The House at the End of the Moor

by Michelle Griep

“You won’t make it to Bath on your own. You won’t even make it to Lydford, not with Constable Barrow sniffing about, and he strikes me as one not to cross.”

  He leans forward, a jaunty jut to his jaw. “Are you so concerned for me?”

  What’s this? Flirting? Or genuine curiosity? Hard to tell in the dark. Either way, I sidestep the question. “With God’s help, I brought you back from the brink of death. I do not wish to do so again. Besides, taking me along is to your benefit. I know a thing or two about stage makeup and performing. Done right, no one will pay us any mind.”

  He leans back on the stool, a slow smile flashing white in the shadows. “I suppose traveling with you has its merits. Barrow won’t be looking for a couple.”

  “It’s settled then. I’ll pack tomorrow and set things right with Nora. We can leave the following day, if your ankle allows for it.” I rise and collect the mugs. “Oh, what exactly is our plan once we arrive in Bath?”

  “That, Miss Lee, is a very good question.” His answer follows me to the basin—yet it is no answer at all.

  “And?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Do you mean to tell me we shall travel to Bath and indict the most powerful man in town, yet you don’t know exactly how we’ll accomplish that?”

  His grin broadens. “Yes.”

  By the time dawn seeped through the gaps in the drapery, Oliver gave up the pretense of sleep. He’d dozed for three hours—maybe—but it was enough. Lord knew he’d oft survived on less, and that with having to break rock all day with little more than a bowl of pea-grey soup to go on. Fortified by a thick slice of bread and a hefty chunk of cheese, he could conquer the world. But apparently not a dogcart.

  Huffing out a growly breath, he tossed down a two-inch screw and traded it for a three. Then scowled and dropped that one as well. The stable workbench looked like a war zone after all his rummaging, though admittedly, it hadn’t been pristine when he’d ambled in there earlier that morning. Iron parts, some old, some new, lay heaped in piles. Likely they were ordered in some sort of rhyme and reason, but not one that he could figure out—and he desperately needed to if they were to take the disassembled vehicle to town tomorrow.

  “How is it coming along?” Miss Lee’s sweet voice and even sweeter lilac scent entered through the open door.

  Resorting back to the two-inch, he swiped up the screw and faced her with half a smile. “I may be better suited to arguing legislation than wrangling with a dogcart, but all in all, it will be ready to go by tomorrow. Did you never use the thing?”

  “Not really. My manservant usually walked to town when needed. He’d been meaning to fix it, and as you can see, he acquired the new parts and started the job. But then he got called off to visit his ailing sister, and…” Her trim shoulders rose and fell. “Well, at least you’re gaining a fresh confidence. If your career as a politician should fail, you’ll have a trade with which to support yourself.”

  “Right.” A smirk twisted his lips. “I can see the shingle above my door now.” He swiped his hand through the air as he spoke. “Oliver Ward, dogcart repair.”

  Laughter bubbled out of her, rich and musical. “For an escaped convict, you are quite a likable fellow, Mr. Ward.”

  He grinned. “I have my moments.”

  So did she. She was a picture, this woman, one he couldn’t easily pull his gaze from. Even without stage makeup and garbed in her bleak black gown, her chestnut hair pinned into oblivion atop her head, Maggie Lee’s beauty would not be tamed. She’d chosen well, moving to this desolate house at the end of the moor. Anywhere else she’d attract too much attention—which could be problematic as they traveled to Bath… and was certainly a problem now, with the way she distracted him from his work.

  He swung back to the bench and grabbed a few more screws, shoving them into his pocket. “Have you squared things with your maid, then?”

  “Yes. I’ve left sufficient funds with Nora to keep things running for the next several weeks. I hate leaving her here alone, but she will have Malcolm. And hardly anyone ever stops by this far out on the moor.”

  He snorted. “Until recently, you mean?”

  “Until you arrived, yes.”

  Indeed. Morden Hall had been a very wise choice for her. Leaving behind the workbench, he crossed to the small carriage and measured the screws against the width of the splinter bar, speaking as he worked. “I am sorry to have broken your solitude, yet I cannot help feeling it was God ordained.”

  “You are a man of faith?”

