by M C Beaton
“Oh, get up!” he shouted. “I need help to think, and I can’t think with you caterwauling about the place.”
Jean sat up abruptly, rage drying the tears on her cheeks, thinking of all the worry on his behalf, all the plotting and planning and all he could do was shout at her.
“Now,” he said, sitting down on the bed and throwing a casual arm about her shoulders as he dragged her closer, “read that.”
Jean read the short letter. “‘If you do not bring a sum of money equivalent to half the Courtney fortune and place it in Dead Man’s Oak at the western corner of Chomley Wood by Saturday, I will kill the Misses Courtney.’”
“Kidnapped!” Jean looked at him wide-eyed, forgetting both rage and grief in her amazement. He gave her a little shake. “Think. Let us think. Observe the writing style. Educated and literate. ‘The Misses Courtney’ mark you. Not ‘the young ladies.’ Could those hellcats have thought up this scheme?”
“I cannot believe it,” Jean said. “They have been so good, so very good. Besides, what can two young girls do with the money?”
“Yes, there is that. They have not been abducted by force. No signs of a struggle?”
“Perhaps there are more smugglers,” Jean said with a shiver. “Perhaps one of them crept up to their room during the night and held a pistol to their heads to make them go quietly.”
“Whoever it was would have had to be a bold man indeed. They left by the front door. In fact, Dredwort said he found the hall door unlocked and unbolted and standing wide open. I’m sure they are behind this. If only I could be really sure. Do you know what I would do?”
Jean shook her head dumbly.
“I’d let them rot,” he said savagely.
“Oh, but they may be in deadly peril. They were so affectionate. Amanda even hugged me.”
“I’ll find them. I am sure I shall when I get rid of this curst lawyer. But why the Tulley girls? I cannot be blamed if they are being held for ransom, or appearing to be held for ransom, and I have the letter to prove it.”
“I did think they might just have run away,” Jean said. “The lawyer was coming. I had to do something.”
He stared down at the letter again. “Chomley Wood,” he said slowly. “I’ll bet that’s where they’re hiding out, and that’s where I’ll be tonight as soon as Broome goes to sleep.”
“Take me with you,” Jean begged. “If I have been duped by them, I would feel better if I helped to find them.”
“No, you have done enough,” he said nastily. He gave her a little shake and then dropped a casual kiss on her nose. “Your eyes are all red with crying,” he said. “You look a fright.”
And so Jean Morrison cried a great deal more after he had left the room.
The viscount rode out that night at the head of a small army of cottagers, farmers, and servants. They had been told to dismount—those that were on horseback—and fan out in the woods on foot. It was a bright moonlit night, and they had all been told not to show any torches.
He thought about the evening’s dinner. If he got out of this mess, then he would reward Farmer Tulley and his girls. They had behaved superbly. And Jean Morrison? He had been too harsh with her. She had behaved like a Trojan and with great loyalty. No longer would she need to worry about her future. He would give her a dowry and a generous allowance. With her unusual beauty she would soon find a husband.
When they all reached the outskirts of the woods, he dismounted, tethered his horse, and, whispering instructions to his “army” to be as quiet as possible, he moved softly into the darkness of the woods, searching and listening.
A twig cracked behind him, and he swung around, but there was nothing there, just darkness lit by the odd shaft of moonlight. He reached a clearing and turned around. There was a sort of scuffling sound behind him and then silence. He strode across the clearing quickly and then darted behind the thick trunk of an oak and looked in all directions. A slight figure ran lightly across the clearing and then stopped quite near him. Whoever it was, he could hear him breathing. He moved gently and softly toward the sound until he saw a dark figure just at the edge of the clearing. He removed his pistol from his pocket and leveled it. “Walk into the clearing,” he ordered. “I am holding a gun on you. Put your hands above your head.”
The figure—a boy?—did as it was bid.
“Now let’s see who you are,” he said.
“It is I, my lord,” a shaky voice answered.
