by Clee, Adele
“Ma’am?” Tomas said, his grave tone conveying her worst fears.
“Something has happened to Mr Daventry,” she said, her voice determined, assertive, for she would not have them think her a flighty female. “Something is wrong. We must go to the Black Swan at once. You’ll not persuade me otherwise.”
“You see. What did I say?” Jonah towered over Tomas. “Mr Daventry wouldn’t make us swear to protect Miss Atwood and then stay away this long.”
“No, he would not,” Sybil agreed.
Lucius had been reluctant to leave. For heaven’s sake, he was so worried about her safety, he had loaded the pistol. Such a lengthy absence was out of character. And he had been suspicious of his mother’s motives.
“Happen his mother had some explaining to do,” Tomas countered. “It doesn’t mean there’s any havey-cavey business. I can’t see Mr Daventry leaving with half a story, with anything less than the truth.”
“In Mr Daventry’s absence, I am mistress of this house,” she said, “and I am telling you I want a horse saddled for I intend to ride to the Black Swan.”
Tomas shifted uncomfortably. “Mr Daventry will string me up from Bloody Bridge if I let you leave, ma’am.”
Sybil straightened her shoulders. She knew the poor fellow was only following orders, knew Lucius could be rather insistent, but she couldn’t shake the feeling something dreadful had happened.
“Tomas, I am the most reckless woman ever to make Mr Daventry’s acquaintance. He told me so himself. I am stubborn, obstinate to the point of being unreasonable. I’m going to the Black Swan and woe betide anyone who attempts to stop me.”
Tomas threw his hands in the air in frustration. “Then we must go, too. But who will protect the vault?”
“I don’t care about the vault.” It came as no surprise to find she valued the master of the Order over the volumes hidden in old chests. “I care about Mr Daventry.”
Tomas heaved a sigh.
“This could be a trap,” Jonah said cautiously. “A ploy to lure us away from here so the intruder might break into the vault.”
Sybil was about to speak when Samuel came bursting through the servants’ door at the end of the corridor. “There’s a letter for Miss Atwood.” The boy waved the paper in the air and skidded to a halt.
“For me?” Sybil shuddered.
No one knew she was staying at Bronygarth. She snatched the note from the boy’s grasp and broke the seal. With trembling fingers, she gripped the paper and read the precise list of instructions.
“Is it from Mr Daventry, ma’am?” Tomas said, wringing his hands.
“It’s about Mr Daventry, though not written by his hand.” Her legs buckled as a wave of despair stole her strength.
Both men rushed to her aid.
“Take your time,” Tomas said. “Samuel can read it if it helps. Mr Daventry taught him his letters and numbers.”
“No, it’s fine.” Heavens, Lucius needed her. She couldn’t fall apart now. “Samuel, who delivered the note?”
“A girl named Fanny. Said she works at the Black Swan and a Scottish cove paid her two shillings to bring it before dawn.”
“Scottish?” Sybil’s mind raced to the solemn-looking man who had stolen the fake journal from the auction. So, Julia was not working alone.
“What news of Mr Daventry?” Tomas asked again.
“The letter is from his mother, Mrs Dunwoody.” Merciful Lord. The puzzle seemed so much clearer now. “She has taken Mr Daventry hostage. In exchange for his safe return, she demands all evidence relating to the riot at Smithfield Market.”
Tomas frowned. “Mr Daventry, taken hostage? By a woman?”
“The Scot is her accomplice. They must have used some devious method to capture him.” Tears threatened to fall, but Sybil kept them at bay. “I’m to gather the evidence and meet her in Lambeth tonight, at midnight. I’m to take the Lambeth Church steps and follow the path to the boat builder, Godfrey and Searle.”
Mrs Dunwoody wanted to meet a short distance from Bishop’s Walk, where Mr Proctor was killed. That did not bode well. Julia Fontaine—or Julia Dunwoody, as she was now called—had no loyalty to her son. What was to stop her taking the evidence and killing them both? Was she so desperate to reclaim her vowels from Sir Melrose?
Tomas and Jonah exchanged nervous glances.
