A matter of days? Sebastian frowned. Something was afoot here. Something he needed to know about. He dared to lean just a bit closer.
Ward glowered at the man a moment longer, snorting as loudly as his horse. Then the sneer dissolved into a grimace, and he heeled the horse in a tight circle and returned to the stable.
The elder fellow watched him go, then turned.
Sebastian squinted as he studied him. High cheekbones. A broad mouth. A few dark hairs streaked in amongst the white. And a very distinct nose. It was hooked, a veritable beak… just like a hawk’s. Sebastian lowered his gun as the ugly truth sank deep in his gut.
Cassius Ward. Oliver’s father. All of Groat’s warnings barreled back. The eminent Hawk of Crown Court was a man who could make snatching his son a miserable amount of paperwork at best, or worse, twist it sideways and have Barrow himself detained. Of all the wretched providence!
Tucking his gun away, Sebastian eased behind the wagon, deflated but not devastated. It was only a matter of time, now that he’d located Ward. A matter of days, apparently. Perhaps Groat knew more. And in the meantime, he’d watch. He’d wait. Patience wasn’t usually one of his virtues, but perhaps God was testing him.
And this time he wouldn’t fail.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Oliver crept downstairs and, out of habit, took care not to put his full weight on the center of the eighth stair. It creaked. Always had. Shortly after his mother had died, he’d learned that lesson as a ten-year-old on a midnight venture to pilfer some biscuits from the kitchen. Tonight’s scheme, however, was much less nefarious. A book from the library ought to do the trick for wooing him to sleep. Hopefully. By all rights he should be bone weary without such a sleeping aid. His body was, but his mind would not shut down. Too many worries. Too many recurrent memories.
And far too many thoughts of Maggie.
Thankfully, all her arm had needed was a bandage. Her sleeve had borne the brunt of the attack. She’d chattered through dinner without so much as a wince. Even so, he couldn’t stop thinking about it—about her—in ways he had no right to. She’d not yet given him leave to pursue her after this whole ugly affair was over. Perhaps she didn’t intend to. And he wouldn’t blame her. She’d seen him at his worst.
He cinched the banyan tie tighter at his waist, lest the hem catch and send him crashing the rest of the way down. The flame flickered in the oil lamp, casting a monstrous shadow of him against the wall when he descended the final step. As a lad, it would’ve frightened him. Now he had bigger dragons to slay. Groat and Corbin at the moment… then the possibility of Maggie walking out of his life forever.
Nearing the library, he slowed his pace and frowned at the golden light spilling out from the door opposite. His father’s study. What was he doing up at this late hour? Hah. What a baseless question. The barrister always had spent more time poring over law books to the detriment of all else—even his little boy.
Face forward, jaw set, Oliver strode past the door.
“Is that you, Oliver? A moment, if you don’t mind.”
He stopped. This was new. The barrister had actually noticed him? Pivoting, he retraced his steps and entered his father’s sanctuary. The scent of ink and Grey’s tea welcomed him. The Persian runner stretching the length of the room did not. How many times as a lad, an adolescent, a young man, had he stood there weathering a lecture or a reprimand?
Pulling his gaze from the spot, he faced his father, who sat ensconced behind his massive desk. “You’re up late.”
“Just organizing a few last-minute details for Friday evening.” Gathering a sheaf of papers, he tapped them against the desk until each page lined up like a row of soldiers. He set them aside, then leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
Oliver tensed. What sort of homily was he to endure tonight?
But his father said nothing. Outside, a gentle rain beat against the glass panes of the window. Gas hissed from the newfangled sconces on the wall. Other than that, all was silent.
Oliver set his lamp down on the man’s desk, jarring them both with the rattle of the glass globe. “You wanted to speak with me?”
“Yes, I did. About Miss Lee.”
He blinked. He’d heard stunning things from politicians and barmaids, but this one caught him off guard. What could his father possibly wish to discuss with him about her?
