“There a coin in it fer me too, sir?”
A shameless request, but all the same Oliver’s heart squeezed. The boy’s hollow cheeks and hungry gaze proved testament enough to his need.
“Yes, lad. I’m sure that can be arranged.”
Minutes later, skirts rustled at the top of the stair and Maggie came into view, curiosity, worry, fear, and relief following one right after the other in the flash of her eyes.
At the landing, the waiter stayed her with a touch to the arm and tipped his head towards Oliver. “There, do you know that gentleman? Do you wish to leave with him?”
“Yes. Thank you, I—”
The words were hardly past her lips when Oliver rushed to her and pulled her into his arms. “Darling!” He spoke for all to hear, then whispered for her alone, “Sorry for the charade, but pay the man a coin.”
He held his breath. It was a gamble, this bold move. Would she slap him for such an intimate advance? Wrench away and ruin his ruse?
“I thought you’d never come,” she purred just loud enough for the waiter to hear. Without batting an eyelash, she sweetly kissed Oliver’s cheek.
And the touch of her lips nearly drove him to his knees.
She pulled away, fumbling with the strings of her reticule, and retrieved several pieces of silver. On an open palm, she offered them to the servant with a brilliant smile. “For your trouble and your silence.”
He dipped a bow and, doing so, swiped the money from her hand in one fluid movement. “Thank you, madam. But I suggest you both make haste. If Cook discovers you, you’ll have more than one angry woman on your heels. Good day.” After a quick nod, he bypassed them and strode down the corridor towards what was likely the hotel’s wine cellar.
As soon as he was out of hearing range, Maggie turned to Oliver. “What happened? I’d just risen from my seat when the waiter told me you were down here.”
“Thank God he got to you when he did, but there’s no time to explain. The boy and I—” He swept his fingers towards the lad, only to swipe thin air. The boy was gone. But without his coin? Strange, that.
He reached for Maggie’s hand. “Come on.”
They dashed towards the kitchen—only to see the lad at the back door, motioning for them to follow. The scullery maids once again watched silently.
Not the cook. As soon as she caught their movement, she wielded a soup ladle like a sword. “Out! I’ll put ye all to work—or worse!”
The boy scampered off first, Oliver and Maggie not far behind. But at the top of the stairs, at street level, the lad paused, his head turning one way then another.
“What do you see?” Oliver breathed out.
“That man, the big one what was chasing you.”
Oliver swallowed. Would Barrow never quit? “Where is he?”
“Here,” he whispered.
Oliver’s heart stopped. Maggie’s fingers turned icy in his. They all inched back down the stairway then flattened against the wall. One downward look from the constable and they’d—
“Constable!” Footsteps pounded, drawing closer. “Come and see. My whip’s been stolen.”
“I’ve not the time for—”
“Oy! What a stink! You smell like my load. Say… Don’t tell me you’re the one what’s been mucking about with my horse and cart. T’aint proper, even for an officer o’ the law. Come along now and set things aright!”
“That was your cart?” Barrow gruffed. “Why, I ought to haul your sorry carcass in for blocking the lane!”
While the two raged on, the boy edged up the stairway, too quickly for Oliver to yank him back. If the lad gave them away…
Oliver watched, trepidation pounding like a hammer in his head. Maggie gripped his hand all the tighter.
But as the voices barked louder, becoming more heated, the lad crooked his finger, beckoning them to follow.
Should they?
It was either that or remain at the mercy of one backward glance from Barrow. Slowly, painstakingly quiet, Oliver led Maggie up the stairs, easing one foot in front of the other. When his head was street level, he saw the heels of Barrow’s beat-up boots, two—maybe three—yards to his right. His back was to the stairway, his arms flapping in the air, making some kind of boisterous threat against the hapless manure collector. This close, it would be a hazard and a miracle to sneak off unnoticed. But the boy was already a good measure down the lane, his hand cutting through the air for them to follow.
Oliver glanced at Maggie. Grim-faced, she nodded.
They padded up the rest of the stairs and quick-stepped it to the boy, then they all broke into a run.
