Chapter Eleven
Jeremiah Tugg had finally acknowledged that just watching the hotel and waiting for opportunity to kill Lady Crowmore was just not going to work, even with the fighting vicar out of the way. So, he’d been smart. He’d hung around the stables and asked questions, not of the lady’s groom but of the native stable staff and others. He knew that she’d ordered her horse brought round to the hotel at six o’clock that morning—which was ridiculously early for most nobs, but he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity when he finally had it.
High Street was quiet. Even the coffee house was closed. And when the groom walked the horses down the road, riding the big black one and leading the smaller white one, there was no sign of the hotel doorman or any other staff.
Tugg, lounging at the corner of the alley next to the hotel, lifted his hand and made a forward gesture. Immediately, his three colleagues, Snoddie, Barrow, and Leman slid past him and out into the high street.
Barrow, being least villainous in appearance, approached the groom head on, asking for directions. Suspecting nothing, the groom dismounted—and was immediately coshed on the back of the head by Snoddie. He fell like a stone, and Snoddie and Leman dragged the inert groom round into the alley.
While Tugg kept watch, and Barrow somewhat nervously held the restive horses, Snoddie and Leman wrestled the groom out of his coat. Tugg hastily donned it and emerged from the alley, picking up the groom’s fallen hat as he went and clapped it on to his head.
Barrow grinned, handed him the horses’ reins, and sped off down the alley to help keep the groom quiet—by killing him if absolutely necessary. Tugg wasn’t a great believer in killing, not if he wasn’t paid for it, and as it stood, only the lady’s death was being bought.
And there she was. He could see her approaching the hotel door alone. A maid scrubbing the floor stood up to let her pass, and obligingly opened the door for her. Tugg could barely contain his smile.
*
Kate had decided to ride early for two reasons. Through boredom, she’d gone to bed early the night before. But more importantly, she’d thought thus to avoid any effort of Lord Vernon’s to accompany her. She planned, in fact, to ride on the beach, as she’d privately let slip to Gillie before they parted yesterday evening, in the dubious hope that Gillie would pass it on to Grant. Her urge to see him, speak to him, just to be with him, was like an insistent pain. He was bad for her. They were bad for each other, and yet she craved his company like opium.
Peter was on time. She was glad to see him through the glass hotel doors, holding the horses still. She was vaguely surprised he didn’t walk them up and down, for Gladiator was tossing his head arrogantly, constantly tugging at the groom’s arm, and Snow was pawing the ground, shifting as though trying to stand on Peter’s toes.
“Mind your feet, ma’am,” the maid cleaning the floor said as she stood up and opened the door for her. “It gets slippery when it’s wet.”
“Thank you,” Kate said and stepped up to the door.
“Kate!” called a familiar voice behind her as footsteps ran across the foyer. She closed her eyes in frustration. “Hold up there.”
She opened her eyes and went out, pretending not to hear him. With luck, she could be mounted and away before it came to a confrontation. But a vehicle suddenly appeared in front of the hotel, stopping abruptly enough to make the carriage horses snort and whinny with displeasure. Startled, Kate’s horses pulled back from the vehicle, dragging Peter with them. At the same time, a man leapt out of the coach and grabbed Peter.
Kate had just time to register that the man from the coach was Tristram Grant, before he rammed the groom’s arm behind his back and all but threw him at the carriage, where he was received by none other than Lord Wickenden. Had they taken leave of their senses?
She started toward them, instinctively grabbing the reins of the horses. Peter, in a last-ditch attempt to avoid being dragged into the coach, grabbed on to either side of the door and threw back his head to shout. Only it wasn’t Peter.
It was the bully who’d once threatened her with a dagger.
She stopped dead, staring. Grant leapt up into the coach behind the ruffian, shoving him inside. Just for an instant, the curate glanced back and met her shocked gaze. And then the horses leapt onward and he slammed the door.
“What the devil?” Vernon uttered beside her. “That wasn’t … he looked just like—”
“Your brother?” Kate said, frowning as Grant hung out of the door once more, yelling something at the alleyway to the side of the hotel. “It is.” Drawing the horses with her, she hastened toward the alley.
A man lay prostrate on the ground to the left. Three more were just vanishing around the corner at the far end.
“Peter!” She ran the rest of the way to her groom, releasing the horses who showed no signs of going anywhere without her.
As she knelt in the dirty alley beside him, Peter groaned and opened his eyes. “W-what happened?” he demanded, trying to throw himself into a sitting position, and then grabbing at his head with a cry of pain.
“Hush, be still. Thank God you are alive, but they must have hit you. There’s blood on your head.” She investigated it, scowling over the injury.
“I don’t understand, my lady,” Peter said.
“That makes two of us,” Vernon said. “Why is my brother here?”
“He’s the curate,” Kate said, deftly removing Peter’s clean necktie and dabbing his matted hair with it.
“My God, is he really?” Vernon sounded entertained, and then affronted as he repeated, “Really? Then why the devil is he abducting people off the street?”
It was ridiculous, insane, and dangerous, but suddenly she wanted to laugh, because her heart had never been so light. Her voice shook with it as she said, “I think he might be trying to solve my Dickie Crowmore problem.”
*
Grant was, in fact, attempting to solve all the major problems he knew of. He’d nearly missed his chance, too, with Kate choosing to ride so early. He’d received word of that only just in time. Even now as the coach took off with their captive secured, it made his blood run cold to think how close this villain had come to Kate. The feeling drowned even his natural jealousy when he saw Vernon beside her once more.
“Well, we’ve got one of them,” Wickenden observed. The pistol he held inches from the prisoner’s chest was perfectly steady. “What do you want to do with him? Strangle him? Throw him off the cliff?”