“What do you want us to do, Miss Atwood?” Jonah said.
Tomas shook his head. “Someone has to stay. Someone has to protect the vault.”
Mother Mary!
She wanted to shout to hell with the vault. Damn the blasted journals. Who cared about solved cases? Who wanted to read about fraud and treachery, old cases without sufficient proof of the offender’s innocence? Her beloved father had died because of his obsession. Lucius might die, too.
No! Sybil stamped her foot. No!
She would not lose him.
The world needed strong, honest men like Lucius Daventry. Men who fought to protect the innocent. But the journals were important to Lucius, and she had to consider that point when deciding what the devil to do.
“Lucius’ mother insists I go alone.”
Tomas gasped. “Oh, ma’am, you mustn’t go alone. That woman is here to do the devil’s work.”
Sybil struggled to think through the chaos.
“Just give me a moment.” She turned and paced the corridor while mentally assessing her options. After a minute of tense silence, she swung around to face the worried servants. “Tomas, you and Jonah will wait here. Patrol the grounds. Protect the vault. Be vigilant. Robert will ride to town and deliver a note to Mr Wycliff.”
“Mr Wycliff?” Jonah asked.
“A friend as skilled in combat as Mr Daventry.” Yes, Mr Wycliff would know exactly what to do. She would ensure he knew to come at once. That it was a matter of life and death. “Mr Wycliff will take me to the Black Swan where we will question the innkeeper.”
“You’ll want to threaten him, not question him, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Tomas. Yes, we will ensure he spills his guts.” She had a loaded pistol in the nightstand drawer to use as a means of intimidation. “All being well, I shall return to town with Mr Wycliff and make plans to meet the devil at midnight. Under no circumstances are you to leave your posts here. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” both men said in unison.
She turned to Samuel. “I want you to help me copy information from a journal. I assume Mr Daventry taught you to write as well as read.”
“Yes, Miss Atwood.”
“Good. Run and tell your father I wish to see him at once and then wash your hands and meet me in the dining room.” Sybil paused to catch her breath. “So, do we all know what we have to do?” No doubt she had missed something vital. She excelled at snooping, but trapping a cunning murderer was a different matter.
They all nodded.
Samuel hurried away to fetch his father. Jonah went to check no one had attempted to break into the tunnels while they had been distracted.
Tomas lingered. He studied her for a moment and said, “You know, ma’am, I think he’d be mighty proud of you right now.”
Touched, Sybil placed her hand on her heart. “Who? My father?”
“No, ma’am, Mr Daventry. Happen a reckless, stubborn woman is exactly what the master needs.”
* * *
On a foggy night, and when travelling in the dark confines of a hired carriage, one street looked like another. A man relied on spotting landmarks when attempting to establish his direction. A mansion house. A public building. A bridge. In this instance, it was Westminster Bridge, with the blurred image of the House of Commons to the right. That meant they were heading to Lambeth.
Slumped in the carriage seat, Lucius let his head loll forward. He moaned and muttered incoherent nonsense to convince Julia Dunwoody he was still under the influence of laudanum. Hell, he could grace the stage with his performance.
The woman who gave birth to him did not deserve the title
mother. She had plied him with ale, knowing she’d added enough milk of the poppy to render him unconscious. He wasn’t sure how the solemn brute Angus managed to carry him to the carriage. Perhaps the innkeeper had offered his assistance. Indeed, once Lucius had dealt with these disloyal rogues, he would visit the owner of the Black Swan.
Julia Dunwoody—for he refused to refer to her as anything else—reached out from the seat opposite. She captured his chin and lifted his head, stared into his eyes.
“Lucius?” The woman huffed in frustration. “You should be alert now.”
Twice, since first stirring from his drug-induced slumber, she had made him drink an opium tincture. Enough to keep him subdued. Twice, he’d held the liquid in his mouth. Had spat it into the pad of the seat when he’d slumped forward. He might have easily escaped, but he was getting too close to the truth.
“Lucius. I need you to walk.” She grabbed him and slapped his face. The attack was the culmination of years of neglect, spoke of genuine disdain for the duke and her son. “Wake up.”