God was gracious. God was gracious indeed!
But just as they made it to the corner, a roar ripped out of Barrow. “You can’t run forever, Ward. Stop now!”
Oliver handed Maggie off to the boy. “Take the lady to Avon Street.”
Maggie yanked her hand from the lad’s and faced him. “But—”
“Go! I’ll lose Barrow and meet you there.”
Barrow’s boots thudded hard against the cobbles, growing louder with every step. Oliver whipped about and tore off.
Running. Again.
And he still didn’t know what the outcome would be.
It is curious how squalor can feel like safety. But as the boy and I turn onto Avon Street, I welcome the choked passageways and shadowed nooks—and pray that Oliver will soon find sanctuary here as well. The alternative is far worse than a few nights in a slum.
“Here ye be, miss.”
The boy peers at me, face smudged, ridiculous coat sleeves bunched up on rail-thin arms, making him look like nothing but a collection of bones and dirt. I pull out one of my few remaining coins and stoop to his level.
“Thank you for your help, my good man. If it is not too forward, may I know your name?”
A gap-toothed grin widens on his face as he pockets my offering. “It’s Bodger, miss. But you can call me Bodge. I reckon you and yer man are my friends now, eh? What with the coat and the coin.”
“Oh, he’s not really my…” I clear my throat. Explaining the relationship between Oliver and me is no small task, and certainly not one for a young boy’s ears.
“Yes, Bodge.” I return his smile. “We are friends, and I thank you for leading me here. Now, being that we are companions of sorts, would you mind going to see if you can aid Mr. Ward in any way? It is a very bad man who is chasing him.”
“Aye, I knows he is.” Bodge rubs his cheek with the back of his hand, then whisks about and takes off. “See what I can do, miss!”
Gathering my hem, I sidestep all manner of refuse until I finally reach the door of the small room that’s been my haven these past two days. I am grateful for the anonymous lodging where no one will think to look for me, but oh how I miss Morden Hall.
I unlock the latch, dart inside, then shove the door shut behind me. Fumbling with the ties of my bonnet, I cannot help but wonder—and worry—about Oliver’s safety. There’s nothing I can do but pray—
“You’ve been a very naughty girl, Daisy Lee.”
A low voice behind me clicks out each word. It’s a prominent sort of lisp. Unnerving in the way each word cracks like the crunch of a foot upon a beetle. My stomach drops, and I whirl. Wendell Groat’s skinny legs stretch out from the shadows like a cockroach from a crevice.
I lean against the table, gripping its edge for support. “Mr. Groat, I…”
My excuse balls into a great lump in my throat. Truly, what can I say other than I am guilty of forsaking my contract?
“You know what happens to naughty girls, don’t you?” A slow smile bares his teeth—all yellowish and somewhat pointy—which is more unnerving than his question. Only two things give this man such pleasure—profit and the anticipation that animates him right before a strike.
My stomach heaves as I calculate the distance between him and the door. Though the room is small, there is no way I can rush past him without his long arm snagging me.
I grip the wooden edge all the tighter. “You don’t understand. I had to run. I had to flee. There was no time. It wasn’t safe for me to get word to you.”
“You think I care about your safety?” He advances a step, chuckling. Then all mirth fades and he stares at me with vacant eyes. A corpse couldn’t look more dead.
“What I care about,” he clicks, “is money.”
“I—I know I wronged you. I have cost you ticket sales, appearance fees, and—”
A slap rings out. My head jerks aside, face stinging. Something warm oozes from the side of my mouth. The table wobbles as I stagger, then I let go completely and wipe away the blood.
Mr. Groat stands eerily still, as if he’s not moved a muscle. “Where is the necklace?”
I blink, dazed, pressing my cool fingers against my hot skin. “What?”
“Don’t play the part of the dullard. It ill becomes you.” The sides of his mouth pull down, carving a great half circle on the bottom part of his face. “Where are the jewels you stole the night of Corbin’s party? I will have those rubies, and I will have them now.”
I breathe deeply and lower my hand, desperately trying to make sense of why we are speaking of a necklace when we should be discussing my broken contract. “But those jewels are Mrs. Corbin’s.”
