My man? I swallow. I should correct the fellow, let him know Oliver and I are naught but acquaintances thrown together to right the ills of Ambrose Corbin, but a queer knot blocks my throat. For a single, dizzying moment, I almost wish it were true. That the man standing vigil in the doorway, steeling every muscle against the injustice of the world, was my man.
“Well, enough o’ that blackguard.” Mr. Filcher crosses to Oliver and cuffs him on the back. Brave man. “You want housing, Ward, I know of a little hidey-hole you and yer lady can bide in.” He chuckles. “If only Corbin knew ye were stayin’ in his—”
“No!” Wheeling about, Oliver grabs the man by the coat. “No one can know.”
Mr. Filcher’s mouth twists, but finally he nods. “All right, though I wager half the slum already knows yer here, man. But don’t ye worry none. No one’ll breathe a word. We owes ya that and more, and we knows it. Still, I’ll make sure tongues don’t wag a twitch.”
Heaving a great sigh, Oliver releases him and sets him back on his feet. “I appreciate that, Filcher.”
“Like I said, we owes ya.” He glances at me. “Come along, miss. It won’t be much, but it’ll do ye.”
I press my lips flat. I can only imagine what he means—and it is not a pretty picture.
Chapter Seventeen
At least they wouldn’t have to worry about rats. No self-respecting rodent would step a paw across that rotted threshold. Closing his eyes, Oliver pressed the heel of his hand against the bridge of his nose, an insane hope flickering that such a small act would make the world around him disappear.
But when he dropped his hand and blinked his eyes open, black mould still climbed the stone walls. Cobwebs hung just as thick overhead as before, and jaundiced light continued to leak through the single window. Surprising, really, so coated was the glass with greenish-brown film.
Blowing out a long breath, he scanned the small room. Over in the corner, a three-legged table was propped up on some rocks with two overturned half barrels to serve as chairs. All were rife with an unknown oily substance. And that made up the sum of the furniture in the small room—for surely the stained mattress in the corner could not be counted as a bed.
Oliver bit back a groan. Filcher’s place was a castle compared to this cesspit. Come to think of it, so was his prison cell.
Behind him, Maggie stifled a cough. A small sound, but one that ignited a hot rage in his belly. She shouldn’t be here. No one should be here. How Corbin could allow fellow humans to live in such abominable housing was a testament to the man’s stinking rotted soul.
Oliver turned to Maggie, who yet stood near the door—and he didn’t blame her. Even he wanted to make a run for it.
“I apologize for this.” He swept out his hand. “You deserve far better.”
Her lips curved into a brave smile. “Borrowing from your own words, it will take more than this to bring me down.”
He clenched his jaw to keep from gaping. He couldn’t name one man who would bear such wretched lodgings with nary a complaint. Yet there she stood, head held high, shoulders back, ready to take on the world if she must. Ahh, but he could love a woman like this.
Love?
No. He raked his fingers through his hair, discarding the bizarre notion. The timing couldn’t be worse to play such a wild card. Maybe someday, God willing, but not at the moment.
“If all goes well”—he batted away some of the cobwebs as he spoke—“we won’t have need of this place for very long.”
“I am happy to hear it. So, what is the plan?”
For a moment he hesitated, concentrating instead on clearing off the low ceiling. His idea sounded good in his head, but would it make sense spoken aloud? And even if it did, would she mock it? Not that he wasn’t used to such criticism on Parliament’s floor, but this was different. This time he actually cared what she thought. A dangerous position. One that could leave scars—a bitter lesson he’d learned as a boy. Father had often dissected his notions, leaving nothing but an empty shell to be discarded.
“Oliver?” She stayed his arm with a light touch. “Your plan?”
He flinched away, annoyed at his own foolishness. What his father thought no longer mattered.
“Very well. Here it is.” He puffed out his chest in a show of false bravado. “Corbin and a magistrate will meet for lunch. While they dine, I shall place the necklace in Corbin’s barouche while you approach the two and accuse him in front of the magistrate, and voila. Corbin will try to talk his way out of how the jewels ended up in his coach, and he might very well do so, but he cannot escape from having to pay back the insurance money—money which I doubt very much that he has. At the very least, he’ll be gaoled for fraud, and trust me, he will not survive such an experience.”