If she wanted him more alert, he would oblige.
“Walk?” he said, swaying in the seat like a maudlin drunk. “Walk where?”
“We’re to meet Miss Atwood near Stangate Street.”
Sybil!
His heart lurched. She must be worried sick. Terrified.
It took strength not to jump up from the seat, howl and thrash about like a madman. But his hands were bound at the wrists. The devil woman had taken the blade from his boot. And only a fool charged into a fight without assessing the scene.
Patience. Patience.
“If you harm a hair on her head, you’ll rue the day you came back into my life.” He let her feel the full force of his wrath.
“So, you are more alert than you would have me believe.”
A sudden coughing fit had her dragging a handkerchief from the pocket of her cloak. She covered her mouth, spat blood into the white linen for the second time in the space of an hour.
“And you’re frailer than I thought.” Mixed emotions clashed swords in his chest. He had every reason to hate her. Yet the lonely boy didn’t want to lose his mother to a dreaded illness. “Your husband should be in here, taking care of you, not sitting atop the damn box.”
“My husband?” Confusion marred her brow.
“Angus. The Scot with the miserable face. You have a habit of attracting wretched men.”
“Angus isn’t my husband.” She wiped spittle from her mouth. “He’s my cousin. I told you, my mother sent me to live in Scotland with an uncle when I was but five years old. Angus is like a brother.”
So she had the capacity to love someone.
“Angus often took the beatings meant for me,” she added. The comment roused disturbing images, conveyed a painful history.
“And where is Mr Dunwoody?” he mocked.
“In Scotland. I left the day he moved his mistress into my home. The day I was relegated to the role of housekeeper.”
“You’ve had more than your share of hardship.” There it was again—the child in him grasping at any reason to account for her deplorable actions. “That doesn’t excuse what you’ve done. Let me reiterate my earlier point. I would die to protect Miss Atwood. No one is more important to me than her. Now, would you care to explain what the hell is going on?”
“Miss Atwood is bringing the evidence her father gathered about the riot at Smithfield Market. She is going to exchange it for your safe return.”
“And that’s all? That’s the reason for this whole damn charade? You want the journals so you can claim your vowels back from Sir Melrose?”
“If Miss Atwood values you over her father’s work—” She stopped abruptly and coughed into her handkerchief. The wracking sound filled the small space. “Then … then everything should go to plan.”
“You didn’t just arrive,” he said, for she presumed too much about his relationship with Sybil. “You’ve been in London for weeks. You sent Miss Atwood threatening letters in the hope she would bring the journals to the Black Swan. You’ve followed her home on many occasions. You’ve watched us closely.”
She gave a curt nod. “You visit her in Half Moon Street almost every night. You’ve been lovers for some time.”
“Not quite.”
And he visited the butler, not the love of his life. He scouted the area, checked the premises, conversed with Blake. He kept his oath to Atticus in the only way he knew how.
“Are you so desperate to reclaim your vowels that you must resort to frightening a young woman, to kidnapping your son?”
“I don’t care about the vowels,” she said, shocking the hell out of him. “I care about the deeds to Angus’ property. He tried to help me, and I betrayed his trust. I cannot rest until I make amends.”
It was both a relief and some form of cruel torture to discover she loved someone enough to go to this much trouble. To save Angus, she was willing to sacrifice her son.
“You have a gambling problem,” he said as the carriage rumbled to a halt on what he presumed was Stangate Street. Again his heart lurched at the thought of Sybil waiting alone on a dark, lonely stretch of the river.
“Your father has paid my gaming debts for years, on the proviso I remain in Scotland. Mr Warner stopped making the payments some months ago, though I doubt the duke knows of his duplicity.”
So Warner was in contact with Julia Dunwoody.
“We’re here.” The woman shuffled forward. “Don’t blame Angus. He is just trying to help me, just trying to play the older brother, as he always has.” She stared at Lucius for a time. “I did so want to be a good mother, Lucius. Perhaps in the next life, I’ll have a chance to try again.”