He strode forward.
“Miss Morrison?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
She was wearing breeches, a shirt, and a leather waistcoat, and had her thick hair pushed up under a cap. Jean had found the clothes in one of the trunks in the attic.
“What on earth do you think you are doing?”
“I feel it is all my fault,” she said wretchedly. “I wanted to help.”
“Go home. You are not helping at all. This is no place for a woman.”
“Let me come with you,” she begged. “I have sharp senses.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up her hand and sniffed the air. “There! Do you smell it?”
“I smell trees and grass.”
“Smoke. Old smoke. Like the smell of a fire after it has been put out. Follow me.”
She slid quietly into the shelter of the trees, and he followed. She stopped every now and then and sniffed the air, moving all the time slowly forward. And then he could smell it, too, the faint acrid tang of smoke in the air.
He hooted like an owl, the signal to the other searchers that he was on the track of something. Jean moved noiselessly forward. Sometimes he thought she was mistaken, that she had lost the way, but she walked silently and steadily, the smell of smoke and ashes becoming stronger. He could sense the dark shapes of the other searchers closing about them and hooted softly this time to let them know where he was. He was answered by a volley of hoots, and he cursed inwardly. If there were people close by, they would think it odd that the woods were suddenly full of owls.
Jean was beginning to wonder whether she might be mistaken when the trees fell back and there was a glade in front of her, and in the glade, a gypsy caravan.
Basil stirred uneasily and then woke. There were a lot of noisy owls hooting. He cursed the countryside and all in it. The caravan was close and smelly, and the worst of the smell was coming from the Misses Courtney. They were still wearing the clothes in which they had arrived, the clothes they had subsequently played in, climbed trees in, and slept in.
He could never last until the end of the week, he thought miserably, not in such company. They were evil. He was tired of their white faces, their beady little eyes, and their endless greed. He had never known that two young ladies could eat so much. His hand was sore where he had burnt it on the cooking pot. He had stumbled when Amanda had playfully tried to push him into the fire and he had saved himself from falling by grabbing the edge of the large pot. Although he affected to have high morals and a strong religious belief, he had hitherto not believed in any supernatural presence. But now he prayed feverishly to the God he hoped existed, after all, to get him out of this mess.
He decided to go outside and savor the presence of a midnight world that was not polluted with either the smell or the horrible pranks of the Courtney girls.
He opened the door, stood on the step of the caravan, and stretched and yawned.
Then there came the scraping sound of a tinderbox. In the glade one torch sprang into life, then another. He trembled. All around the glade were men, men who were closing in.
The tallest walked forward in the moonlight. He recognized his cousin, Hunterdon, and let out a bleat of fear.
“Who are you, Gypsy, and what are you doing here?” the viscount demanded.
Gypsy? Of course Hunterdon couldn’t recognize him. He broke into gibberish which he fondly hoped they would believe to be Romany. “Dish bonker iddle tum?”
The viscount seized a pine torch from one of the men, walked forward, an
d held it up.
“Basil,” he said in tones of loathing.
“Iggle dimp zuz boo,” Basil said desperately.
“Drag him down and tie him up,” the viscount ordered. He said to Jean, “Come with me.”
Jean followed him up the steps of the caravan as the howling Basil was dragged down onto the grass and bound.
The viscount opened the door. The twins were sleeping heavily. In the light of the torch Jean saw them clearly. They were lying side by side on a narrow bunk, wrapped in each other’s arms.
“And there, if I am not mistaken, are the ones who thought up this scheme,” the viscount said.
“Perhaps he coerced them,” Jean protested. “They look so innocent….”
And then Amanda opened her eyes. Jean had removed her cap, and her red hair tumbled about her shoulders. Amanda’s sleepy eyes widened in surprise as they focused on Jean, and then became filled with such a look of pure hate that Jean took a step back.
“Go outside,” the viscount said to Jean. “Go quickly. I do not want you or that soft heart of yours anywhere near them.”
