by Clee, Adele
With the stable yard located at the rear of the hostelry and accessed via a narrow lane, she did not see John Sands sitting tall and proud astride his stallion. She knew nothing of his arrival until he came bursting through the entrance adjoining the yard.
Beatrice glanced up and saw him striding through the taproom as if he were master of all he surveyed. He carried his riding crop, ready to beat back lesser mortals, had to duck his huge head to avoid the low beams. People stopped the impeccably dressed deceiver, passed pleasantries, offered to buy him a mug of ale, lick his boots.
“My uncle is here.”
“He’s popular in these parts,” Dante muttered.
“Satan often disguises himself as an angel of light.”
A stick-thin man standing at the oak counter gestured to her table, and for the first time in months, Beatrice locked gazes with her uncle. John Sands’ beady eyes honed in on his prey. A slow grin formed.
Beatrice raised her hand in acknowledgement, but the knot in her stomach tightened so hard she thought she might heave.
“Breathe,” Dante whispered. “He’ll never hurt you again.”
The words resonated. This was her one opportunity to gather evidence—this was to be the last time she’d sit at a table with this imposter—and she had to do everything in her power to make it count.
Wearing his smug expression like a well-worn coat, John Sands dropped into the chair opposite and plonked his crop on the table as a means of intimidation.
“Beatrice.” He lowered his voice for he did not wish the locals to hear any hint of panic. “Where the devil have you been?” That wicked gaze raced over her face and body, searching, assessing, trying to grope its way through the dowdy, high-necked dress she wore as armour. “I’ve been out of my mind with worry, thought you were dead.”
Wished she were dead, truth be told.
Dead people did not tell tales.
“I moved to London, took employment as a governess to three young children,” she said so calmly Dante would be proud. “The family are staying with friends in Chatham, and I wanted to see you before we sail to France.” If he believed she’d left the country, he would not need to venture to London.
The wrinkles on his brow deepened, and he shook his head. “But this is ridiculous. You have a home here. You’ve no need to work. No need to make perilous journeys.”
Beatrice clutched her hands tightly in front of her chest. “After what happened between us, I think it’s unwise for me to return to Rochester.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Can a grieving man not make a mistake? Can a sinner not repent? I’d drunk too much that night and behaved as no decent man should.”
This was how he roused her pity, by admitting his failures, pleading for an opportunity to make amends. But there was never a truer word spoken than when he was in his cups. And he had made his real intentions clear.
We’re not related by blood. I can take care of you. No one need know of our cosy arrangement.
Her hand burned to slap his face. How she longed to scream “liar”, show the good people crowding the taproom that John Sands was not an upstanding member of their community.
“You’ve been like a father to me all these years.”
“But I’m not your father, more of a close friend who cares about your welfare. The man who helped your aunt raise you into the fine woman you’ve become. In my grief, I forgot you saw things differently.”
Beatrice snatched the opportunity to discuss her inheritance. “You must understand, I feel as though I’ve been betrayed twice. By you, the man who raised me, and my father, who named me beneficiary to his estate yet left me without a penny to my name. Aunt Margaret told me about the house in Hampshire, but there are no documents to support my claim to the property.”
Her uncle developed a sudden tic at the mention of her inheritance. “Margaret spoke about Hampshire? What in blazes did she say?”
Beatrice swallowed a sip of fruit punch to chase away her nerves and the autumn chill. Fortune tellers in fair tents used various tricks to convince people they had the magical ability to see the future. They knew how to lead the conversation, how to draw information from unsuspecting victims.
“Aunt Margaret said we moved from Hampshire when my father died. She said you wouldn’t let her take anything from the house, even though my father named her my legal guardian.”
He jerked back. “Why the devil would she say that? She sold everything of value to pay for the move to Rochester.”
So, there was a house in Hampshire.
Her father had been murdered in Hampshire, on the London Road, near Hartley Wintney Common.