Her brow furrowed. “But he is the richest man in all of Bath!”
“He used to be, but his appetites have pared that wealth down to nothing. You heard Filcher.”
“Still…” Nibbling her lip, she paced the small room. Four steps one way, then back, and again, until she stopped in front of him, her big brown eyes searching his. “What if you’re wrong that he has no money? How can you be so sure?”
“I can’t, not without help from Filcher.”
Once again, her brow scrunched—an endearing trait, one that made him curl his fingers into his palms to keep from smoothing those fine lines.
“I fail to see how Mr. Filcher can help with finding out how much money Ambrose Corbin may or may not have.”
A small laugh rumbled in his throat. Of course she didn’t. The most powerful men were usually the most underestimated. “Don’t let Filcher’s shabby coat or the neighborhood he lives in deceive you. On the contrary, those trappings work in his favor. Filcher is the most connected man in all of Bath. Take me, for instance. He sought me out when I was first elected. Exchanged promises for promises—all of which he’s kept. And that’s earned him the trust of rich and poor alike. If something needs to be done above or beneath a table, he not only knows who can do it, but holds their ear as well. Bank records won’t be a problem for him to uncover.”
She thought on this a moment, then nodded. “All right, but how do you know Mr. Corbin and a magistrate will be taking lunch together? And where?”
“Because we will orchestrate it.”
This time only one of her brows arched, followed by a smirk. “Let me guess, Mr. Filcher again?”
“No. I’m afraid this part is on us. We’ll send an invitation from Corbin to a magistrate, and another from the same magistrate to Corbin. Each will think the other is inviting him to luncheon.” Bypassing her, he strode to the door and looked out at the dismal courtyard while working a knot in his shoulder. If all went right, this would soon be naught but an ugly memory.
Footsteps padded behind him. “Are you a forger, Mr. Ward?”
“It’s Oliver, remember?” He turned to her with a smile. “And no, I am not an off-market scribe, but I am intimately familiar with Corbin’s signature from having fought against him for years.”
“Hmm.” She frowned and folded her arms. “And what of a magistrate? You know one well enough to render a passable signature as well?”
“Unfortunately, no, but I am gambling that Corbin won’t either.”
“I see.”
Did she? Did she truly understand how many ways this whole scheme could backfire? She shouldn’t have come. Shouldn’t have—
“Would it help to have a copy to look at?” Her head tipped inquiringly, both the question and the innocent quirk robbing him of thought. “Of a magistrate’s signature, that is.”
“Of course.”
“Well…” She flashed a smile then edged past him, strolling into the courtyard and calling over her shoulder. “I know just where to get one.”
The Beauford Square entrance to the Theatre Royal is a forgotten stepchild, overshadowed by the ornate arches and gilded plasterwork of the front door on Saw Close. Only stagehands and performers venture back
here. And this early in the afternoon, none of them will be about.
Still, I pause in the alcove before entering. I’ve not been entirely truthful with Oliver. Coming here could be a mistake, but it is one I am compelled to make. Besides garnering a magistrate’s signature, I desperately hope to retrieve a small locket I’d been forced to leave behind in my dressing room—a locket with a miniature of my mother’s face.
“Is there a problem?” Oliver’s voice rumbles low at my back.
I bite my lower lip. If Mr. Groat happens to be inside and sees me, Oliver’s plans for justice will be upended, and I’ve not yet shared with him that possibility. He has no idea there is a price on my head. It will do him no good to get tangled up in my legal issues when his are not yet resolved.
I turn to him. “Wait here. It’s better if I go in alone.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s too risky. Someone needs to watch the door while you rifle about for the magistrate’s box seat registration form. I won’t have you getting caught and accused of theft.”
Green flecks blaze in his eyes, a stark contrast to his dark hair. There’s a flinty set to his jaw, and he squares his shoulders. Though I’ve not known him long, I am familiar with this stance. He will not be moved no matter what line of reasoning I attempt.