“They are mine.”
“Yours? But…” Sudden understanding hits me as hard as his slap. “It was you? You’re the one who swapped the necklaces? I thought Ambrose Corbin was to blame.”
Mr. Groat’s dark eyes blacken to two shiny shells. “Ambrose Corbin is a leech. A bloodsucker. A parasite who attaches himself to opportunity that is not of his own making.”
“You’re both tangled up in this?” I shake my head, then think better of it when the movement throbs in my temple. “How?”
“You always have been a little fool, hmm? Still, a very pretty fool at that.” Mr. Groat closes the small distance between us, reaching out so that his finger snags a piece of my hair. He rubs it between his thumb and forefinger.
I daren’t move.
“I arrived along with your trunk at the Corbin estate on the morning of your last performance. Bribing a disgruntled second footman for his livery was no problem. In fact, there would’ve been no problem at all had Corbin not discovered me in his wife’s chamber as I traded the necklaces.” He rubs my hair a moment more, then leans in close to smell it. When he exhales, his breath is hot against my neck.
My virtue is not in danger—and never has been with this man—but even so, fear breaks out in fine beads of perspiration on my brow. My manager harms in other ways… ways that leave permanent marks.
He pulls back and drops his hand. “Were it not for my quick thinking and business savvy, I’d have been hauled in then and there. As it was, we cut a deal, Corbin and I. I was to sell the jewels off-market, and he was to get forty percent. He’d collect the insurance money, and in return I would remain silent. It was a larger profit for him but even at sixty percent, a tidy sum would be in my pocket and I’d have avoided a visit to Newgate… until you ran off with that necklace. Tell me, how did you know the one you wore was real? There was no way you could have unless…”
He steps toe to toe, nose to nose, his black eyes boring into mine. He smells of dirt, fungus, things that rot in the dark. “You didn’t know, did you? Always the naive little lamb, eh?”
He chuckles, and tiny flecks of spittle coat my cheeks. I stiffen at the affront. He’s right. Though I’d had no control over the first contract signed years ago by my father, I never should’ve signed the second when I’d come of age. La! I’d been more than naive. I’d been a stupid girl duped by this man’s promises of security and wealth.
“Well, I suppose it’s worked out for the good.” Once again, he fingers my hair, this time tucking it behind my ear. His touch is unnaturally cold against my skin. “Corbin need never know about this little meeting. Now I may sell that piece and keep the entire yield to myself. So, hand it over.”
I hardly dare breathe. He won’t like what I have to say. “I don’t have it,” I whisper.
He clucks his tongue, the noise overloud in the tiny room. His finger probes from my ear down to my neck. All my blood drains to my feet, especially when he steps back and skewers me with a cool stare.
Ever so slowly, he pulls out a thin knife from inside his dress coat. No, I am wrong. It is a five-inch ice pick. My eyes instantly water. Old Graves, the set carpenter, has worked with an eye patch since his run-in with the same instrument.
“Give me that necklace before I split more than your lip.”
I inch back—but there’s nowhere to go. The table cuts into the back of my thighs. “I don’t have it here.” My voice shakes, and I swallow, summoning my stage persona. Fear will only entice him. “But I know where the jewels are, so if you kill me, I’ll take that information to the grave.”
“Kill you? Don’t be droll.” He flips the ice pick around—and around—his gaze following the circular movement. Then grips the handle, lifting it high. “Well? Where is it?”
“I’ll get it to you if you don’t hurt me. Two days. Give me two days and I’ll meet you at noon at the Circus lawn. I’ll hand it over there and then.”
The lie tastes as nasty as the bile that’s risen in my throat.
The ice pick hovers. Mr. Groat stares me down. Then tucks the weapon back inside his coat.
And smiles.
