The House at the End of the Moor

by Michelle Griep

  He folds his arms, tucking his fingers gently beneath his injured arm. Yet the harsh thrust of his jaw is anything but gentle. “Why should I believe such a tale?”

  The irony of it all bubbles up inside me and spills out in a small chuckle. I have finally confessed, out loud, what I’ve been so desperately hiding these past nine months, and the man doesn’t believe me?

  “Take it as truth or leave it for a lie, sir. It matters not to me what you think.”

  “It should.” He narrows his eyes. “For I have the power to reveal that the jewels in your possession belong to Ambrose Corbin’s wife. And once he finds out, it will be more than the ruin of your reputation at stake. It will mean time in gaol. Or worse.”

  It didn’t matter how many times he’d seen it. When a woman’s brow crumpled with despair, it never failed to stab Oliver in the heart. And the horrified look on Maggie Lee’s face—all because of his stark words—added an extra kick to his gut.

  He sank onto the arm of the sofa and studied Miss Lee’s transformation from confident woman to frightened young lady. Either she was a consummate actress and quite possibly the most accomplished liar he’d ever met, or she was telling the truth. And knowing Corbin, that was a distinct possibility. If the blackguard had actually carried out his wicked intent on this woman… Well, may God have bestowed mercy on the man’s soul, for Oliver surely would not have.

  But was she telling the truth? He hadn’t made it into Parliament by nurturing a penchant to be duped. More often than not, it paid to be wary, especially of those who appeared to be trustworthy, a lesson he’d learned well at the hand of his father.

  Like the sudden drawing down of a shade, Miss Lee once again schooled her features to a pleasant mask and resumed her seat on the sofa. “Mr. Ward, whether or not you believe me, I have been more than forthright with you. I expect the same courtesy in return. How is it I found you broken and bleeding in the wilds of Dartmoor, escaped from prison? Why were you accused of thievery in the first place?”

  He couldn’t help but snort. “Trust me, if Corbin could’ve staked me through the heart with a heftier charge, he would have done so.”

  “Oh? At odds with your fellow representative?” She leaned back against the cushions. “Do you not both serve the same constituency?”

  “Yes, but I earned my place. His was bought through devious means.”

  “How can that be? He fills an elected position.”

  “Your profession has its ugly truths. So does mine. Ambrose Corbin bought, bribed, and stole his way into his position.” Rising, he hobbled over to the side table and poured a glass of water. He held it up, an offering. Despite the tension between them, ladies should always be served first.

  She shook her head. “That’s quite an indictment, though knowing Mr. Corbin, one I am hard-pressed to doubt. But that is not the matter at hand. Tell me, how could Mr. Corbin have possibly charged you with theft when the jewels were not in your possession?”

  He downed the glass in three big swallows, then refilled. “As you’ve experienced, Corbin is a duplicitous snake. Lord knows how much he paid—or perhaps threatened—the two servants who accused me. They gave false witness to purportedly seeing me swap his wife’s real jewels for paste before the gala.”

  “Yet that does not account for the fact that you did not have the necklace on your person at the time.”

  “No, but between those two testimonies and what I suspect was quite a hefty bribe to the judge, it was enough to put me away… which is exactly what Corbin and his cronies have wanted since the day I joined the House of Commons.”

  “Why?”

  He grimaced. How many times had he asked God the very same? How was he to explain that to which there was no easy answer other than the greed and wickedness of man? Were it not for himself and a handful of other men fighting to tear down Corbin’s slums, Ambrose would continue to live at the expense of the less fortunate. Removing Oliver left one fewer opponent to threaten Corbin’s ill-gotten security.

  Clutching the glass, he eased back to the chair. “It’s a story best left for another time, perhaps. The point is that I was a most convenient scapegoat to be found that night.”

  “Hmm…” Her finger tapped against the arm of the sofa. Only God knew what went on behind those brown eyes of hers, because she wasn’t seeing him now. She stared right through him, as if the chair adjacent her were unoccupied. “I remember that night clearly. Entering the ballroom, the crush of so many suits and gowns gathered in the warm space, the hum of too many voices, and—” Her eyes cleared, her gaze pinned on his. “Yes. You were there, across the room, involved in a rather heated discussion, if I don’t miss my mark.”