“Aunt Margaret said you lived in the same village as my parents.” The siblings were close, and she was sure her aunt mentioned something about living a short walk away, about Beatrice staying with them when her father worked out of town. “That we moved because of the terrible memories, what with my father being murdered near the common.”
His face turned ashen, so white she feared he’d stopped breathing. “The blighters must have known Henry was heading home and practically shot the poor man dead on his doorstep.”
Beatrice’s emotions danced between happiness at discovering her childhood home was in the vicinity of the common, and a deep sadness for the loss of her father, for the loss of what might have been a better life.
Asking more questions might rouse her uncle’s suspicion, and so she retreated, hoping to draw him closer to enemy lines.
“It must have been a terrible time for you and Aunt Margaret. You gave me a comfortable home, took care of me all those years, and I shall be forever grateful.”
The comment brought life back to his cheeks. “It’s not been easy. I never wanted children, but could not leave you out in the cold.”
Oh, now he wanted her gratitude and her pity.
“What happened to my father’s house? Why is it I’ve never heard from his solicitor? As my guardian, Aunt Margaret must have had control of the property until I came of age.”
They were not the questions Dante wanted her to ask, but knowing she had a home somewhere would make a world of difference when considering her future.
John Sands reached across the table and touched her clasped hands. “There seems to be some confusion. Henry left Margaret the house so she would always have the funds to care for you. She sold it when we moved to Rochester.”
Beatrice froze. Her stiff limbs had little to do with her dashed hopes, more to do with this snake’s touch. Even when he snatched his hand back, she felt his fingers slithering over her skin.
“I see.” All was lost. Unless the man was lying. “But where are my father’s books, the records he kept of solved cases? Aunt Margaret said he might have been the intended target in the shooting because of a previous investigation, that those poor people in the carriage died because of him.”
He scowled with irritation. “Margaret shouldn’t have said anything. We told Henry it was no sort of profession for a man with a young child and always feared he would meet a tragic end.”
Tragic was one way to describe the events of that day.
“There might be something in his notebooks, a clue to what occurred that night.” Or was the clue hidden amongst the notes they’d read? And why had Aunt Margaret kept a few documents and not all the files relating to the investigation? “Do you know what happened to them?”
“Forget about Henry Watson,” he snapped. “Return home with me where you belong, for no good will come from dredging up the past.” Concern marred his tone, maybe even fear. “You’ve created a fairytale picture of the father you lost, and it’s probably best you leave it that way.” He glanced over his shoulder briefly. “We made a bonfire of his notebooks and files, and I suggest you never mention them again.”
“Yet Aunt Margaret kept a handful of notes. Why?”
He shrugged but seemed agitated by her constant prying. “Perhaps she felt pity for the poor woman who lost her life. It was a
tragic case, a case your father was close to solving. Perhaps Henry hid them in the trunk, and Margaret knew nothing about them. Who can say? But my advice is to burn them, let those people rest in peace.”
Peace? Dante D’Angelo would not rest until he had answers. But Beatrice was no wiser than she was half an hour ago, and could feel Dante’s frustration whipping the air.
“Yes, the account of what happened to Daphne D’Angelo is heartbreaking.” Her comment would stir Dante’s demons, but she had to press her uncle harder. “The fact her son was made an orphan because of my father’s misdeeds makes it even more harrowing. Perhaps I should seek him out, see if—”
“No! No. There’s no need for reparation.” He sounded a little breathless now. “The boy is the grandson of an earl and has lived a privileged life. Besides, they were likely killed by someone in her family.”
Her family!
Why would he think Daphne might have been killed by her kin?
Dante jerked in the chair behind her.
“As chance would have it, the gentleman I work for is acquainted with Daphne D’Angelo’s son. By all accounts, the earl despised his daughter for marrying her Italian lover. But I cannot believe a peer would hire someone to murder his daughter.”
