The Counterfeit Cavalier, Volumes One Through Four: The Complete Edition

by Lydia M Sheridan

  Constable Mackey looked as unhappy as it was possible for a man of the law, on the track of a famous criminal, to be.

  “In that case, lad, I hereby detain you in the name of His Majesty, King George, on the grounds of highway robbery.” The constable pulled out a pair of wrist irons and clapped them on the prisoner.

  The accused went quietly, and with much more dignity than displayed by his accuser. Heady with excitement, Mr. Weilmunster dogged the constable’s footsteps, giving directions and making suggestions until Mackey turned and said sharply, “Mr. Weilmunster, I’m the constable here, I’ll thank you to remember.” Mr. Dalrymple, with one last fulminating glance at Kate which promised retribution of the worst kind, followed the constable across the dance floor, his mince gone in favor of a manly stride, his head held straight instead of at a foppish angle. Just as he placed his foot on the lowest step, the crowd burst into a spontaneous round of applause. Surprised, he turned to look and a voice rang out: "Three cheers for the Grey Cavalier!”

  “Hip hip, hoorah! Hip hip, hoorah! Hip hip, hoorah!” The applause grew louder, continuing so he could hear it down the street to the Constable’s small office, where he was relieved of his valuables in preparation for being escorted to the ancient stone roundhouse on the green.

  "Tell me, Mackey,” he asked as he ducked his head to enter the tiny building. “Is there but one law-abiding citizen in this entire county?”

  The constable scratched his head thoughtfully. “Why, yes, sir. There be Adam Weilmunster.” He paused reflectively. "Sure, 'tis the reason he is not liked overmuch.”

  So saying, he swung closed the heavy oak door, locked it, and left his prisoner to fume in peace, quiet, and damp.

  ***

  Edmund paced back and forth across the floor. He found out very quickly that only two steps in any direction merely brought him another stone wall and another bump to his already abused forehead, so disdaining the spindly wood chair, he grasped the bars of the tiny slit laughingly referred to as a window, and peered out at the village surrounding him.

  He, Edmund Middleton, seventh Marquis of Granville, was rotting away in the Oaksley roundhouse. His cover was effectively blown, ending his first job as spy. The Lady--if one could call her that--Katherine Thoreau had bested him in a duel of wits. And worst of all, if Napoleon escaped again, England, her economy weakened by the circulation of false coin, could very easily fall to the upstart emperor. Edmund gritted his teeth, wondering what had possessed him to flirt with that woman. A harpy, that’s what she was, and a common thief, to boot.

  Unable to contain his impatience, he jerked on the door once more, as if it might have mysteriously become unlocked in the seconds since he’d last tried it. From the window, he could see the lights of the Assembly Hall. Carriages had been called and the revelers began to filter slowly out, laughing and calling to one another. Not a few cast curious glances toward the roundhouse. Several villagers, strolling home across the green, gave him a civil nod in passing.

  With a sigh, Edmund sat down backwards on the hard chair, crossed his arms on the back, and settled down to wait until the village was slumbering. It was a long wait, but in the meantime, he entertained himself by imagining Lady Katherine in various poses of humility or danger, from which, inexplicably, he felt himself called upon to rescue her.

  But finally, just as he was ready to tear down the roundhouse stone by stone, the last doors closed and windows shut in the cottages around the green. Now the only sign of life was the sliver of light coming from the window of the taproom at the Lady and the Scamp, far across the post road.

  “Finally,” he muttered softly to himself. Plunking his numb derriere back on the chair, Edmund yanked off his patent-leather pump, flicking open the secret compartment in the heel. Into his palm fell a shiny brass pass partout.

  Stuffing his foot back in the shoe, he mentally thanked dandies in general, and Cousin Alphonse in particular, for it was he from whom Edmund had acquired his outrageous raiment, including the hollow-heeled pumps. With another cautious glance out the window, he stretched his arm as far as he could through the iron-slatted window of the door, and rattled the key in the lock.

