Hunting for Silence (Storm and Silence Book 5)

by Robert Thier

  ‘Definitely. Among other things, how to do sums in your head because he doesn’t want to waste paper.’ I pointed at a row in his calculations. ‘That should be two hundred seventeen, not sixteen.’

  ‘Oh. Blast! Thank you, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. So you’re on your way to Dover. Will you be going to Paris, too?’

  ‘Yes.’ He beamed, seeming pleased by the idea. ‘Mr Wallace had some confidential papers he needed delivered to our branch in the city, so I immediately volunteered.’ His eyes took on a dreamy hue. ‘It is the city of love, after all.’

  I blinked. ‘It is?’

  ‘Oh yes. They say even the most hard-hearted of men will behave like a romantic fool in Paris.’

  ‘Do they, now?’ I leant back, trying hard not to smile. That was interesting information. This trip might end up being more interesting than I had expected.

  Mr Phelps and I continued to chat for quite a bit, and by the time the innkeeper brought us another round of drinks and I had done most of his balance sheet for him, we were fast friends. And, apparently, we were about to become even faster.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen?’ The innkeeper came in from the yard. ‘I see the coach arrivin’ outside. Please check if ye ‘ave any baggage left be’ind. Once the coach is ‘ere, the driver will want to leave quickly to keep his schedule, and there won’t be no chance to turn around.’

  I swallowed.

  Right then and there, it sank in. I was really going to do this. I was going to travel several hundred miles, half of that through a country whose bloody language I didn’t speak, without a single person to watch my back.

  Get a grip, Lilly! He’s in danger. He needs you, even if he’ll never admit it himself. Go get your man!

  We all started climbing into the coach. Luckily, the innkeeper had been right. There indeed was plenty of room. I could even stretch my legs a little. On my left sat Mr Phelps, and on my right was an empty spot just waiting to be used for a little nap later. This was going to be a comfortable ride.

  ‘Is that everyone?’ the driver asked. ‘Well, then—’

  ‘Wait! Wait for us!’

  Turning to the coach’s window, I saw two figures rushing towards us. Women—one middle-aged and one younger one, with expensive-looking dresses and ridiculously large cases.

  ‘Do you have reservations?’ the driver asked, annoyed.

  ‘No, but we do have money,’ the middle-aged woman panted, pulling a purse out of her pocket.

  The driver, not one to argue with the root of all evil if it had the face of the queen stamped on it, pulled open the coach door.

  ‘Welcome to the party, ladies.’

  Smiling at each other with relief, the two women stepped up to the coach and looked up at the passengers inside. The younger woman, for some reason, seemed to focus her eyes on me. She was pretty, I supposed, with pale skin, a slim figure and light brown hair that fell all the way down her back, but the way she was staring at me was rather creepy. I nodded at her and smiled. Still, she didn’t look away. She wiggled her eyebrows. Then she cleared her throat.

  My brow furrowed in concern. ‘Are you ill? Would you like a cough drop?’

  Mr Phelps nudged me in the ribs. ‘I believe,’ he whispered, ‘she wishes for a gentleman to help her into the coach.’

  ‘She does? So why aren’t any of them moving?’

  ‘Um…well…’

  Oh crap. Right. I was a gentleman.

  Well, ‘man’ maybe, in this getup. I didn’t know about ‘gentle’. Still, I extended my arm and helped the two ladies climb up the steps they would have been perfectly able to climb themselves if they’d just set their minds to it. Then I saw that their luggage was still standing outside.

  ‘You forgot your suitcases,’ I pointed out helpfully.

  The older lady gave me a cool look. I looked back. Mr Phelps gave me another nudge in the ribs.

  ‘I believe it’s a gentleman’s duty to help a lady with her luggage.’

  ‘Oh, it is, is it?’

  Sighing, I slid out of the coach. The old dame gave me a triumphant look, and the girl chirped, ‘Thank you so much, Sir. We are ever so much obliged to you.’

  ‘No problem,’ I told her, took hold of her suitcase—and instantly revised my opinion. It was a problem. A bloody heavy problem.

  ‘What the heck did you put in there? Half a brick house? A collection of medieval suits of armour?’

  The older lady gave me a supreme look that reminded me of Aunt Brank. Flicking open her fan, she gave me a wave that said, ‘Get on with it, will you?’