Once again the rain dripped, the lights softly fizzed, and his father’s lips remained sealed.
“And?” he prompted.
Leaning forward in his seat, the barrister reached for his mug of tea, the leather chair creaking with the movement. “I am sorry about her arm. She is quite a brave lady.”
Oliver shuffled his feet, suddenly unsteady. This was unfamiliar territory. His father didn’t usually creep around the fringes of a topic. “Indeed, she is.”
His father slurped a drink of tea, then continued to hold the mug in both hands, staring into the liquid. “Though I’ve only had the pleasure of Miss Lee’s acquaintance for three days, I am of the opinion she is a remarkable woman.”
Unease prickled across his shoulders. Where on earth was this conversation headed? Oliver shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “She is rather extraordinary.”
His father grunted, then set down the mug and speared him with a direct gaze. “I wanted to apologize for my harshness earlier today. It was commendable of you to wish to see that scoundrel Groat pay for his maltreatment of her.”
Oliver sucked in a breath, audibly, but it couldn’t be helped. An apology and a compliment? Was this man truly his father or an imposter?
“Apology accepted,” he conceded. “But you were right. I let my anger get the best of me.”
Astonishment flickered in the man’s green eyes. Oliver braced himself for the resultant about-time-you-learn-to-admit-your-shortcomings monologue.
The barrister rose and clenched his hands behind his back, a favored power stance when standing at the bar. “Tell me, Oliver, what are your intentions towards the lady after all of this is over?”
Instantly his hackles rose. Could the man never think well of him? What suspicions did the barrister have tucked away in a back pocket?
“What do you mean?” He measured out the words evenly.
“Come now, I may be getting on in years, but I am not blind.” His father paced to the window and stared out at the black night. “I see the way you look at her, the way she looks at you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” He faced Oliver, one brow arched high in a knowing angle.
Oliver bristled. “Even so—which I’m not admitting to, mind—what concern is it of yours?”
His father merely sniffed. “As I’ve said, since getting to know her, I am struck by her intelligence, her beauty, her guarded heart.”
“You sound as if you’re the one who intends to pursue her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m old enough to be her father—and as such, I will not stand by and see that young woman’s heart broken by you.”
By him? White-hot rage burned through his veins. “Do you really know me so little?”
His father grimaced and sank back to his seat, aging years in front of him. “I hardly know you at all.”
“Exactly!” Oliver planted his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Which is why you do not get to have this conversation with me. You have not earned the right to be privy to the intent of my heart.”
His father winced, and a spark of remorse for such harsh words squeezed Oliver’s chest. Sighing, he straightened and planted his feet on the Persian runner. His father never failed to goad him to extremes.
“Fair enough, Son. Just…” The barrister’s mouth twisted, whatever he’d intended to say trapped behind the barrier, until finally he blew out a long breath and peered at him. “Be careful. I would not like to see either of you hurt.”
“Really?” A snort ripped out of him. “All of a sudden you a
ctually care about my welfare?”
“I have always cared about you.”
Of all the audacious statements! Oliver flung out his arms. “Is that so? Then tell me, Father, why did you not come the day I was unjustly condemned to prison? Why were you not there for me? Why did you not fight for me?” The questions flew like grapeshot, loud, sharp, hitting the walls—and his father—with blunt force.
“I didn’t know about it,” his father said quietly.
“You? The Hawk of Crown Court didn’t know about his own son’s trial?” Scoffing laughter rumbled in his throat. “Surely you don’t expect me to believe that.”
“I am many things.” His father lifted his chin and stared down his hooked nose. “But I am not a liar.”
No. He wasn’t. Yet the dark side of that virtue often cut deep with its pointed barbs.
Oliver raked his fingers through his hair, tugging hard, wildly, wanting to run from the room but at the same time stay and discover what could have possibly kept his father from his trial.