The time for conversation was at an end.
Angus opened the carriage door and gave Julia his hand to assist her descent. He reached into the carriage and gripped Lucius’ arm, helped him to the pavement, too.
Angus snatched a carriage lantern, and after a brief argument with the coachman, told the fellow to wait. Then the Scot spoke quietly to Julia. The woman cupped his cheek, and they talked as if saying their final goodbyes.
Lucius was somewhat surprised when the Scot accompanied them down the Stangate Street steps. Julia walked as if she had the weight of the world on her shoulders—hunched, more shuffling than full strides. Through the fog, they followed the river past the boat builders before stopping on the narrow path. They waited for a few minutes, the silence broken by the Scot’s heavy breathing and Julia Dunwoody’s hacking cough.
Two people approached from the direction of the State Barge Houses. A woman in a cloak. Sybil! A man in a greatcoat and hat, though Lucius could not identify him from such a distance.
Julia seemed mildly perturbed. She stared at Sybil and muttered, “I told her to come alone.”
“I wish she hadn’t come at all,” he added.
Angus turned to Lucius, and in a broad Scottish accent said, “Nae harm shall befall the lass. Nae harm shall befall ye, lad.”
Lucius found the comment oddly comforting. Perhaps because the man spoke with the fondness of kin. Perhaps because he had called him lad, not boy.
Chapter Twenty-One
Only a woman out to rescue the man she loved dared venture along a narrow river path on a foggy night. The heavy white veil hung low, hovering above the water, obscuring the view of the opposite bank. Boats and buildings were but black shadows hiding amidst the gloom. Eerie noises drifted out from the mist. Creaking oars, the slapping of water, the flutter of a sail, the muffled voices of boatmen going about their nightly business.
No wonder this was a hunting ground for thieves and pickpockets.
Sybil drew her cloak across her chest, though the stench of the river made one forget about the chill in the air. Ahead, she saw the faint glow of a lantern, and like a moth to a flame moved closer.
Three hazy figures stood waiting in the dark.
A powerful rush of emotion brought tears to Sybil’s eyes when s
he recognised Lucius. He looked so tired, so downcast.
Beside her, Alcock carried the satchel containing the journal with statements from those at Smithfield Market. A notebook with letters written by Samuel, another written by Sybil but made to look as if a witness could place Sir Melrose at Gorget’s Garrett. And a loaded pistol.
As they came to a halt a mere ten feet away, Mrs Wycliff’s coachwoman peered at the solemn-looking Scot and whispered, “Just say the word, ma’am, and I’ll knock that tall blighter into the river, make no mistake.”
Mrs Wycliff had warned Sybil about Alcock’s penchant for violence. “I’m sure it won’t come to that.”
She prayed it wouldn’t come to that.
“The quiet ones are the worst,” Alcock said, her opinion of the Scot drawn from Sybil’s description of a morbid man.
“Did I not tell you to come alone, Miss Atwood?” the worst mother in history said.
Tears welled again when Sybil locked gazes with Lucius. Not because his hands were bound at the wrists. Not because she was scared of the Scot. No. A man as loving as Lucius Daventry did not deserve to be treated with such disdain. Not by his kin.
“It’s not safe for a woman to walk this path alone,” Sybil countered. “My coachwoman came merely to ward off thieves and to carry the evidence you requested.”
Lucius studied the coachwoman, and the corners of his mouth twitched. Sybil had brought Alcock because she worked for the Wycliffs, and so Lucius would know not to worry, would know help was at hand. Indeed, somewhere in the ghostly gloom, Mr Wycliff and his friends were lying in wait. She only wished she knew where.
“My son thinks highly of you, Miss Atwood,” Julia Dunwoody said, narrowing her gaze as she focused on Alcock’s face. “I trust you won’t disappoint.”
“I have what you asked for if that is your meaning.”
And once Mrs Dunwoody gave Sir Melrose the journal, he would discover that a witness could place him at the Garrett. That would give Lucius an opportunity to set a trap, to exact his revenge.
All they had to do now was survive the next few minutes.