“All right. But do not think to inform the authorities, bring anyone along, or disappear altogether. I’ve found you once.” He backhands me again, so hard my ears ring. “Next time I will not be so lenient.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Winded, but blessedly free of Barrow, Oliver limp-trotted back to Avon Street. Thanks to an impromptu fishwife riot over some highly priced pikes and zanders in Market Lane, he’d lost the man. But even so, he glanced over his shoulder. A few scapegallows and chancers peered at him from doorway shadows as he passed, but in the slum, that was to be expected. At least no raging bull of a constable out for blood charged after him.
The tension in his shoulders slackened, and Oliver even allowed a small smile. It’d been a close one today. Ahh, but Jarney should’ve seen ol’ Barrow covered in horse dung, garnering shouts and curses as he raced along. What a laugh they’d have shared—and still would, God willing, if Jarney could hold on to life until he returned for him.
But first he’d have to figure out a new plan to snare Corbin.
“Maggie?” Oliver tapped on the door a moment before opening it wide and slipping inside. “I’ve lost him. I’ve lost Barrow.”
With her back towards him, she rose from where she’d been kneeling on the pallet bed, apparently praying. Dare he hope—for him? The thought did strange things to his heart.
She turned, pressing both hands to her stomach. “Thank God you’re safe!”
So she had been fretting about him. A good-natured reply launched to his tongue, then turned to ash as his gaze landed on an angry red mark marring her cheek. Her bottom lip swelled on the same side, and her eyes were glassy from spent tears. Oliver’s gut lurched as an ugly realization elbowed its way in.
She’d been hit. Hard.
In three strides, he pulled her into his arms, wildly searching her face for any further abrasions. Whoever had done this would pay dearly. He’d see to that bit of justice, Barrow on his tail or not.
“What happened?”
She winced, and no wonder. The fierce snarl that ripped from him would make a bear back down.
“My manager was here.” Her voice shook slightly, but she held his gaze.
“He hurt you?” Oliver wheeled about, retracing his route to the door and yanking it open. Outside, the world was scarlet, shaded by such a hot rage he had to blink.
“Where is he?” he growled back at Maggie. “The theatre? Is that where the coward scuttled off to after hitting a defenseless woman?”
“Oliver, please.” Her feet padded softly, her to
uch on his arm but a feather. “Tracking down Mr. Groat will do you no good. Do not waste the time. We need a new plan, one that includes him and Corbin.”
Of course he had a plan—one that involved meting out justice at the end of his fist. But… He angled his head. What the devil did Groat have to do with Corbin? “What do you mean?”
“Come inside. We’ll draw attention.” Her fingers pressed into his sleeve, guiding him away from the door and gently closing it behind them.
Huffing a breath, he allowed her to lead him to the two half barrels near the ramshackle table. She was right. Avon Street had ears big enough to spread scandal faster than an oil fire.
Maggie straightened her skirts, then breathed a sigh. “Ambrose Corbin is not fully to blame for the theft of the jewels. Mr. Groat was in on it as well. It fact, it was his idea. He exchanged the necklaces on the morning of my performance, shortly after my trunk had been delivered to the Corbin estate, but Mr. Corbin caught him in the act. After some silver-tongued bartering on Mr. Groat’s part, they ended up trading silences. Mr. Corbin would say nothing of the swapping as long as he was paid forty percent of the value when Mr. Groat sold the necklace. In return, Mr. Groat agreed to keep mum about the insurance money that Mr. Corbin would acquire illegally. Both would profit, and as long as they kept their pact, neither would go to gaol.”
“Yet I rotted in a cell for nine months?” Slamming the table with his fist, Oliver shot to his feet and paced the tiny room, his pulse a primal drumbeat in his ears. Two men knowingly ruined his reputation, sent him to what could have been his death, and all for the sake of some coins in their pockets? “Blast!”
Maggie stiffened—and the sight cut straight to his heart. He’d frightened her. What a beast. Had she not suffered enough terror for one day?
He inhaled so deeply that his ribs ached, then slowly blew it out and resumed his seat. “Forgive me. I fear my manners are still fettered in Dartmoor Prison. Even so, I vow to contain myself for your sake. Now, tell me.” He leaned back on the barrel and folded his arms. “How did Groat find you? Did he spy you and the boy on the streets? Were you followed here?”
The House at the End of the Moor Page 18