  The wonder in her voice turned him around. But of course she would be surprised. A half-dead convict. An avowed politician. Neither role was known for piety. He arched a brow, the pull against his gash nothing more than an annoying ache now. “I’d never have survived prison without God, Miss Lee.”

  Her brow puckered, and she ran a finger aimlessly along the workbench he’d just abandoned. “I wonder, sometimes, how anyone survives anything without Him.”

  “They don’t. They perish.”

  She jerked her gaze to his, hand dropping. “You are very singular, Mr. Ward. Sometimes prudent with your words, other times harshly blunt.”

  “Likable and singular? How ever do I manage that?” He winked and turned back to the puzzle of the dogcart—but not before catching a rosy hue spreading over Miss Lee’s cheeks.

  He expected to hear her skirts swish out the door. Instead, her footsteps padded over to him. “Have you thought yet of how we will proceed once we reach Bath?”

  Frowning, he dodged the question and the quizzical look on her face by stooping to pick up the screwdriver, where he’d left it on the ground. He’d invented and discarded as many plans as there were carriage parts to join together. None ever quite fit, though. Not wholly. Not yet.

  Breeching tee in place, he stepped back and surveyed the rest of the parts that yet needed to be reattached. “Just working out the finer details, Miss Lee.”

  “Hmm, well… I suppose if we are to be traveling companions, you may call me Maggie. I was thinking we ought to pose as brother and sister.”

  Her words drove all thoughts of iron rings and wooden shafts from his mind. She was a bold one, he’d give her that. Bold and practical. Admirable qualities. No wonder she’d been able to manage on her own way out here.

  Slowly, he turned, flipping the screwdriver around in his hand. “Good thinking, Maggie.”

  She beamed. “I am happy you approve, Oliv—”

  Her mouth slammed shut. Panic widened her eyes. Heavy footsteps pounded the gravel outside, drawing closer.

  With one sweep of his uninjured arm, Oliver directed her behind his back and advanced a step, screwdriver gripped pointed end out, like a dagger.

  If Barrow’s ugly mug darkened the doorstep, this wouldn’t be pretty.

  Fear tastes sour at the back of my throat. How has the past nine months of peace splintered into so many pieces all in the space of six days?

  Mr. Ward plants his feet, one in front of the other, and stands somewhat crouched, hand coiled back and ready to strike. He is a lion, poised to pounce.

  But where is Malcolm? Why has he not barked a warning?

  Boots pound closer. A shadow grows larger on the ground outside the door. Man-shaped.

  My breath hitches, and I shrink back, glancing wildly around for a weapon. If there is to be a fight, I will not be the fainting flower. My fingers wrap around the handle of a hammer that lies next to an overturned bucket. Thank God for Dobbs’s careless ways.

  “What’s this?” A voice booms from the door, one that is blessedly recognizable. In steps my ruddy-faced, barrel-chested manservant.

  I drop the hammer, pulse slowing to a normal beat.

  But Dobbs snatches up a small hatchet from the workbench. “Let the missus go. Now!”

  Mr. Ward lifts his screwdriver all the higher. “Who are you?” he snarls.

  I sidestep Mr. Ward and hold out my hands, one towards each of them. “All is well, gentlem
en. Mr. Ward, meet my manservant, Dobbs. Dobbs, this is my guest, Mr. Ward.”

  Neither of them moves.

  “Truly, there is no danger here for either of you. Please, put down your weapons.”

  Mr. Ward lowers his screwdriver, yet he does not release it. Same for Dobbs and his hatchet. I suppose it’s to be expected. Alley dogs don’t warm to others until a plate of fat is offered.

  I cross over to Dobbs and rest a light touch on his coat sleeve. “Come. Let us speak outside.” I head for the door, calling over my shoulder as I go, “Carry on, Mr. Ward.”

  Dobbs grunts, yet his boots grind the gravel behind me, and he grumbles with each step. “What were ye thinkin’, missus, takin’ in a stranger, and you here alone with naught but a mute maid?”

  The afternoon sunshine is brilliant—a direct contrast to the dark scowl etched on Dobbs’s face. “Nora and I found Mr. Ward near death out on the moor—tut, tut!” I wag my finger at him, nipping off the sure rebuke about to launch from his lips. “I remember your warning, yet the man needed help. You’d have done the same.”