  “Indeed.” He remembered her as well, leastwise once she’d begun to sing, for her sweet voice could woo the hardest of hearts and induce them to melt. A hush had fallen hard and sweet with her rendition of Rossini’s Tancredi—no wonder her humming had sparked his memory when he’d awakened from the fever.

  “If you and Mr. Corbin were so at odds, why on earth had he invited you?”

  “He didn’t. I came with someone he’d not dare to embarrass publicly. Lord Shaftesbury.”

  A small smile curved her lips. “He’s a good man, a rare commodity.” And just like that, the smile vanished. She leaned forward, spearing him with an arched eyebrow. “But why the insistence of attending in the first place when you knew you’d not be welcomed?”

  Hah! Were politicians ever truly welcomed anywhere? He tossed back the rest of his drink, washing down the snide remark, then met her gaze. “There was an important piece of legislation I’ve been championing, one that’s languishing for support. Are you familiar with the Viscount Palmerston?”

  “Of course. He is the Prime Minister.”

  “Then you can imagine the importance of gaining his backing. I’d been trying to meet with the man but to no avail. It was rumoured he’d be in attendance that night.”

  Her slim shoulders lifted. “What has this to do with you being accused of stealing the jewels?”

  “Corbin knew if I could gain the ear of the viscount, then I could likely get my piece of legislation passed—an act he is patently against, for it would demand the tearing down of the very slums he owns. He needed to shut me up, figuratively and literally.” He gripped the glass so tightly, he was sure to add more wounds should the crystal break.

  Rising once again, he hobbled to the table and set the thing down, then turned to Miss Lee. “Shortly after your performance—which, by the way, was stunning in every respect—Mrs. Corbin screamed, drawing everyone’s attention. The ruby necklace she’d been wearing had fallen apart, proving it was an imposter. Naturally, that abruptly ended the party. Each guest was searched, but to no avail. The real jewels were not found. I was arrested the next day.”

  “But you didn’t have Mrs. Corbin’s necklace.” Her hand cut through the air, her eyes flashing fiery. “Apparently I did.”

  She was plucky, he’d give her that. He stifled a grin. “Corbin saw his opportunity and he took it.” He paused, connections forming in his mind. “That must have been why he never hunted you—surely you would have been suspected, disappearing like that. But locking me up was more valuable to him than discovering the truth or finding his wife’s jewels. Unless…”

  More pieces fell into place. He clenched his hands lest he smack his forehead. Stupid! Why had he not thought of this sooner?

  “Unless what?” she prodded.

  “It may be that Corbin swapped the necklaces on purpose, premeditating my incarceration and intending to recover the true gems later that evening during his tryst with you. When you didn’t show, he simply claimed the insurance money and satisfied himself with the knowledge that I was out of the way for good.”

  Miss Lee gaped. “How devious!”

  She had no idea. Corbin was a true spawn of Satan himself.

  “But by your own admission, Mr. Corbin did not know you’d be in attendance.” She frowned and rose
. “I don’t see how he could’ve possibly premeditated such an act.”

  True. He inhaled deeply, willing his swirling thoughts to coalesce. Perhaps he was being a bit hasty.

  Miss Lee paced to the windows and once again drew the drapery. “You are an escaped convict, Mr. Ward. I’d be a fool to believe you without question, especially since you’ve taken possession of the necklace.”

  She turned to him. “Tell me, what’s to keep you from absconding the second I turn my back?”

  This time he did smile. Plucky, indeed. “Besides my ankle, you mean?”

  “Within a week, you’ll no longer be so impeded.”

  “Well then, Miss Lee.” He rose and met her stare. “I suppose you shall have to wait and see the true content of my character—as I will yours.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Moonlight lands in a swath of rectangles on my bedroom carpet. Even when I close my eyes I see white squares. And no wonder. I’ve been staring at them long enough. Tonight, sleep is as elusive as truth. Though I’d spent the better part of the day discussing possibilities with Mr. Ward, I am no closer to figuring out how Mrs. Corbin’s necklace came to be locked up in a dark closet of Morden Hall. By this point, I’m sick of thinking about it.