  With a click, the lock opened. Another couple of yanks and rattles, and it fell to the ground. With bated breath, Edmund paused once more, listening, straining to hear anyone approaching in the blackness. But not a sound disturbed the night, so he slipped out of the roundhouse, carefully setting the lock behind him. With a final glance around, he slipped across the green, keeping to the shadows. Across the dusty post road, he stepped into the stable behind the inn, and quietly stole a horse.

  ***

  Kate paused at the low stone wall, listening for any movement. In a thicket, Diana stood patiently, nibbling at a few blades of grass which poked through the carpet of fallen leaves. Far down in the valley lay the village, dark and quiet, surrounded on three sides by the River Inswith flowing calm and smoothly silver. All about her the night was still. Even the wind didn’t blow, as if to compensate for the previous night’s rain.

  Satisfied she was alone, Kate hopped over the crumbling wall and into the wilderness which was once the formal gardens of Wallingford Castle. Determinedly, she pushed her way uphill through the heavy undergrowth of scrub trees and blackberry bushes that had run wild over what was once the pride and joy of the Family Wallingford. Village gossip had it that the last Wallingford, Old Man Jacob, had gone stark, staring mad and died behind these walls of an overfondness of brandy, the French pox, or various combinations of the two. But that was almost one hundred years ago, and Kate had known the Castle only as an exciting, romantic place to play. But she hadn’t been here in years and the darkness made it almost impossible to discern the remains of the path beneath the undergrowth.

  Thorns tugged at her skirts as she doggedly pushed ahead, keeping one hand out in front of her face to protect herself against the protruding branches. It was slow going, because she had to keep stopping to orient herself in the dark, sometimes parting the branches above in order to get the faint light of the starry night sky.

  Disoriented as to distance, if it hadn’t been for the stone urn over which she stumbled, Kate would have missed the Italianate terrace completely and gone tumbling down the steep hill. Instead, she overbalanced, falling backwards down a shallow flight of stone steps, cushioned by a thick layer of moss and other debris. She managed to claw her way up through the bushes and realized she had somehow found what she was seeking: The Grotto of Love, so named because dozens of assignations had taken place over the years under the white marble statues of Apollo and Daphne.

  Kate caught herself wearing a silly smile as she eased back the door on the small lantern she carried. Why, it must have been almost a decade ago that she and Tom Appleby--

  Her thoughts broke off as her fingers found the third rose down from the sixth bunch of grapes on the carved marble trellis on the back wall of the grotto. When the wall gave way on oiled hinges, her heart raced in excitement.

  The lantern flame flickered in the sudden draft. Kate, overcome by a jolt of common sense, stepped away and picked up a rock. Taking a deep breath, she ducked into the low opening. Before her stretched a long tunnel, disappearing in an endless darkness beyond the reach of her small lantern.

  The walls were of large stones plowed from the surrounding fields centuries ago, now concealed in this secret place, leading to mysterious rooms far beneath the ground. Carefully, she placed the rock at the opening of the doorway and eased the marble door gently against it in case she needed to exit in a hurry.

  Now, all she had to do was march down the long, dank, dark corridor. Yes, just put one foot in front of the other and traipse down the tunnel.

  Kate took a deep breath of damp, mildew-scented air. And another. One more and she began to feel lightheaded, which was better than scared, she decided, and gathered the courage to walk down the tunnel.

  It was smaller than she remembered and much wetter. The stone walls
were cold and covered with a sheen of dampness. After several yards, the path forked. To the left, the hard-packed earth sloped slightly upward. To the right, slightly down. After a moment’s deliberation, Kate turned right. It had been years since she’d explored beneath the Castle, but she was positive this way led to the underground river and the great cavern. Or perhaps it led to the cliff high above the rushing underground river. She flipped a mental coin, remembered the reward, and soldiered on.

