The Thief of Lanwyn Manor
Page 1
Dedication
This novel is dedicated to K.J.N. – in loving memory
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Acclaim for Sarah E. Ladd
Books by Sarah E. Ladd
Copyright
Prologue
Cornwall, 1807
Tregarthan Hall
Isaac Blake regretted his actions, but had there been any other choice?
Even now, as censure brewed in Father’s hard hazel eyes, Isaac tensed in anticipation of the inescapable reprimand.
Seconds passed.
Perspiration gathered on Isaac’s brow, and he clasped his hands behind his back, resisting the itching urge to wipe it away. He wished his father would say something—anything. Even a sound scolding would be better than the deafening silence.
With his head still bowed Isaac snuck a glance at his twin brother, Matthew, who stood a few feet away from him in their father’s study. Dirt smeared his tanned left cheek and clumped in his tousled fair hair, and already a bruise had formed beneath his bloodshot eye.
Guilt twisted Isaac’s stomach. Now he had no choice but to take his punishment like a man.
Their father, Joseph Blake, stood from behind his heavy oak desk and squared his broad shoulders. As he rounded the desk and stepped closer, Isaac’s courage and resolve faded.
“What were you thinking to strike your brother?” he thundered, his forthright stare uncomfortably direct.
Isaac bit his lip and focused on the rip in the knee of his trousers.
“Young man, you will look at me when I speak to you!”
Isaac jerked his face upward.
“I’m waiting for your answer.”
Isaac swallowed the lump in his dry throat as a dozen explanations raced through his mind. His father would accept no less than the truth. Isaac had been angry, but his actions were justified. Yet Father would see any reason, however viable, as an excuse.
With a sharp inhale, Isaac straightened the full height of his fourteen years and lifted his chin. “I’ve no explanation, sir.”
Father’s square jaw clenched, and he stared down at Isaac for several unending seconds before he shifted to face Matthew. “Our copper mine provides work for more than half the men in this village. Half. One day when I’m gone, you’ll both be leaders, whether you fancy the notion or not. No sons of mine will be sparring in the public lane like ragamuffins. I expect more out of you than this behavior. Much more. The two of you will work together to repair the fence you broke during your scuffle, and furthermore, you’ll work in the stable for the groom until you earn enough money to pay for the repairs.”
“But that’s not fair!” Matthew’s hazel eyes flashed. “Isaac attacked me. I did nothing wrong! I was defending myself.”
“Your brother bears as many bruises as you,” Father snapped. “You both fell through the church fence, and you’ll both make reparations. My decision is final. Matthew, go. Isaac, stay.”
With a huff Matthew whirled, aimed a red-faced glare at Isaac, and stomped from the chamber.
Isaac held his breath as the sound of Matthew’s footsteps dissipated, his sweaty, dirty hands still clasped behind his back, turmoil warring within him as he waited for the unavoidable punishment that would be, he suspected, far worse than merely rebuilding a fence.
Father’s voice lowered, but it did not soften. “Well? Are you going to tell me what happened?”
Isaac studied the mud-caked toe of his boot. He could tell him how Matthew had taunted Charlie Benson and poked fun at his poverty. He could tell him how Matthew had ridiculed Charlie’s father and demeaned their way of life. Or that Matthew’s words were so cruel that Isaac had to silence his brother any way he could.
But something held him back.
Seconds stretched out in the late-afternoon heat. The air he inhaled felt thicker and steamier with each breath. The sun must have retreated behind a cloud, for a shadow slid over the cluttered study. His father finally broke the stare and folded his arms over his barrel chest. “Ah, I see. I’ve demanded an explanation, but you don’t wish to betray your brother. Or yourself.”
Isaac swallowed and diverted his eyes. How his father always seemed to know what he was thinking never ceased to astonish him.
“The fact is, Son, I don’t care why you hit your brother. Whether it was justified or not, it doesn’t matter.”
Isaac twitched.
“What concerns me is whether or not you learn a lesson. Violence may seem like a viable option, but it’s never the right method with which to prove a point.” He stepped to the large bank of leaded windows behind the desk and motioned for Isaac to join him.
Isaac did as bid, and for several seconds he surveyed Tregarthan Hall’s broad green lawn, slightly tinged with brown from the recent lack of rain.
“Tell me.” Father pointed his forefinger toward the north. “What do you see?”
Isaac lifted his gaze beyond the grounds and the tree line to the tall, redbrick stack of Wheal Gwenna’s engine house. No smoke puffed from the stack. It emitted no sound. “I see Wheal Gwenna.”
“That’s all you see? A closed copper mine? Nothing more?”
Isaac squinted and studied the landscape—the blue Cornish sky, the gathering gray clouds, the cluster of white seabirds soaring above it all. But he saw nothing else.