  I fling off the counterpane so suddenly Malcolm jolts awake on the rug. “Come, boy,” I whisper as I shove my arms into my robe. Perhaps a mug of cider will make me sleepy.

  Padding down the stairs, I listen for any movement from the sitting room. Which is ridiculous. Surely Malcolm and I are the only ones creeping about the shadows at this late hour.

  The kitchen is a solitary island at the back of the house, quiet and empty. I retrieve a mug and pitcher of cider, then absently set them down and stare out the window.

  The backyard is ethereal. Fickle moonglow highlights only the topmost half of things. Darkness shrouds the dips, the hollows, the deepest, most hidden crevices. An aching sadness wells up my throat. The scene beyond the glass is far too much like my life; merely the things on the surface are exposed. I show the world only the facets of me that men wish me to be. Papa grooming me to be a clerk in his bookshop. My manager driving me to outshine all other opera stars. Not that I didn’t enjoy those things, and, truth be told, I still yearn to perform onstage at the Royal Opera House in London, but for the most part I’ve spent so much time living up to others’ expectations that I hardly know who I am.

  A sigh deflates me, and I bow my head. What did You make me to be, Lord?

  “You look as if you bear the weight of the planet on your back.”

  Whirling, I slap my hand to my chest. The broad-shouldered silhouette of Mr. Ward enters the kitchen. Malcolm sits unperturbed at my side. So much for my watchdog alerting me to trouble.

  I inhale deeply, willing my pulse to slow. “Your ankle must be doing much better. I didn’t hear your footfall.”

  He half limps to the table at center and pulls out a stool, sinking to it before he answers. “Indeed. Thanks to your care and Nora’s, I am on the mend. I owe you my life several times over.”

  My brow crumples. I’ve done nothing more than anyone else with a heart would do. I push away from the counter. “Are we not to care for our fellow man?”

  “Most people say so, though when it comes down to it, few are willing to act upon their convictions, especially when it is an inconvenience.”

  An astute observation. I lift the pitcher towards him. “Would you like some cider?”

  He nods, and I reach for another mug.

  “You couldn’t sleep?” His deep voice curls over my shoulder.

  I shake my head as I pull out a stool for myself.

  “It’s contagious.”

  A milky beam of light angles in through the window, dull yet bright enough to wash over his square jaw and flash of a smile. Now that Oliver Ward is cleaned up and once again vibrant with life, it is easy to see why a woman might fawn over him. He is strikingly handsome. How many London socialite hearts has he broken?

  I snap my gaze down to the mug in my hands, heat flooding my cheeks.

  “Care to tell me what troubles you so? Though I think I can guess.” His tone is soft, genuine, the sort that woos and encourages all at once.

  I roll the mug between my hands, unwilling to look up. “I’ve been over that night at the Corbins’ a hundred times in my head, conjured all the possibilities I can think of as to who swapped those jewels, but I still cannot rightfully pin the blame on anyone.”

  Pausing, I swallow some of the sweet cider, scrambling to collect my pell-mell thoughts into something coherent. “One of the servants is the most likely thief. But any number of them could have had access to my trunk. It’d been delivered to the estate that morning, and I didn’t arrive until late afternoon. All someone needed to do was pick the lock and trade necklaces. Then when I changed from my costume, replacing it in the trunk, that same servant could’ve simply repicked the lock late in the night and made off with the necklace. But how to uncover the true criminal?” I lift my face to his. “And why has that person not tried to find me? Surely the guilty party realizes I ran off with the treasure. Unless…”

  A chill shivers across my shoulders. Ambrose Corbin knew I’d been wearing a replica of his wife’s necklace. Did he know it was the real thing and was even now looking for me, or had he paired up with Mr. Groat’s search? And if my manager discovers me, will he make my location known to Ambrose? With such a high bounty on my head, it’s a logical conclusion.