John Sands slapped his hand on the table in a fit of temper. All conversation in the room died. He turned to the men gathered at the oak counter and laughed.
“What does a man have to do to order a drink?” he joked.
After some jostling behind the counter, a serving wench appeared and hurried to their table. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr Sands, but you were chatting away to Miss Sands, and I didn’t want to disturb the reunion.”
The wench glanced at Dante D’Angelo as if he were a meringue trifle in Gunter’s window and she’d pay a month’s wages for one lick. The action caught John Sands’ attention. He craned his neck and stared at the back of Dante’s head.
“I’ll have another fruit punch,” Beatrice said to distract her uncle.
“And I’ll have a mug of ale, Daisy. Leave them on the table as we’re stepping outside for a breath of air.”
“Yes, Mr Sands.”
As soon as the wench was out of earshot, her uncle leant forward and whispered, “I’ll not discuss it here. Come outside for a moment.”
Every muscle in her body tensed.
She’d be a fool to accept. Was it a ploy to persuade her to leave with him or a means of divulging a secret? But she was not alone tonight and would not have to fight this fiend if he overstepped the mark.
Beatrice stood, her chair hitting the toprail of Dante’s chair. “Forgive me, sir,” she said, swinging around to meet his gaze.
Looking into his dark eyes settled her racing pulse. Seeing him brought a sense of calm, a peace she had never known. The words she’d spoken to him that night in Howland Street entered her mind.
I’m not frightened when I’m with you, Dante.
She meant every word.
“There’s no need to apologise,” Dante said, then mouthed, “I won’t let him hurt you.”
John Sands stood, too, and snatched his crop from the table. He opened the front door, waited for Beatrice to gather her cloak around her shoulders and squeeze past him before following her outside.
The wind whipped strands of hair from her chignon. The biting chill nipped her cheeks, an attack she hoped wasn’t a prelude to something more destructive. Worried he might lead her into the shadowy recesses of the garden, she hurried ahead, staying close to the red brick wall before stopping beneath the boughs of an old yew tree.
“What is it you couldn’t tell me inside?”
He turned his back to the inn and faced her, his broad frame blocking her line of vision. “You’ve been busy concocting stories while you’ve been away. But no good will come from prying into the lives of powerful men. That’s what I told your father and look how he suffered.”
“If you’re referring to the Earl of Deighton, he’s dead.”
“The son inherited, did he not?”
Beatrice jerked back in horror. “Are you saying Daphne D’Angelo’s brother had something to do with her death?”
“Leave the matter alone, love.” He gripped her upper arm, his fingers sinking into her flesh. “Come home with me where I can keep you safe. The house is so cold, so lonely, so quiet without my little Bea busying about the place.”
Beatrice tried to shrug out of his grasp, but his hand clamped around her arm like a vice.
“Did my father have evidence that Daphne’s family were involved?” Panic swept over her, a tidal wave threatening to drag her under, but she needed more information before Dante came charging to her rescue. “Tell me, and I shall consider returning to Rochester with you.”
Satisfied, he released her arm. “It was so long ago, but it had something to do with a man claiming to be the illegitimate son of the countess.”
The countess, not the earl?
“What was his name?”
It was one question too many.
Her uncle frowned and took to tapping the top of his boot with his riding crop. “Tell me those notes haven’t fired more than your curiosity. Tell me you’ll not use this information to try to find the devil who murdered your father.”
She should have told him what he wanted to hear, but blurted, “Someone must fight for him. Someone must fight for justice.”
The atmosphere changed, the wind blustering in from the north, whipping up leaves and twigs, a far more threatening presence that mirrored the sudden shift in her uncle’s countenance.
“Now listen here.” He pressed the tip of his crop to her chin, forcing her back against the brick wall. “Foolish talk will get you killed. Loath me to spoil your fantasy, but your father was a scoundrel who lost his way when your mother died. I wished to save you from this, love, but we sold the house in Hampshire to pay your father’s debts to Manning. There’s every chance Henry betrayed his clients, turned traitor, and it all ended badly.”