  Walking carefully, she cupped her hand in front of the lantern door so as not to allow too much light to precede her, giving away her presence. Every few feet she paused to listen, but heard only her own rapid breathing and the rhythm of her heart. It seemed forever before the tunnel plunged steeply downwards and the ghostly tinkle of running water came to her ears. The tunnel came to an abrupt end, with openings to the right and left. Still shielding her lantern, Kate backed up against the wall, slowly easing forward to peek around the corners. At first she saw an expanse of stone passage, glowing dimly yellow in the light of her lantern. The noise from the river escalated into a dull roar, then out of the river’s rush she heard the unmistakable pounding of footsteps. Quickly she fumbled to shut the lantern door, plunging the tunnel into damp blackness. She paused to listen, though every nerve and muscle screamed at her to run. The footsteps were coming closer and closer, louder and louder. At last she was able to discern their direction: from the cliff over the cavern, directly toward her. She stood rooted to the spot in utter panic. The footsteps slowed, then began again, growing fainter till they faded into the distance.

  Kate leaned against the wall, weak with relief. Then she realized she’d missed what might have been her best chance at catching a counterfeiter. She shook her head in disgust at her own fear. Was she, or was she not an extraordinarily successful highwayman, respected and, yes, feared throughout the parish? For pity’s sake, she was a disgrace to the name Thoreau.

  Plastering herself against flat against the damp stone wall, she edged a few steps forward. Her hand reached out, touching cold stone, then nothing. Pulling her cloak close, she bent low and slipped around the left corner. The hard-packed earth floor gave way to loose gravel which crunched and gave under every step.

  Never had black been murkier than in the thick heaviness of the cavern. It was a risk, but she opened the lantern door the merest sliver and found herself standing on a natural balcony formed of rock, which loomed over a gaping black emptiness. Far below, the underground river which fed into the River Inswith gurgled musically. The sounds echoed over and over in the enormous, though unseen, chamber, building to a rushing roar which hurt her ears.

  Kate held the lantern high as she cautiously edged farther out along the balcony. The light didn’t even begin to make a dent in the inky gloom, but she was positive down below was the spit of land jutting into the river. After pausing to listen for footsteps, she eased the lantern completely open. Light spilled out across the huge nothingness. Sure enough, far below and across the river was the peninsula.

  Fiddle. She was precisely across the river from where she meant to go.

  Kate considered her options. At one time there had been a rope ladder which some of the boys had used to cross the lake. If she could only find it now, she could swing over to the other side, catch the counterfeiters, and claim that reward by tomorrow.

  Kate normally considered herself most fortunate that she was, in fact, a Thoreau, and therefore had great courage and fortitude, but even so a little voice of reason kept screaming "No!” in the back of her mind. But she found, rather to her dismay, that her fear of heights was not quite as great as her fear of the counterfeiter prowling the tunnels, probably very willing to kill her to protect himself.

  Five thousand pounds, she reminded herself. The fate of England, she reiterated.

  Slowly, so slowly, Kate crept farther out along the balcony, keeping her hand against the damp stone wall. As she gazed into the rushing waters below, tiny ripples on the surface barely shimmered in the light of her lantern.

  Carefully, she swung the lantern from side to side in search of the old rope. It then occurred to her that she made an excellent target, flinging the lantern about, to any who might be watching her from down below. But the idea of retracing her steps, possibly getting lost, was more frightening than getting shot. The very idea of what she was about to do made her shake. Over and over again her eyes drew again to the rushing waters of death below. Unaccustomed tears sprang into her eyes. Her throat went dry and her head spun. Finally, on the far side of the balcony, Kate spotted a length of rope tied round a rock. She edged back the way she came for several feet, still keeping her hand to the wall.

  One step, then another. One more and she’d be there. She took a gingerly step, but a loose bit of gravel rolled under her boot and she fell. Swallowing a shriek, she twisted, clutching desperately for the rope as she skidded toward the precipice. Her fingers caught hold of the rough hemp. For a moment it held, but before she could brace herself, the rotted fibers gave way and the momentum of her fall propelled her forward. With a suppressed scream, she fell hard on a small boulder and grabbed for it. Helplessly, she watched as the lantern, its flame flickering wildly over the rock walls, rolled to the balcony’s edge and plunged over. There was a pause, then a splash, as thick, utter blackness descended upon the Great Cavern.