He dropped his hand, helpless against a rising, morbid curiosity. “What was it, then, that was so important you sequestered yourself away from the biggest scandal in Bath? Why would you… ahh. Wait a minute. I should have known. A case. You were working on a case. Tell me, Father, who was it that was so important you didn’t have time to keep abreast of your own son’s disgraceful arrest?”
“Does it really matter?”
“Who!” He slammed both fists on the desk.
His father’s eyes narrowed at the outburst, yet his tone remained placid. “I was unexpectedly called out of town—under false pretenses, I might add—to a manor home north of London. A storm arose, the bridge washed out, and I was essentially cut off from civilization. By the time I made it back to London to catch the next train, the line had shut down for repair. I resorted to hiring a coach, which added more time. But, I assure you, the second I heard of your incarceration, I began filing appeals. I’ve been working on your case ever since.”
Like a burned hand held beneath cold water, the information soothed but wasn’t permanent. Oh how he wanted to believe it. To trust that his welfare was utmost in his father’s mind. But the barrister always had a plausible excuse, and this one neatly hid the fact that his father had not fully answered his question.
Oliver forced an even tone to his words. “Whose case were you working on?”
Without a flinch, his father met his gaze. “Lord Candlewood.”
“Hah! Lord Candlewood?” The name soured in his gut. “An earl. Why am I not surprised?”
“Believe it or not, Oliver, the wealthy and titled deserve justice as much as the poor and downtrodden.”
“Sure. Justice for the rich and privileged, but God help the poor, the needy, those of lesser value.”
“Justice is not free. If it weren’t for those ‘rich and privileged,’ I would have no means to help the poor, the needy, and those of lesser value, as you put it.”
“Nice sentiment—except you never find enough time to help them, do you? Because even when your ten-year-old son begged for your assistance to help his best friend’s father, you were too busy defending a viscount.”
“Did you never stop to think that perhaps, through your childish eyes, you didn’t see the full picture? The truth is I did look into the case, and found that the man you were so certain was a paragon of virtue was actually guilty of embezzlement.”
Oliver reeled, completely off kilter. “Why did you never tell me this before?”
“At the time, you wouldn’t have understood, and even if you had, I doubt it would’ve made a difference. You would’ve continued to argue for the sake of your friend. Your strong sense of protecting the innocent is a noble but sometimes misguided trait.”
The weight of his father’s words was too much to bear, and his knees nearly buckled. His father was right. On all accounts. Oliver braced himself against the desk. “Then later. Why didn’t you tell me later?”
“Would you have heard me? You didn’t even give me a chance tonight to explain I had been defending Lord Candlewood’s first footman.”
A servant? Oliver stared at his father as if he’d sprouted horns, everything he thought he knew about the man turned upside down and inside out. And as much as he wanted to protest he would have listened, would he have? Because in the end, it still didn’t explain why a young boy was made to suffer the consequences of his father’s sin.
“Oliver, please hear me—”
“No! You’ve said enough!” The words boomed in the small chamber, his whole body shaking. He was in no mood to endure a further I-told-you-so from his father, and nothing would change the past. Nor would it change anything in the present, for here he was, a little boy in man’s clothing, unable to understand why the world was so unjust.
He filled his lungs, held the air until he felt a burn, then slowly blew it all out and opened his eyes. “I appreciate you housing me and Maggie. I really do. It’s a risk that could mar your sterling reputation, and I own I am a bit surprised you’ve bent so far as to allow the possibility. But once this is over, Father, I think it better if we part ways once and for all. Good night.”
Snatching his lamp, he pivoted and strode to the door.
“Oliver, come back here.”
He kept walking. After Friday night, he’d never come back here again.
Rain cries down the windowpanes in a steady pat-pat-pat. I stand next to the glass, shivering in my nightgown, and all I see is the pale-faced reflection of a ghostly woman staring back at me. Dark eyes overlarge. Hair a tumbling mess. I angle my head. My cheeks are more rounded than I like. It’s a morose waste of time, this scrutiny of my faults, but it’s better than tossing about on the bed, which is how I’ve spent the last hour… and likely will the rest of the night.