Stubborn man. Frustration rushes from me in a sigh. “Very well, but there are a few things I should tell you before we enter.”
“Such as?”
“I need to stop at my dressing room.”
His brows knit. “Why on earth would you have a magistrate’s signature in there?”
“I don’t. I am after a locket.”
Oliver shakes his head. “Do you really think now is the time for such a triviality?”
Heat rises up my neck as quickly as a host of reckless words. “There is nothing trivial about the only keepsake I have of my dead mother.” My tone is terse—one I instantly regret.
The flecks of green in Oliver’s eyes pale, stricken, and he holds up a hand. “Forgive me. I had no idea.”
Of course he didn’t. What is wrong with me? My surge of anger cools to embarrassment, and I offer him a sheepish smile. “It is I who should apologize. I’ve been angry with myself ever since I left it behind, a regret I will rectify today.”
“Agreed.” He frowns. “But do you think your things will truly be there after all this time?”
For a moment I still, my heart tightening as if I’d been splashed with cold water. I hadn’t considered that possibility. But, no, if Mr. Groat is willing to pay such a reward for my return, he hasn’t moved on. “They’ll be there.”
My confidence seems enough to convince Oliver. He shrugs. “Very well. That’s one thing, but what’s the other? You said there were a few things I should know.”
“Yes, well…” Hmm. Where to begin with Mr. Groat? “It’s about my manager. You see, well… he’s…”
Words fail me. Even coherent thought fails me as I think on the peculiar cruelties I’ve witnessed towards others at Mr. Groat’s hands. Only once, when I’d first sheltered beneath his tutelage, did I displease him. I still bear the scar on my thigh where he’d jabbed me with a letter opener—an act that cured me of any future rebellion.
A breeze eddies into the small space, tugging loose a curl. I tuck it and my black memories away, then meet Oliver’s gaze. “Suffice it to say Mr. Groat is not the most pleasant of fellows if you cross him.”
“Don’t fret. He need never know it’s you who’s broken into his office and taken a receipt. And if you like, we’ll replace it as soon as this is over.”
“No, it’s not that. I have already crossed him.”
“Oh?” Oliver’s gaze sharpens. “How so?”
There’s no hiding it anymore. Not even from myself. As much as I’ve wanted to pretend my manager’s search for me is nothing but a triviality, that his threat isn’t nearly as ominous as Ambrose Corbin’s, the truth is that Mr. Groat is every bit as ruthless—especially when it comes to money, and my absence has sorely cut into his income. My stomach twists, and I press a hand to it, quelling the dread building there. Sooner or later I will have to deal with the consequences of breaking my contract.
I opt for later and force a carefree tone to my voice. “There is a bounty on me. My manager put out a fifty-pound reward for anyone who informs him of my whereabouts.”
Oliver rocks back on his heels. “What the devil did you do to warrant such an amount?”
“By running away that night, disappearing to Morden Hall, I breached the contract I signed.”
For a while Oliver says nothing, just stands there rubbing the back of his neck, until finally he shakes his head—and suspicion narrows his eyes. “I’ll grant you breaking a contract is no small thing, but fifty pounds? There’s got to be more to it than that.”
His doubt cuts deep, and I’m not sure why. Countless other gentlemen have called my character into question. Such is the nature of being a stage performer. But this time, with this man, it hurts like a festering sliver.
And I don’t like it.
I lift my chin, shoring up my dignity. “I assure you, sir, that is the sum of my guilt.”
His stare bores deeply into mine, so intent it steals my breath.
Then just like the slamming shut of a finished book, the intensity fades and a half smile plays across his lips. “Seems we are both on the run then, eh? But—hold on. You knew your manager was looking for you, yet you came to Bath with me? Why take such a dangerous risk?”
He’s right. It is a dangerous thing I do, all because of Ambrose Corbin. Had he not compelled me to hide in the first place, I’d not have reneged on my legal duty to Mr. Groat. I would’ve ridden out the rest of the year and never signed over any more of my life to him. Now I am at the man’s mercy, and he has none. Fury rises to my throat, and I glower up at Oliver.
