh?’ Collins muttered close to Cecil’s ear, but loud enough for Luke to hear.
Cecil darted a resentful glance at Luke. So he’d had more luck bedding the wench, had he? But Cecil wasn’t about to let on that Fiona had rejected him. He gave as listless a shrug as was possible with Jeremiah’s heavy arm about his neck. ‘She’s a harlot ready to lift her skirts for any fellow. She’s soothed many an itch for me.’ He growled a ribald laugh.
Luke knew it for a provocative ploy, yet even so he was consumed by an irresistible urge to leap at the sneering pair and batter them.
Collins glimpsed a flicker of raw emotion stretching Wolfson’s lips flat on his teeth and seized his moment. He gave his captive an almighty shove, reinforced by a boot against Cecil’s backside that sent him crashing into Luke. Luke stumbled under Ratcliff’s unexpected weight, giving Jeremiah the second he needed to lunge forward. Momentum had taken Cecil to his knees and, caitiff that he was, he cowered there, arms up over his head, as Collins charged forward with the knife, steel glinting in the candlelight.
A vicious knife-swipe sliced Luke’s shoulder, but he managed to protect himself from further injury by swaying backwards on his heels. Swinging his head round in a brutal movement, he caught Collins’s profile. When the smaller man staggered from the blow Luke followed up by delivering a single hefty jab to the smuggler’s chin, snapping together his sagging jaw. Once Collins was sprawled senseless on the flags Luke removed the blade from his opponent’s limp fingers.
He swung a look over a shoulder as he heard a scurrying sound and was just in time to see Cecil Ratcliff frantically crawling on hands and knees, then jumping to his feet to flee from the church. Following a frustrated curse, Luke turned back to Collins and hoisted his comatose form on to his shoulder, then went outside in pursuit of the other man.
‘Be still or I’ll use this pistol,’ Luke shouted at the fugitive dodging between headstones. ‘You know I can hit you from this distance.’ In a sliver of moonlight Luke saw his quarry duck down behind a rock angel. Quickly, keeping Cecil in his sights, he flung Jeremiah over his stallion, lashing together the unconscious man’s hands and feet with the reins as a precaution.
Free of that burden, Luke began to stalk Ratcliff through the graveyard, shoving the pistol back into his coat pocket. He knew he had no need of it. The bigamist looked to have grown fat on his three years of parasitic living since deserting from the army. Had he not absconded he would have been court martialled, possibly executed for thieving supplies from the army store he’d been charged with overseeing.
Cecil stood up slowly as though about to turn himself in, but instead he threw the fistfuls of stones he’d gathered from the ground. Luke crouched down as a pebble scored his scalp, but Ratcliff’s desperate tactic had gained him little other than a few more yards of turf covered. Luke sprinted forward, tackling his wheezing torso to the freshly dug soil beside an open grave.
‘I can make it worth your while to let me go,’ Ratcliff gasped, struggling to get free of the forearm on his throat, pinning him down. ‘I’ve that painting to recover, Wolfson. You can have it, I swear,’ he cravenly wheedled. ‘Once I catch up with my wife she’ll hand it over in a trice. It’s yours...and on good authority it’s valuable...’
‘You’ve got two choices in the matter,’ Luke said with deceptive softness. ‘You can beg forgiveness for ever having laid your filthy hands on Fiona Chapman, or you can spend the night in there.’ Luke jerked a nod at the open grave. ‘I’ll blanket you with earth to make sure you keep warm.’
‘You’re no better than me where that chit is concerned. Will you apologise to her for bedding her?’ Cecil spat. ‘What does it matter? She’s ruined now. Collins told me what’s gone on. No gentleman would touch her with a bargepole once he knows smugglers have taken their sport with her. She’ll end as a penny whore in Whitechapel if I don’t put a roof over her head. You might as well keep your mouth shut on it all, Wolfson, for the sake of those two women. They’ve no choice but me.’
‘You’re wrong about that,’ Luke said as he hit Ratcliff in the mouth with all the force he could muster from close range. He dragged the snivelling wretch up by the collar, in much the same way that his prisoner had hauled Dolly to her feet days before.
‘I’m tempted to kill you, but I won’t.’ Luke thrust Cecil from him as though he felt contaminated by his proximity. ‘You’re not worth a murder charge. The law can decide your fate.’ He grinned suddenly, and drew the pistol from his pocket. ‘Two for the price of one...not a bad night’s work.’ Shoving Cecil in front of him, he headed back to Star.
Chapter Eighteen
‘Please calm yourself, Mama,’ Fiona whispered.
She sent a glance over a shoulder to where the Duke of Thornley had diplomatically withdrawn to allow mother and daughter to digest his solemnly imparted news that Cecil Ratcliff was a bigamist, amongst other things.
Maude scrunched her wet handkerchief in her fist. ‘The cheating swine! To do something so vile and immoral to an innocent woman is beyond bearing!’ She scrubbed again at her bloodshot eyes.
‘Yes, I know, Mama,’ Fiona soothed. ‘But you are not his legal wife after all—you said you regretted marrying him so perhaps it is not all bad.’
‘I have allowed a man—an odious individual at that—to take intimate privileges only given under vows to a husband,’ Maude spluttered in a voice of suffocated outrage.
Fiona drew her mother towards a chair and made her sit down, then shot a look at the fellow hovering by the window with his hands clasped behind his back.
Earlier that afternoon, mother and daughter had been drinking their tea and discussing where to head on departing the Pig and Whistle, when the duke’s servant had turned up with a message for Maude. Thankfully it contained just an urgent summons to Thornley Heights. Had it been
any more explicit Fiona knew her mother might have swooned dead away in the tavern’s saloon bar, then even more people would know that, unbelievably, the scandal surrounding the Chapman women had just deepened.
The letter had intrigued both mother and daughter and they’d agreed that they should accept the invitation and go straight away to see His Grace. So they’d packed up their things with Rose’s help, then all ridden in the coach provided by the duke to solve the mystery.
Obliquely, Fiona had been glad to have a distraction to prevent her constantly thinking about Luke. Had he been injured in the confrontation with Collins? Had he sensibly decided to avoid danger and return to London after all? But the most pressing uncertainty was where to go to find him.
At the Pig and Whistle she’d been mulling over ways to tell her mother that she’d fallen in love and was prepared to follow Luke Wolfson to the ends of the earth if need be. She’d now need to bite her tongue on that secret a while longer; it would be too cruel to add to her mother’s anguish when Maude was already on the point of hysterics.
Fiona glanced up as the drawing-room door opened and a young woman entered. Having approached the duke for a brief conversation, the petite brunette then hurried over to Fiona and Maude.
‘Papa has allowed me to come and speak to you, Miss Chapman. I’m so very sad to hear of your troubles.’ Joan cast a sympathetic look on Maude’s bowed head.
‘You must be Joan Thornley.’ Fiona straightened from her crouching position close to her mother’s chair.
‘I am... Oh, sorry to be rude—I should have introduced myself straight away.’ Joan held out her hands and warmly clasped Fiona’s fingers. Following a quick glance at Fiona’s mother, still propping her contorted features in her hands, Joan drew Fiona aside. ‘I know you have also suffered through no fault of your own,’ she whispered, looking chagrined. ‘I very much regret that as well.’