Jean stumbled outside and sat down on the grass wearily.
She heard the viscount call something, and several of the men went into the caravan.
Her head felt heavy, and she realized she was deathly tired. She lay down on the grass. Let the viscount cope with it all. It was too much for her. She closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.
The viscount gave orders that the girls were to be bound and confined in the caravan under guard until the lawyer had left. Basil was to be put with them. As soon as he was shot of the lawyer, then caravan and prisoners were to be pulled to the castle.
The men were warned that the girls would probably try every trick in the book to escape.
The viscount shook Jean awake. “On your feet, Miss Morrison. I will escort you home.”
Jean rose and stumbled. He put a strong arm around her waist. Holding her close, he led her through the woods, one of the cottagers striding ahead with a blazing torch to light the way.
“I hope he knows where he is going,” Jean said.
“His name is Connan. He knows these woods.”
“Where is your horse?” he asked.
“I walked,” Jean said. “I saw you moving off, so I slipped out of the castle and joined those on foot.”
“No wonder you are exhausted. My hunter can bear both of us.” He threw her up into the saddle and then mounted behind her. “Riding astride and in breeches, Miss Morrison,” he mocked. “Fie for shame.”
Jean sat silently, conscious of his arm around her waist, thinking that she must give up expecting life to be like books. In a book it would not have been tame Basil but some real villain. The viscount would have been overcome by her courage and fortitude. Riding through this beautiful moonlit night, he would have whispered endearments in her ear, not mocked her in that infuriatingly frivolous way of his. Nor would he suddenly spur his horse so that they were speeding through the silent countryside instead of ambling romantically under the moon.
Outside the castle he dismounted and held up his arms, and she slid down wearily into them. “First,” he said, smiling down at her, his eyes glittering in the moonlight, “and before I speak to you further, I have to deal with more important matters.”
“Such as?”
“I must rub down my horse. Poor old Harry is sweating like a pig. Wait for me in the drawing room.”
She went wearily up to her room, thinking inconsequently that he did not think of her as a lady. No gentleman ever talked about sweat in front of a lady.
Betty was waiting for her, and as soon as she had silently helped Jean to wash and change into a gown, Mrs. Moody scratched at the door, begging to be told the news. Jean told the housekeeper to go to the drawing room, and by the time she had joined her there, Dredwort and the other members of the staff who had not joined in the hunt were waiting anxiously.
Jean told them all what had happened, and then, turning to Betty, said, “Mr. Broome will expect to see the girls in the morning. Have them washed and dressed and downstairs by eight, and make sure you wake me first!”
The viscount arrived and the servants filed out, leaving Jean alone with him.
“As soon as the lawyer has gone,” he said abruptly, “I am dealing with Basil and then getting that precious pair on the road to Bath to that special seminary.” He held up his hand, seeing she was about to speak. “No, Miss Morrison, you are not going with us. They will trick you again or do their best to. Now, as to your future.”
Jean clasped her hands in front of her and gazed at him, her eyes wide. “I am much indebted to you. You have endured more perils than any respectable governess should expect to suffer. I shall make you a generous allowance and give you a good dowry. I have an aunt in London, Lady Baxter, who is kind and gentle. I shall write to her on my return and ask her if she will chaperone you during a London Season. It should be easy for you to find a husband.”
Color rose in Jean’s cheeks. “Thank you,” she said faintly. She should be so grateful to him, but inside, a little childlike voice was wailing that she did not want to leave him.
“So you have one more ordeal. We must all act out our parts at breakfast until Mr. Broome leaves. Then I would advise you to sleep as much as you can. Handle my letters and bills. Connan—the man who led us back—his wife is poorly. Ride over and see if she needs the attention of the physician. Mr. Peterman, the agent, will take any orders from you. The men are to go ahead with the work on clearing the gardens at the back. Stewart will be arriving soon with plans for the landscaping but probably not until after my return. I know now Amanda and Clarissa thought up the ransom scheme and lured Basil into it. He is too stupid to have thought up such a thing himself. In return for his perfidy, he will sign a statement renouncing any possible claim to the estates.”