Beatrice gulped. “That’s a lie.”
It didn’t matter what this rogue said. Until presented with the truth, she refused to believe her father had caused the death of innocent people.
He snarled as he jabbed the crop at her throat. “You’re coming home with me before your mouth runs away with you and we’re both found dead on the roadside.”
She tried to catch her breath, but he was suddenly surrounding her, a large ominous figure pressing her to the wall, trapping her, preventing her escape.
Familiar smells invaded her nostrils—the clawing scent of his shaving soap, the pomade he used to tame his unruly mop of hair, the musty pong of damp clothes. Aromas as suffocating as waking underground and inhaling nothing but soil.
Her knees would have buckled were she not forced upright by the tip of the crop. Her vision might have blurred were it not for the deep cough and the voice of the one man she didn’t fear.
“If you wish to walk away from here unscathed, I suggest you release the lady, give her some air.”
John Sands froze before pasting an arrogant grin and swinging around to face the man foolish enough to offer a challenge.
“Be on your way, boy,” he said, brandishing the crop as if it were a knight’s steely sword. “Keep to your own affairs, and I shall keep to mine.”
Dante stood like a Roman god, strong, solid, capable of bringing the heavens crashing to earth with a single strike. “Miss Sands’ well-being is my affair. And I’ll throttle any man who hurts her.”
John Sands laughed. “I’m her father, fool, and may do what I please with my own daughter.”
“You’re her uncle by marriage, a man who would force himself upon her to satisfy his own deviant pleasures.” With a quick whip of his wrist, Dante grabbed the crop from her uncle’s hand. “I am Dante D’Angelo. Son of Daphne and Alessandro D’Angelo.” He slapped the crop lightly into the palm of his hand. “Henry Watson came to my father’s aid, and I’ve waited a lifetime to repay the debt.�
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John Sands blinked rapidly. “D’Angelo? You’re the boy? The b-boy in the carriage?” Panic coated every syllable. He shook his head as if the vision before him were a mirage, a cruel trick of the mind.
With Lucifer’s arrogance, Dante splayed his arms wide. “No longer a boy, but every inch a man. A man ready to wreak havoc to uncover the truth.”
John Sands was at a sudden loss what to do. He shuffled back and forth, his eyes darting every which way like those of a hare snared in a trap.
“Imagine my surprise upon discovering my friend’s governess is the daughter of the man paid to protect my parents.”
Her uncle mumbled, muttered something about the earl slitting his throat, about him paying the price for his loose tongue.
Beatrice presumed he would plead for clemency, offer excuses for mistreating her, use methods to incite Dante’s pity. But in true cowardly fashion, John Sands made a dart for the thicket of spindly shrubs and trees opposite.
Dante’s sinister laugh pierced the chilly night air. He was about to take flight, too, no doubt thrash the lout with the riding crop until he begged for mercy, but she grabbed his arm to stall him.
“Wait! He’s told me everything he knows. We have two new lines of enquiry. More than enough information to keep us busy for weeks.” And she wished to be rid of John Sands, hoped he ran as far as his legs could carry him, hoped he stumbled into a poacher’s trap and perished in the cold.
But the need for vengeance lived inside Dante. Wild and feral. He might have charged after her uncle for the pleasure of hunting a predator, had it not been for Mr Ashwood’s timely arrival.
The coachman pulled the team of four to a halt outside the Falstaff inn. The carriage door swung open, and Mr Ashwood vaulted to the ground. Spotting them instantly, and sensing something was amiss, he broke into a jog.
Beatrice quickly explained what had occurred. “My concern is not for my uncle, sir. Beating the man will not ease Mr D’Angelo’s suffering.”
“No,” Mr Ashwood agreed.
“You speak as if I cannot hear you,” Dante countered, practically snarling as he scanned the road, waiting to catch sight of his prey.