  God, did I miss being able to be rude!

  Groaning curses in several languages that I hoped the ladies couldn’t understand, I dragged the cases towards the luggage rack at the back of the coach. Bloody hell! Being a gentleman was too much for any sane person! Why did those women have to be such lazy, good-for-nothing parasites, who were nothing but a bane on the life of an honest, hard-working man and—

  Then I realised what I was thinking and dropped a suitcase on my big toe.

  ‘Ouch! Ow! Damn and blast it to hell!’

  That, to judge by the outraged whispers coming from the carriage, the older lady had heard and understood. Right now, I didn’t care. She could go boil her head in wine sauce, if she wanted!

  Huffing and puffing, I pushed the last case into its place and returned to the carriage door, wiping sweat off my forehead. Only when I sank down in my seat and wanted to lean back for a nice little nap did I notice that the seat beside me was now occupied. The girl smiled up at me.

  ‘Thank you so much, Mr…?’

  ‘Linton,’ I panted and then realised that she’d just finagled an introduction out of me. Damn! ‘Victor Linton. How do you do, Miss…?’

  ‘Emilia Harse. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Linton.’ The girl gazed up at me with big adoring eyes. I don’t really know how she managed it, seeing as she was technically taller than I was. Impressive. ‘I’m so glad we have a big, strong man like you along with us on this journey.’

  The older lady—probably her mother—gave a sniff. ‘Yes, very strong indeed, Emilia. I hope you did not break anything in my suitcase when you dropped it, Mr Linton. There are some very precious valuables in there.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I reassured her with a saccharine smile. ‘Luckily, its fall was broken by my foot. Although it felt the other way around.’

  She sniffed again and hid her face behind an issue of what I’d like to do it. Punch.[1]

  The girl—Emilia—glanced over at me. She looked as though, for some reason, she wanted to talk to me. So I quickly turned towards Mr Phelps and started a conversation about balance sheets, guaranteed to bore anyone within a radius of fifty yards to death. The strategy worked. Soon, young Emilia appeared to have lost all interest, and I could settle down for the nap I so badly needed. The excitement of my flight had taken its toll, and despite the rumbling of the coach, I drifted off quickly.

  When I awoke, jolted awake by a pothole, we had left the city behind us. Emilia and her mother both seemed as sleepy as I had been before my little rest. Mr Phelps was still frantically calculating, and the other passengers were dimly staring into the emptiness that develops wherever people are squeezed together who don’t know one another well enough to talk.

  Outside, a moonlit landscape was whizzing past. With every passing minute, we were moving farther away from home. I glanced at the other people in the carriage. I didn’t really know any of them. Not even Mr Phelps. And it was a long way to France.

  Suddenly, I felt very alone.

  Instinctively, I leant over to the window and looked back to where the glittering lights of good old London Town were just visible in the dark. A shiver went down my back. The thought of being hundreds of miles away, completely on my own…

  Don’t be ridiculous, Lilly! I told myself. You’re still in England. This isn’t the South American jungle, where jaguars could leap at you from beh
ind every bush! This is a civilised country. What could possibly happen?

  That question was answered a moment later, when the coach came to a screeching halt, and someone stuck a pistol through the window.

  ‘Hands up!’ A gruff voice demanded. ‘Your money or your life!’

  A Lady’s Hero

  Your money or your life…

  It told me that maybe I had been spending a bit too much time in the company of Mr Rikkard Ambrose that I actually had to think for a moment about which to pick.

  Finally, I decided: neither. But before I could grab the arm of the bandit and slam it against the wall, a horrific scream pierced my ear drums and I instinctively clapped my hands over my ears. Bloody hell! That Emilia Harse had a set of lungs on her!

  ‘Stop screaming!’ came a slightly panicked voice from outside. Whoever was trying to rob us, didn’t seem exactly to be an expert. ‘Don’t move! Hands above your head! Get out of the coach!’

  I raised a hand. ‘Um…which first? Don’t move, or get out of the coach?’

  ‘Shut up! Get out of the coach, now!’

  The ladies immediately jumped to their feet—just what I had been hoping for. Behind their voluminous skirts, I could safely duck down, pull the revolver out of my pocket and conceal it in my sleeve. Thank God I had opted for the handy, purse-sized model.