“When you look at that, you shouldn’t see just a closed mine, boy. You should see your future. One day that mine will be yours—yours and yours alone. There’s copper in her yet, and it will be up to you to lead others to success.”
Isaac huffed and sank back. He didn’t want to hear about Wheal Gwenna. Wheal Tamsen, the family’s main mine, was the only one that mattered. Matthew, older by three minutes, would inherit both it and Tregarthan Hall one day. He’d be responsible for carrying the family’s rich legacy. Isaac, however, would receive the cast-off mine that had not been opened since before he was born, and yet Father spoke of it as if it were a great prize.
As if sensing Isaac’s disbelief, Father grabbed his shoulder and forced Isaac to look him in the eye. “
Don’t scoff, lad. ’Tis an opportunity—a great one that many young men would risk life and limb for, and it’s being handed to you. You must start preparing for such a responsibility now.”
Isaac sniffed and swiped his ripped sleeve over his dirty nose. “How?”
“Everything you do enhances or tarnishes your reputation, including a brawl with your brother, regardless of the reason behind it. Others will judge you by your actions, even at your age.”
The words rang harshly in Isaac’s ears as he recalled the cluster of miners who had seen them arguing and the vicar who had pulled him off Matthew.
“Your reputation as a leader, as a good judge of character, and as a levelheaded man will be invaluable when you are older. I don’t doubt that your brother probably did something unacceptable, but there is always another way to defuse a situation. Always.”
Remorse surged in, bitter and strong. It warmed his face and tightened his throat.
Father was right, of course.
He was always right.
But why was it so hard to control his temper?
“Isaac—you possess a maturity beyond your years. I tell you this not to puff your pride, but rather to increase your awareness of it. If the only way we respond to anger is with our fists, the balance of life will never be steady. No, it must not be. You and your brother are very different souls, and you both have lessons to learn. But you are bound, and time must strengthen your bond. Do not let it weaken it.”
The truth of his father’s words struck more sharply than his brother’s blows. Isaac could only nod in agreement.
His father squeezed his shoulder. “Hear me, Son. Family is the only thing on which you can rely.”
Chapter 1
Cornwall, 1818
Julia Twethewey never considered what it would feel like to look down the barrel of a flintlock pistol.
Her blood froze. She could not move. She could not blink.
All she could do was stare at the metal barrel mere inches from her nose.
The masked man snaked closer, his narrow black eyes fixed on her, like a rabid hunter poised to pounce. “Where’s your uncle?”
He knew Uncle William? But how?
She stammered, searching for a response. “I—I don’t know.”
“Ha!” The man, barely taller than she, sneered as he jerked his gloved thumb toward the chairs behind him. “Is he hiding like a thief under the table there? Wouldn’t doubt it. ’Fraid o’ what’s comin’ to him, and for good reason.”
Two other men, masked and equally as filthy and gruff as the perpetrator before her, emerged from the Gray Owl Inn’s darkened corners and approached them. She’d not noticed them before, when she had been sitting at the corner table, sipping her tea, but now the fire in the broad hearth cast flickering shadows over their sloppy forms, and they loomed larger than life.
She drew a sharp breath and scanned the sleepy, low-ceilinged taproom for someone—anyone—who could help her. Two elderly men sat at a table to her left, and a cluster of patrons gathered in the corner. All stared, wide-eyed and aghast, but without weapons they were as helpless as she.
The man drew even closer, and his putrid, unwashed scent encircled her. “Ol’ Lambourne must be a bigger fool than we thought. What sort o’ man would leave his niece—a lady—unguarded? Tsk, tsk. Somethin’ bad might happen.”
He nodded toward the small pouch clutched in her fist and stretched out his hand. “Your bag.”
She clutched her reticule even tighter until her fingers ached, then slid her gaze from the dark-gray metal back up to the hard eyes of the man holding the weapon. She extended her reticule.
“Ah, there we are!” He snatched it from her, as if it were some great treasure. With a grotesque smack of lips from behind the sullied kerchief covering his face, he jingled the velvet bag before he tossed it to one of the other men, who ripped into the delicate woven fabric and dumped the contents on the table.
Her embroidered handkerchief and two coins tumbled out, clattering against the table’s worn, pitted wood.
Her attacker’s movements slowed as he assessed the meager contents, and then he whirled toward her. “You ’spect me to believe a lady such as yerself’s got no money?”
She pressed her lips together. How she wished she had more to give him so he would go away, but all of her belongings were still in her uncle’s carriage. Hot tears gathered in her eyes, and she struggled to control the quivering of her chin. “’Tis all I have.”
He scoffed. “I’m sure you had some fancy teacher what taught you ’tis a sin to lie.” He straightened suddenly and shifted his attention to her cloak’s lacy trim.
Julia flinched as he reached out to touch it.