  His lower lip shoots out, as petulant as the wiry hairs sticking out from his flat cap. “Mebbe, but that be a man’s risk to take, not a woman’s.”

  Instantly, my own hackles rise. All my life I’ve been told what is acceptable, what is not. I am done with it. I toss back my shoulders and stare down the old man. “What’s done is done, and I remind you that it is you who is in my employ, not the other way around.”

  His jaw grinds for a moment, then a reluctant “Aye” grumbles out of him. “But seein’ to yer safety is part o’ my work.”

  I sigh. A cool gust sweeps across the yard, pulling hard off the end of the moor. Brushing back a loosened bit of hair, I search for the right words to mend and heal. “I appreciate that. Truly. And I am happy you’ve returned. Now tell me, how is your sister?”

  He humphs and folds his arms. “Well enough to talk the ear off a parrot. She was still abed when I left, but like as not is kickin’ her heels about town by now.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  Dobbs nods at the stable. “How long is he stayin,’ this guest o’ yers?”

  “Only until tomorrow, at which point I shall leave with him for Bath. I expect to be gone several weeks.”

  The old man’s grey eyes widen. “I know it be lonely out here on the moor, missus, but this?” He shakes his head. “This just ain’t right.”

  Hah! I choke on his assumption. He has no idea how hard it was all those years on the stage to stay one step ahead of grasping libertines. “I assure you, Dobbs, all is not as it appears.”

  He eyes me silently for a moment. “O’ course. My pardon. But are ye sure ye know what ye’re about, then?”

  His question slaps hard. “No, not at all. Are any of us?”

  “Some more ‘n others, I s’pose. Just take a care, aye? For all yer bluster, ye’ve a soft heart. Guard it well, lass, from that man in there”—he hitches a thumb over his shoulder—“and any other.”

  I stifle a very unladylike snort. Of all the dangers I face, losing my heart is the least of my concerns.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Morning sunshine made Sebastian queasy, especially in the spring. It might have had something to do with his sister’s tears on that life-changing April morning twelve years ago. The scream of the scoundrel who dared sully her. The gunshot. The blood. Or maybe not. Could just be he preferred the solemn dark of winter nights.

  Leaning back against the doorpost of the Castle Inn, he dug in his pocket and flipped open his watch as coach wheels rumbled closer, grinding against gravel. Nine o’clock. Right on time. Good. His feet itched to be back on the road. Blast that Mr. Groat for taking a full two days and then some to arrive. Every passing hour was one more in which he’d have to play catch-up to Ward, though in all likelihood, the blackguard couldn’t have covered too much ground. Not injured. And he was. Though there’d been little evidence of the man holing up at Daisy Lee’s, Sebastian would bet on it.

  He snapped shut the watch’s lid and stuffed the thing into his pocket, then pulled out a cigarillo and eyed the passengers as they alighted. A fat man, jowls waving like a bloodhound’s ears, breached the door first. The coach sprang back as soon as his feet hit the ground, springs creaking a sigh of relief.

  Next, two young girls popped out, followed by a shrew-faced matron with a scowl that could blister paint. Sebastian cocked his head, studying her as he took a drag of his smoke. Swap out that gown for a pair of trousers, stick a truncheon in her hand, and the woman would make a fine prison guard.

  His gaze snipped back to the coach the instant a man carrying a satchel descended, blinking into the sunshine as if he cursed the light as much as Sebastian did himself. The man’s legs were long. Skinny. Poked into an oval-shaped body, not barrel-chested, per se, but distinctly solid. His black-sheened coat gave off an iridescent sort of glow. Kind of purplish. Sebastian looked closer. Sweet blessed heavens! Had the dandy seriously traveled in a brocade tailcoat?

  As soon as the man spied him, his feet skittered across the rocks, heels clacking. “Excuse me, but might you be Officer Barrow?”

  Though he bested the man by at least three stones and a hand span in height, Sebastian retreated a step. Something wasn’t right about the fellow, and he didn’t like it. Not the vacant stare or the whiff of newly turned dirt that wafted about him. And particularly not the queer way the man’s teeth clicked when he spoke.

  “I am Officer Barrow.” He tempered his tone, giving no hint to the unease prickling his scalp, and flicked aside his cigarillo.