  ‘Out!’ the highwayman demanded. ‘Move!’

  Of course. Happy to oblige.

  The doors swung open, and we all climbed out into the cool night, the ladies wailing and pleading all the while for the bandit to have mercy, and the salesman pleading not to be deprived of his precious sample case. I, on the other hand, was keeping silent. My eyes were sweeping over the mounted figure with the gun. He truly was the real deal. Dark clothes, a fashionable hat, a black cloth tied in front of his face—a real, honest-to-God highwayman.

  ‘Raise your hands, all of you!’

  Mr Phelps raised his hands.

  Miss Harse raised her hands.

  I raised my hand—the one with the gun in it. I aimed.

  Bam!

  Beside me, Miss Harse screamed again. But this time, she wasn’t the only one. Bellowing like a skewered donkey, the highwayman clutched his shoulder and slid off his horse. He hit the ground with a dull thud. Instantly, I rushed forward, kicked away his weapon and aimed the barrel of my gun between his eyes.

  ‘Don’t move, you lowlife scum! One twitch, and I’ll bow your head off!’

  I’d always been dying to say that. The heroes in Western adventure novels you could buy on the street corner for a few pennies always said that when they had bested the villain. All I was missing was a sheriff’s star on my chest.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen?’ I glanced at my fellow passengers, who were all still standing with their arms in the air and their mouths wide open. ‘Would one of you be so kind as to fetch the miscreant’s weapon?’

  Nobody moved.

  ‘Get the gun! Now!’

  Mr Phelps staggered forward and bent to retrieve the weapon with two fingers.

  ‘It helps if you put the safety back on,’ I advised.

  He yelped, dropped the gun, and when it didn’t go off, bent to pick it up again and carefully put the safety in place.

  I cocked my head at him. ‘Let me guess—you’re not a gun expert.’

  ‘Never touched one in my life! This is a civilised country, Mr Linton. Who needs to be armed in this day and age?’

  ‘We,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Oh. Um…I suppose that’s right.’

  Turning back to the highwayman, I gave him a friendly kick in the ribs.

  ‘Hey, you!’

  He gave a yelp of pain, clutching the spot on his pretty coat where blood was beginning to seep through the cloth.

  ‘You shot me!’ he exclaimed, as if he’d never heard of anything so scandalous in his life. After all, who could possibly consider doing something as crass as shooting a dangerous criminal in self-defence? ‘You shot me!’

  ‘Yes, and there are still plenty of spots without holes to aim for. So get up on your feet, will you? Chop, chop!’

  I had never seen a man jump to his feet so fast, with the possible exception of Rikkard Ambrose when he smelled charities or creditors approaching. Jabbing my gun into his back and feeling quite fabulous about myself, I forced the man to climb onto the roof of the coach.

  ‘What now?’ he demanded.

  I grinned.

  ‘Someone,’ I called down to the others who were still standing there gaping up at me. A few still hadn’t lowered their hands. ‘Throw me a bit of rope!’

  Soon, the cursing highwayman was secured, with both arms tied to the luggage rack on top the carriage. Jumping down, I wiped my hands on my trousers—and only then noticed the looks of my fellow passengers. They were gazing at me as if I had sprouted horns and a spare set of muscular arms.

  ‘Um…and you’re sure you are a secretary?’ young Mr Phelps enquired.

  ‘Of course.’ I twirled my revolver. ‘Do you doubt my qualifications?’

  ‘Not at all! Not at all!’ Raising his hand again, he quickly retreated a few steps. ‘I doubt nothing whatsoever. Everything is perfectly fine.’

  ‘Good. Well, I suppose we’d better continue then. We’ve lost enough time as it is. We don’t want to have too much of a delay. I’m sure the carriage company would prefer us not to derail their schedule, eh?’

  I nudged the leg of the coachman who, during all this time, had been sitting on his box, frozen as a statue.

  ‘Err…um…schedule? Right. Schedule. Of course.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Everyone, please get in. We’ll be continuing on our way.’ His eyes darted to me, and to the gun I realised I was still holding in my hand. ‘That is, if that’s all right with you, Sir. I mean, we can wait here a little, or have a picnic, if you prefer.’

  I grinned. ‘Maybe later. Right now, I think we should be going.’

  ‘Of course, Sir! Right away, Sir!’