Huffing a sigh, I turn away from the window. If I’m going to be awake, I should at least make the best of it, and the best thing to do in such a situation is to read a book. I collect my robe and take care while shoving in my injured arm. Truly, it doesn’t hurt much, but it pays to be cautious. If infection sets in and a fever follows, I’ll not be able to attend the great downfall of Mr. Groat and Mr. Corbin in three days.
I light a small lamp then venture into the corridor, padding on soft feet. At this late hour, everyone is abed. But as I tread down the staircase and turn into a broad passageway, I revise that opinion. A door opposite the library stands open. Heated words roar inside. Two voices. I frown. As if Oliver and his father don’t quarrel enough during the day, must they squabble into all hours of the night?
Holding my robe tight at the neck, I scurry past, praying not to be seen. But a few steps beyond the door, some of their words sink in, and my breath catches in my throat. I stop. Oliver’s father hadn’t attended his son’s trial? A need to know the reason why overrides my sense of propriety. I back up, flatten against the wall, and blow out my lamp. Eavesdropping is wicked, but not nearly on par with a father—a powerful man of the law, no less—not being there for his son.
Though I strain my ears, the barrister’s reply is too soft to distinguish. No matter, though. Oliver’s voice booms loud enough for the both of them. “You? The Hawk of Crown Court didn’t know about his own son’s trial?”
My brow knits into fine knots as the conversation continues. I fear Oliver is too busy excoriating his father to really listen to the man. Does he notice the regret in his father’s voice? The raggedness rasping with each word? Is he too focused on an injustice of the past to hear the pain and repentance in the present? Why does he not—
Then it hits me, and my shoulders sag. Who am I to cast judgment? How many years did it take me to let go of my own sense of rejection in order to not only listen to my father but forgive him for signing me away to Mr. Groat? Father felt he had no choice other than to do so for monetary reasons, but perhaps the barrister’s motivations are just as valid, if only Oliver would consider them.
“I think it better if we part w
ays once and for all,” Oliver growls. “Good night.”
Good night?
My heart stutters, and I dash from the study door to the library. Footsteps thud in the corridor, headed my way. Sweet blessed heavens! How am I to explain myself standing in a dark room in the middle of the night? Turning in a wild circle, I scan from wall to wall, seeking a place to hide.
Across the room, draperies hang open in a bay window. Perfect. I race to the spot and yank them shut just as pale yellow light seeps under the gap between hem and floor. My blood drains to my feet. Did I make it here in time or did Oliver glimpse the flash of my white robe?
Closing my eyes, I listen hard. With my pulse throbbing a primal beat, it’s difficult to distinguish if shoes brush against carpet. So I hold my breath, hoping to still the crazed pounding, and…
Nothing. Only rain tap-tap-taps a steady patter against glass. I release a long, low breath, blowing out all the tension of what could’ve been a very sticky situation. Thank God I made it here in time.
And then curtain rings screech.
My eyes fly open.
Oliver stands a pace away, one brow arched high. “If you fancy to win at a game of sardines, you’ve chosen a very poor place to hide.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
She was a vision, this woman. A dream. An enticing temptation no mortal man could resist. Forgetting everything about the harsh words with his father, Oliver lifted his lamp higher, desperate for a better look at Maggie.
Dark curls brushed against her neck, fallen free from the loosely tied coil atop her head. Her brown eyes were impossibly wide, little flecks of gold catching the light and bouncing it back. A man could get lost forever in that gaze.
So he looked lower, pausing ever so slightly on her full lips, then down further, along the creamy skin of her neck, past the chain of her mother’s locket, to the shadowy depression where her robe rode low on her collarbone. Life pulsed vibrant there. How warm would that skin be? How soft?
Sweet heavens! What was he thinking?
The House at the End of the Moor Page 22