  “Good to meet you, sir. I am Wendell Groat, manager to Miss Daisy Lee.” He shot out his hand.

  Sebastian stared at it, abhorring the freakish reluctance paralyzing him, then shoved out his own hand. His fingers wrapped around cold skin—smooth yet hard—as if he gripped a large beetle fresh from the soil. He yanked his hand away.

  Groat smiled, a knowing gleam in his little eyes. “I understand you have information as to my missing client’s whereabouts?”

  Rubbing his palm along his greatcoat, Sebastian scowled. “I do, but it ain’t for free.”

  “Of course not.” A slight chuckle scuttled out of him. “Like my advertisement said, you shall be rewarded fifty pounds for her return.”

  “Huh,” he grunted. “Let’s see it.”

  “Pardon?” Groat stepped closer, angling his head as if he hadn’t heard correctly.

  Sebastian shifted his weight to keep from retreating. The urge to do so was annoying. So was having to explain himself. “I want to verify you have the money before I tell you where the woman is.”

  “Cautious fellow, are you?”

  Pah! He’d be a dead man a hundred times over were he not. Tugging down the brim of his hat, he stared at the fellow from the blessed shadow. “You learn to be in my line of work.”

  “I see, well…” Groat cleared his throat, the sound as repulsive as his click-clackety way of speaking. “I mean this in the best possible light, Mr. Barrow, but what is to stop you from simply grabbing the note and absconding once I show it to you?”

  A small bit of admiration crept out from a corner in Sebastian’s heart. He could—possibly—respect a man, who like himself, took precautions. God smiled upon the circumspect. So did he. “You’d make a fine officer yourself, Mr. Groat.”

  His smile faded as quickly as it arose and—unnerved or not—Sebastian advanced and grabbed the man by the collar, lifting him to his toes. “Yet I insist. Show me the reward money.”

  He released Groat, who coughed and clacked and ground his jaws but, to his credit, did not complain or strike back. He merely reached into his valise and pulled out a banknote.

  The paper waved just beyond Sebastian’s reach, flapping in a lusty breeze. “Happy?”

  “I will be, once that money’s in my pocket. You’ll find the woman at Morden Hall, the house at the end of the moor.” He held out his hand. Easiest bit o’ c
oin he’d made in a long time. Just thinking about a new pair of thick-leathered boots eased the remnant of pain leftover from the nail he’d stepped on.

  But before he could blink, Groat tucked the money back into the valise and snapped shut the clasp. “No payment until I receive my goods. Take me to her.”

  “That wasn’t part of the bargain,” he roared—apparently a bit too loud. Near the inn’s door, the glowering matron shot him an evil eye.

  “Now, now, Mr. Barrow. The handbill distinctly stated the reward would be paid once the woman is in my custody. And clearly”—the man’s head swiveled, taking the upper half of his body along on the ride—“she is not.”

  “You’re quite the stickler for details, aren’t you?” Sebastian scratched his beard, fingers tangling in the curly weave and pulling his skin. He didn’t have time for this. He ought to be out searching for Ward. Still, it would be a pleasure to see Daisy Lee put in her place, restored to the care of a man who could bring her back into line. A real pleasure. The same sort of zing that charged through him whenever he dragged a criminal through the iron jaws of the prison’s front gate.

  He dropped his hand. “All right. I can work with that. Follow me.”

  Sebastian sidestepped him and headed across the road to the stable. Behind him, footsteps snick-snacked against the gravel and caught up to him surprisingly fast. He glanced over at Groat as they strode side by side. “Not that I balk at the price, mind you, but I am curious… Why so much recompense for a mere breach of contract? I should think you’d simply move on. How can one woman possibly be worth so much trouble and coin?”

  Groat peered up at him. “Opera singers are a rare breed, Mr. Barrow. One doesn’t simply move on, as you put it. Daisy Lee brings in more money in one week’s ticket sales than I daresay you make in a year.”

  “Aha.” He grunted. “Missing your golden goose, are you?”

  “In a word, yes.”

  “So you’ll drag her back to the stage, and then what?” He stopped just before the stable door and turned to the man. “You can’t very well force the woman to sing, and she strikes me as one to dig in her heels.”