“Give me your cloak,” he barked.
“Excuse me?”
“Your cloak! Or should I take it off you meself?”
With jittery fingers she loosened the satin ribbon at her throat to release the article. She couldn’t pull it from her shoulders fast enough, and once it was free she hurled it in his direction.
He seized it as it dropped to the ground, rubbed the fine wool fabric between his dirt-caked fingers, then tossed it to the man behind him.
He stepped nearer still.
Uncontrollable trembling seized her. She had nothing left to give him.
Why was he not leaving?
She wanted to look away, wanted to look at anything besides the fearsome, ugly beast before her, but her gaze was locked on the man whose trigger finger could affect her mortality.
He lifted a hand toward her face, and Julia winced, as if bracing for a strike, but instead, he pinched a long, black tendril that cascaded from beneath her bonnet.
His eyes, their muddy depths invasive, were inches from hers as he studied the lock. “Yes, very pretty.”
Julia refused to be a woman who succumbed to fainting spells, but at this moment, with this foul creature before her, she feared it would come to that.
Suddenly a baritone voice boomed from her left. “Enough. You’ve got what you wanted. Now go.”
Julia gasped.
Her assailant released her hair and stumbled back, smacked by the interruption.
A tall, blond man stood paces from them, his stance wide, his shoulders broad, his hands fisted. The fire’s light illuminated his jaw’s firm set. No fear wrote itself into his features. Instead, annoyance and anger radiated from his eyes as they latched onto the robber.
And yet regardless of his bravery, the blond man was still at the mercy of the assailant with the pistol.
They all were.
The masked man aimed the pistol at the newcomer and swaggered toward him. He snatched a pocket watch from the blond man’s waist, visible from beneath the cape of his greatcoat, held it up, flipped it over, and read the inscription. “Joseph Blake? That you?”
The blond man’s shadowed eyes narrowed. “No. My father.”
The thief looked over his shoulder. “D’ya hear that, lads? We got ourself a high-and-mighty Blake here.” He chuckled and stuffed the timepiece in his own pocket and raised an unkempt brow. “There now, Mr. Blake. I know of you. The family what runs Wheal Tamsen. But I doubt you know who I be.”
“No, I don’t. And I’m not sure I want to.”
“Soon you’ll know my face well enough, and you’ll not forget it either, especially when the day of reckoning comes and you and your kind rot for what you’ve done to decent, hardworking folk.”
The hammer on a rifle clicked behind her. Julia whirled to face the sound. The gray-headed barkeep seemed to have materialized from nowhere and now stood behind his counter, rifle pointed at the man with the pistol.
Within seconds he took aim.
He fired.
A ball whizzed through the air—loud. Unearthly. Acrid. Julia screamed and collapsed to her knees, covered her head, and squeezed her eyes shut, as if by doing so she could shut out the sounds, the scents.
Shuffling. Screams.
More shots rang ou
t.
White smoke choked her.
Strong arms shoved her the rest of the way to the ground, and a heavy weight covered her. At first she resisted, but as lead balls flew above her and glass shattered around her, she let her body go limp.
“Stay down,” Mr. Blake ordered.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the shuffling stopped. The shouts and voices retreated.
Then everything was still.
“Stay here.” The man pushed himself off of her.
She did not respond, she did not even move, until he was several paces away from her. She lifted her head in time to catch a glimpse of the back of his wide shoulders as he hurried into the gathering night.
Julia pushed herself up, there on the dirty floor of the Gray Owl Inn, and blinked as she looked around.
She was alone.
Abandoned.
And terribly, terribly frightened.
Chapter 2
Heart thumping, pulse hammering, Isaac burst from the confines of the low-ceilinged taproom out to the inn’s muddy courtyard.
Dusk was falling, bringing with it a damp, thick mist that shrouded High Street running through the village of Goldweth. It mingled with the lingering smoke making it nearly impossible to see anything at a distance, and the sharp, bitter wind did little to dissipate the sulfuric scent of gunpowder burning his nose or the perspiration beading on his brow. Chest heaving, Isaac straightened his hat and looked left, then right.
But he was too late.
The three brigands were gone, and all was eerily silent. With the exception of the Lambourne carriage, the driver attempting to calm his harnessed horses, and a small gathering in the center of the courtyard, everyone else who’d been present had dispersed.
He expelled his breath in one swoosh of frustration. This was not what he’d expected when he and Charlie Benson left their work at Tamsen mine and entered the unassuming Gray Owl Inn for their supper. When they’d arrived at the narrow courtyard, Benson had been detained at the courtyard gate by a talkative friend, but Isaac had proceeded to the taproom and entered the inn at just the right—or wrong—time.
The wind caught the folds of his greatcoat as he approached his friend and the innkeeper, who stood at the courtyard’s gate.