“Believe me when I say I want Ambrose Corbin put behind bars every bit as much as you do. It is worth any risk to see that through.” My voice shakes. So do my hands, and I clench them.
Oliver holds up his palms, warding off my venom. “All right. I understand.” He tips his head towards the door. “Lead on.”
I fish about in my reticule and retrieve my key—thank God I thought to bring it along. Inside, shadows greet us, and I reach for Oliver’s hand. His eyes widen as I entwine my fingers through his. No wonder. It is a brazen act, this intimate press of flesh against flesh, his strong and warm, mine suddenly going clammy, but it is necessary. With my other hand I ease the door shut, and we are cast into utter blackness.
“Follow me,” I whisper.
I lead him through the workroom. Each breath of piney sawdust and metallic twang of lead paint welcomes me back to the theatre. Only once do I crack my hip against a table. Oliver’s strong grip rights me when I stumble.
I push open another door, and dim light from vigil lanterns paints the stage and the auditorium in a mysterious twilight. Since Mr. Groat’s office is upstairs, he insists these lamps continually shine over his domain, that he may look down like a god to keep an eye on his little world. His arrogance is a fire hazard.
I drop Oliver’s hand, and after a quick glance, I am satisfied there is no lamp lit up in Mr. Groat’s office nor is there anyone about. Keeping to the shadows, I edge across the stage towards the spiral staircase on the other side. But halfway through I stop, my gaze irresistibly drawn towards the auditorium. A flood of emotion washes over me. Strains of music I love echo from the past. I know I did the right thing in giving this up. Still, I am grateful for the times music mended and healed my soul. Thankful for the transformation of a timid little book clerk into a poised woman of elegance. But oh! The jitters that shook through me that first night the curtain opened. How strained my voice was when I sang in La Traviata. How thunderous the applause that followed. I close my eyes, chest suddenly tight. How unwanted were the touches from gentlemen afterwards who assumed I was every bit as much the fallen woman as Violetta.
“We should make haste.” Oliver’s low voice snaps my eyes open.
I nod, then with a last look at the rows of red velvet seats, march to the spiral staircase. Up we go, curving into the higher realm of ropes and pulleys, gangways and storage—and more importantly, Mr. Groat’s office.
Above the box seats is a passageway lined with three doors. Two are shut—the one for Mr. Groat’s office and the one that hides a chaos of miscellany, everything from broken chair rails to leftover programs. It is the middle door that concerns me.
Light spills out from the small prop room. It’s more than likely not my manager—he wouldn’t stoop to such a menial task as sorting through costume accoutrements, but still… Should we turn back?
I exchange a glance with Oliver. He tips his head back towards the stairs. We turn.
And a shrill voice hits between my shoulder blades. “Public ain’t allowed up here.”
My step falters. If only I can make it to the stairs and fly down. I flutter my fingers in the air, waving off the house mistress. Hopefully she won’t—
“Ho! Ho! That be you, Daisy, luv? Why, go on with ye! I can hardly believe my old eyes. I knew ye’d come back. I knew it! Been sayin’ so ever since ye trundled off last summer.”
My shoulders sag. Mrs. Threadneedle may be nearing sixty, but she’s as foxy as she was in her prime. There will be no outmaneuvering her.
Oliver frowns at me, motioning wildly for the stairs, but I turn from his entreaty. He has no idea of the sway of the house mistress. She is only a step below Mr. Groat. If I can manage a word in edgewise, I will convince the woman we are here for some triviality instead of a covert deed.
“Oh Mrs. Threadneedle”—my hand flies to my chest—“you gave me a fright.”
“Sorry, luv. Just gettin’ a chapeau for the next performance. Needs some new feathers. Can’t have a dandy of a hero sportin’ about in a brown-nap without a stitch o’ finery on it, can we?” She rocks back on her heels, her grey eyes glinting. “My but it’s grand to see ye. Like I said, I knew you’d be back. Mr. Groat’s going to be so—”
The House at the End of the Moor Page 15