  Paralyzed with fear, Kate lay where she’d fallen, arms wrapped about the boulder. Mindlessly, she whispered a curse, then every other curse she’d ever heard her father, grandfather, and stable hands use. Some she didn’t even understand, but the full-bodied flavor of the consonants rolled off her tongue in a satisfying way which gave her courage.

  Then she realized she’d have to get up and walk from the balcony, out the small entry hole, down the path to the grotto door--or was it up the path? Right or left? Which was which? I write with my left hand, she analyzed. I turned right to get in here, so turn left. Right. No, left then right at the path fork. Her barely-banked fear came back full bore. Kate tried cursing again, but the magic had worn off, no match against the blackness and sheer drop into a black river of certain death.

  Deciding that discretion was indeed the better part of valor, Kate stayed on all fours, unwilling to take the chance to stand, only to lose her bearings in the darkness and plunge headlong over the cliff. Such was not the way she’d planned to meet her maker.

  On hands and knees, her skirts and cloak tangling in her legs, Kate inched her way backward till she touched the wall with her shoe tips. With great care, she sat up, then stood, pressing her back against the wall. Some of her blind fear drained away now she had her back to the wall--no one could come up behind and push her over the edge.

  Now safe, her common sense, flimsy though it was, told her that to confront desperate criminals with no light was a trifle foolhardy, even for her. With no thought in her mind save that of getting safely out of the underground maze of tunnels, she felt along the wall until her fingers found the opening to the tunnel. Anxious to get out of there, she turned to flee, only to bang smack into clammy stone.

  Kate pressed her hand to her cheek. “Bloody hell!”

  Her heart almost leaped out of her chest when a disembodied voice whispered in her ear.

  “'Tis better to light a single candle than to curse the darkness.’”

  The words bounced off the stone, echoing eerily in the immense chamber. Kate’s skin crawled, the hackles rising on her neck like a dog’s. She wondered who was screaming and realized it was herself. Blending with the noise from the river, a cacophony of sound echoed wildly, until it seemed as though all the devils of hell were in the cavern with her, in front, behind, to the side. There was nowhere to run, no place to hide. Hot tears of fright stung her eyes and rolled down her cheeks as she braced herself to die.

  Footsteps came faster, nearer, louder. In the pitch blackness, she felt rather than saw a shape whip around the corner. Without hesitation, she stuck her foot out and the figure fell sprawling to
the ground. Automatically, she reached for the pistol in her waistband, forgetting she wasn’t wearing her Cavalier ensemble. She fumbled in the pocket of her cloak, but lost precious seconds and never saw the vicious punch which sent her crashing backwards into the stone wall.

  Her head cracked against solid rock. For a split second, she was conscious, willing herself the strength to fight, but the pain crashed over her in waves. The pistol rolled uselessly from her grasp and she slid down the wall into a heap on the balcony floor.

  ***

  By the time Edmund fought his way through the underbrush to a clearing just below the castle’s massive keep, he was battered, bruised, scratched, torn, and covered with what he strongly suspected was poison oak.

  Thankfully, the information he’d entranced out of the local misses at the assembly that evening proved extraordinarily precise, even in the black autumn night. What these young girls were doing with that sort of information would curl his liver if he was their brother or father. He made a mental note to keep any future daughter of his own locked up and burdened with an omnipresent duenna, those proper ladies so dreaded by randy soldiers in Spain.

  Treading carefully, he eased down the overgrown path, rounded the corner by the disused fountain and nearly shouted. Right in his path stood a glowing ghost of a woman with leaves growing out of her hair and hands. Behind her was a man, also white, reaching toward the maiden with both arms outstretched. Whew. Edmund mopped his brow. Daphne and Apollo. He’d found the grotto.

  His instructions had been less clear on whether it was the second or third bunch of grapes--or was it the fourth apple? But in any case, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or apprehensive that the door was standing open.

  Edmund pulled his pistol out of his pocket and held it down at his side. War was a terrible business. Blood, fear, the stench of death, but it was something he understood and was experienced in, fighting alongside soldiers trained as he was. With Lady Katherine, he pretty much believed she’d get overly dramatic and shoot on sight. And he’d be damned if he’d allow her to get the better of him this time.