  Sir…

  My grin widened until it nearly split my face apart. Ah, what a sweet feeling. Did Mr Ambrose feel like this all the time? No wonder he insisted on tyrannising his employees. Being the tough man was fun. Even if, technically, you didn’t possess all anatomic requirements for the job.

  Whistling, I got into the carriage, and it set off. I was in such a good mood that it took me a few moments to realise not all my fellow passengers were gazing at me with a mix of fear and apprehension. There was one among them who had a very different look on her face.

  ‘Oh…oh, Mr Linton!’

  Crap. No, please don’t let this be what I think it is! Crap, Crap, Crap!

  Miss Emilia Harse, her big eyes shining with adoration, leant across the bench towards me. ‘Mr Linton, you were so brave! You acted when nobody else had the courage to protect me.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say I was protecting you, per se. It was more about—’

  ‘And modest, too!’ A blush rose to her cheeks, and she gifted me with a smile I would dearly have liked to return to the gift shop. ‘Oh, Mr Linton. You’re the first true man I’ve met in my whole life.’

  ‘Then I pity you,’ I told her earnestly, edging away. ‘From the bottom of my heart.’

  She didn’t exactly get the intended meaning.

  ‘No need.’ Ignoring her mother’s indrawn breath, she reached out to touch my hand. ‘Not now that I’ve met you.’

  Oh God, please help me. I know I’ve never believed in you, but please prove me wrong and work a miracle. A nice thunderbolt to strike me dead would do, thanks.

  How could it possibly get any worse than this?

  A moment later I found out, when Mrs Harse leant forward and smiled at Emilia and me, motherly love shining in her eyes.

  ‘I must say, I am also very glad that fate caused our paths to intersect, Mr Linton. At first I wasn’t sure about you, but you’ve shown yourself to be a fine man.’

  Her eyes wandered from me to Emilia and back again, and
she nodded in approval. In approval!

  Satan, if God can’t help me, maybe you’re available? I need help now!

  Thank heavens we would be going our separate ways soon. They’d be going wherever they were planning to, while I’d be off onto the channel ferry. The sooner I put an ocean between me and Miss Emilia Harse, the better!

  *~*~**~*~*

  ‘Do Re Mi Fa Sol La Ti Do….Do Re Mi Fa Sol La Ti Do…’

  Groaning, I pressed my hands over my ears and tried to ignore the pounding in my head. An ocean between me and Miss Harse wasn’t nearly far enough! She had been going on like this all morning, and I desperately wanted to catch a few more hours of sleep before the ferry’s departure. Normally, I would have marched down the coaching inn’s corridor, kicked open the door to Miss Emilia Harse’s room, and sung, ‘Do Re Me The Fa Vor To Shut Up!’

  But, considering the adoring way the girl had gazed at me as we’d exited the coach a few hours earlier and the authorities had come running to pluck the highwayman from the roof, I had better keep my distance from Miss Emilia. If I came to her bedroom at this hour, she might just get the wrong idea.

  What was the bloody girl singing for, anyway? Was she training to be a banshee?

  Stuffing my head under the pillow, I tried to ignore the noise and think about more pleasant things. Like what would happen when I saw Mr Ambrose again.

  Can’t you guess, Lilly? He’ll be overjoyed! What man wouldn’t be when unexpectedly seeing the girl whom he loves most in the world, and who just turned down his proposal like a plate of cold porridge?

  All right, maybe I had better think about something else. How about…how about…Ella! Yes, Ella was a safe topic. She would be with Edmund, probably, blissfully happy, anticipating a long and happy life together with the man of her dreams.

  Which is a lot more than you’ll have, seeing as you turned down yours.

  Sometimes I really hated my inner voice.

  ‘Do Re Mi Fa Sol La Ti Do…’

  But not quite as much as I hated some other voices.

  Finally, blessedly, the singing ceased, and I was able to drift off into an uneasy sleep. I dreamt of Rikkard Ambrose singing a tragic aria in soprano about his faithless love, who had left him for her feminist principles. When I had awakened and thanked God on my knees that it had just been a horrible nightmare, I cautiously snuck to the door and listened. No noises. No voices. Nothing. Apparently, Miss and Mrs Harse were doing what I had done—taking a well-deserved nap before the next stage of their journey, wherever they were going.