“What will become of the Courtney girls after their stay at the seminary is finished?” Jean asked.
“At the moment, I neither know nor care. Go to bed, Miss Morrison.”
But he did not rise or kiss her hand. He stayed slumped in his chair as she sadly left the room.
Chapter Eight
THE VISCOUNT ARRIVED at the seminary on the outskirts of Bath three days later. Amanda and Clarissa had enlivened the journey by begging and pleading, cajoling and crying, and had finally settled for sulky abuse. They said loudly that he was getting rid of them only so that he could take his pleasure with his whore, Jean Morrison.
He left them in his carriage under guard while he went into the seminary to talk to the principal. He was taken aback. She was a roly-poly, jolly woman wearing a purple silk dress and a huge starched cap. Her voice was somewhat coarse. He knew her to be a Mrs. Davey, but that was all he knew about her.
Her study was ornamented with pretty, spindly furniture and a quantity of bric-a-brac. A long window looked out onto a pleasant garden. He noticed that the window was not barred, and wondered how this woman could keep such a villainous pair as Amanda and Clarissa Courtney incarcerated, or, in fact, do anything with them.
After welcoming him, Mrs. Davey said, “You are lucky we have room for two more, my lord. I knew from your letter that you were contemplating placing your wards with us, but you did not warn us of when you were coming or if you were coming.”
“I must warn you that my wards are criminals,” the viscount said. He settled back and told Mrs. Davey of their smuggling and of their subsequent attempt to appear to have been abducted.
She nodded placidly when he had finished. “Are they virgins?”
He looked at her in surprise. “They are fifteen years.”
“And there are younger prostitutes than that on the streets of London, as you very well know, my lord.”
“I do not know if they are virgins or not,” he said. He eyed her doubtfully. “This seems a pleasant place, Mrs. Davey, not what I expected. Perhaps you do not realize that Amanda and Clarissa should really be in prison.”
A neat servant brought in a tray of tea and cakes, curtsied, and left.
Mrs. Davey poured tea. Then she took out a squat gin bottle and calmly topped up her teacup with a shot before holding the bottle out enquiringly to the viscount, who refused.
“You know my fees?” Mrs. Davey asked.
“Yes.”
“So … very expensive, ain’t they?”
“I noticed that.”
“Well, the reason they are expensive is that I produce successes here. If I did not, no one would send their girls to me. All of them should be in prison, but they come from genteel families who hope to save them. I profit. Bring ’em in and let me have a look at them.”
The viscount went out and returned with Amanda and Clarissa. Mrs. Davey added more gin to her cup and stared at them. She shrugged her fat shoulders. “Nothing out of the common way. Leave them with me, my lord. You will receive quarterly reports. No, I beg of you, do not look so worried. I can cope with anything.”
When the viscount had left, Mrs. Davey, still staring at the two girls, rang the bell on the table beside her and told the maid who answered its summons to fetch Mrs. Grimshaw.
Mrs. Grimshaw turned out to be a tough, wiry, middle-aged woman with a sharp, knowing face. She looked more like a male horse trader than a female schoolmistress.
“Got two new ’uns,” Mrs. Davey said. She looked at Clarissa. “Name?”
“Clarissa,” she mumbled.
“So the one with the eyebrows must be Amanda. Right, Mrs. Grimshaw, Clarissa looks the softer one. She’s to start work in the dairy and keep her at it for a year. The other one, Amanda, is to start work in the carpentry shop right away.”
“This is slave labor,” Amanda cried. “We are not peasants.”
“No, lovey. Just be thankful you ain’t on the treadmill in prison, where you belong. You’re the ringleader. I’ve met your sort before … many times. You will not be able to communicate with your sister at all, at any time. Now, get to work.”
“Shan’t!” Amanda shouted.