  Setting down his mug, Mr. Ward scrubs at his jaw, then laces his fingers on the table. “I have a gut feeling that Corbin himself is tangled up in this. That there was some other plot underway that night, and when you vanished, I was the most expedient scapegoat.”

  His words echo my own thoughts, yet I cannot help but ask, “A plot such as what?”

  “I don’t know, but I do know this—wealth means everything to Corbin. Whether or not he really believes me to be the thief, it doesn’t make sense he was so satisfied with my incarceration that he never pursued locating his wife’s jewels. Unless he has been, of course. At any rate, we can thank God he hasn’t tracked you here.”

  Despite the warmth of my woolen robe, I shiver and pull the fabric tighter at the neck. The possibility is a recurring nightmare. But what to do now? How to navigate the murky waters of restoring Mr. Ward’s good name without attracting attention to myself?

  “We could box up the necklace and send the package to Mrs. Corbin by post,” I think out loud, and like the chugging of a great steam engine, the idea picks up speed. I meet Mr. Ward’s gaze across the table. “It could work. No one would suspect such a valuable item would be sent in a plain box by coach. Once she receives it, there is nothing to keep you from appealing your case. If there is no stolen property, there can be no conviction, and your name will be cleared while I maintain my anonymity. You may stay here until then, of course, safely out of Mr. Barrow’s reach.”

  His mouth twists into a wry smirk. “Though I thank you for your offer, I am not a man given to hiding behind a woman’s skirts. And while I admit your plan does restore the stolen property to the rightful owner, it does not mete out justice to the real culprit.”

  “I do not question your valor, sir, but is it not fair enough that the lady will have her rubies returned and your honor will be restored to you?”

  A stranger stares out through Mr. Ward’s hazel eyes. A hard man. Frightening. I lower my hand and dangle my fingers, coaxing Malcolm to my side.

  “Someone must pay for my nine months of torment.” His voice is more threatening than one of Malcolm’s growls. “For Jarney’s—” His lips clamp shut.

  I want to look away, to run, to hide from the rage etched in harsh shadows on his face. But I cannot. It is too familiar. I’ve battled the same anger towards Ambrose Corbin since that night in June.

  So I offer him the question I frequently ask myself. “Are you speaking of justice or vengeance?”

  “Touché.” He lifts his cu
p and drains it dry, then slams it back to the table. “But do you really want Corbin free to terrorize other women? What’s to stop him from discovering your whereabouts in the future and threatening you all over again?”

  True. More than anything, I want that man locked up. Put away. Far from me and other unsuspecting women. Ambrose Corbin is a lecher. A monster… But is he also a thief? For what purpose? He’s one of the wealthiest men in Bath.

  I frown into my mug. “Why would a man arrange to have his own wife’s jewels stolen? Once that necklace turned up, you—or any other accused—would’ve been freed.”

  “Unless he never meant to let anyone know he’d taken the necklace back and—wait a minute. Of course! Corbin could very well have planned to have the real jewels sold so he could pocket the money, leaving his wife none the wiser.”

  “Plausible,” I murmur. “Yet how can you be so certain he is involved?”

  “I can’t. It’s just a gut feeling. But something’s not right about this whole thing. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in politics, it’s to trust my gut.”

  And there is the crux of it. Trust. Such a necessary evil. He trusts his gut, but do I trust him? His opinions? His conjectures? I know nothing about the man other than he serves in the House of Commons and is on the run from the law—poor evidence on which to convict Ambrose Corbin. Still… if there’s a chance to put that villain away—even the smallest chance—the risk of revealing who I really am is worth whatever consequence I might face from breaching the contract with my manager.

  I nibble my lower lip. It is a precipice upon which I stand, toes over the edge. Either I step back now or commit to falling headlong into what might be danger, for me and for Papa. But truly, there is only one choice to be made.

  I lift my chin to meet Mr. Ward’s gaze. “What is our plan?”

  A small chuckle rumbles in his throat, and he shakes his head. “There is no our, Miss Lee. This is something I must do alone. I will not have you exposed to Corbin again.”