Grant breathed deeply, calming himself. “Oh no. We’ll take him to the barracks and introduce him to Major Doverton as the source of their information about the escaped prisoner. I should think just looking at him would be enough for Doverton to forget the charges against me. If it isn’t, this fellow will just have to say he was paid by someone.”
The bully grinned ferociously. “I was. Indirectly. But I’m not saying so to no major. Nor magistrate neither.”
“Well, perhaps I will just beat him to a pulp,” Grant said to Wickenden.
“Thant’s no talk for a vicar,” the ruffian said severely. “You’re too handy with them fists for a man of God. It’s my belief you ain’t one neither.”
“Then you’d be wrong. But I’d advise you to do as I suggest.”
“Why would I?” the man demanded aggressively.
“Because if you do, I might speak for you and urge the major to release you as—er—a mere ignorant tool. At this point, you have nothing to lose by telling the truth. Because you don’t—you really don’t—want me to get to other charges, like the attempted murder of a peeress of the realm. We have plenty of witnesses to that.”
The ruffian glared at him.
“What’s your name?” Grant asked, swaying with the carriage as it turned uphill toward the barracks. “Tugg, is it?”
The man’s eyes widened. “How did you know that?”
Because he’d had enquiries made at the tavern, which was the only possible place people like Tugg could possibly stay around here. Unless they were prepared to live rough.
“I have my methods,” Grant said grandly.
Wickenden’s lips twitched, though the pistol remained steady.
Tugg scratched his head. “So you’re saying you won’t accuse me of murder if I just admit to informing against you about the prisoner?”
“Informing against me falsely and maliciously,” Grant corrected.
“Because some stranger paid me,” Tugg expanded. “No doubt some other toff who don’t like you.”
“No doubt,” Grant said.
“And that would be it? You’d let me go?”
“Provided you clear off and never come near either Blackhaven or her ladyship again.”
Tugg scowled. “Can’t do that, gov’nor. I got a job to do. I can’t go back and tell him we couldn’t do it! She’s only a woman, and I’ve got my reputation to think of. Besides, he ain’t going to be pleased and he’s got a nasty look in his eye.”
“Then tell him you did it,” Grant suggested.
Tugg blinked. Even Wickenden was looking at him a trifle oddly.
“What?” Tugg scratched his head again.
Grant leaned forward, as though confiding. “Tell him—let’s call him Lord C for convenience…” The flicker in Tugg’s muddy eyes told him he was right in that assumption, but then he’d never really doubted it. “Tell Lord C you killed her, that she’s dead. He’ll pay you and everyone is happy.”
“Except me when he finds out she’s swanning around Blackhaven very much alive!”
“Except him when he finds out she’s alive,” Grant corrected wryly. “How is a so-called gentleman like Lord C going to find and punish a man like you? Without involving the law and his own vile conspiracy. I’m sure you have ways of lying low. Besides, it wouldn’t be for long. I have plans of my own for Lord C.”
Tugg regarded him with continued disapproval. “I never met a vicar like you before. I reckon you’d do well in my line of work.”
“What, assassinating helpless women for money?” Grant said contemptuously.
“She ain’t helpless or she’d be dead already,” Tugg retorted. “I just do what I’m paid to do. Got to earn a crust. Mind you, don’t care for the killing work much—too risky—but if a cove pays enough…”
“Quite,” Grant said repressively. “Then we’re agreed?”
“That I talk to your major and then go back to my cove—Lord C to you—and tell him I killed the lady? Get my money under false pretenses?”
“You don’t like the plan?” Grant said gently. “You’d rather go to prison for attempted murder? I expect you’d hang. You probably should.”
“Didn’t say that, did I?” Tugg scratched his head yet again. Wickenden inched further back from him. “All right. But you’re not to pursue my lads neither.”
“I won’t if they didn’t hurt the groom too badly.”
“He’ll be all right,” Tugg said comfortably. “Bit of a sick headache I should think, but no harm done.”
“Why didn’t you just kill him?” Wickenden asked curiously.
“Wasn’t paid to, was I? He was just in the way.” Tugg glared at Grant. “Like you.”
*
Their arrival at the barracks caused quite a stir. The coach was escorted across the parade ground by several running soldiers, while another vanished into the building at the far end. Their coachman—a servant of the Muirs who had once been a sergeant with the 44th—exchanged greetings and insults with acquaintances as they went, so it was hardly a threatening arrival.
By the time the coach pulled up outside the building and Grant alighted, Major Doverton was striding out to meet them. Since most of the regiment was now on the Peninsula, the barracks currently housed only a couple of officers and a handful of men, most of whom were raw recruits in training. But it seemed they’d all come out to watch the surrender of the fugitive curate.
Major Doverton scowled. The young lieutenant who’d tried to arrest Grant walked out of another building toward them, his jaw dropping as he wrestled himself into his coat.
Grant, with his hand significantly on Tugg’s grubby collar, offered a slight bow. “Major. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Tristram Grant.”
“I know who you are, sir,” Doverton said, his gaze darting over Tugg and Wickenden, then back to Grant. “Though I’m not sure who should be apologizing or explaining to whom.”
“I most definitely owe you an apology, sir,” Grant admitted, including the approaching lieutenant in his humble gesture. “I should not have fled. Indeed, I regret not accompanying the lieutenant as I originally intended. I’m afraid I panicked somewhat when I saw this fellow lurking, watching my arrest.”
“You were not arrested, sir,” Doverton said hurriedly, flicking a glance at Tugg. “Harper must have explained himself poorly.”
“As did I. I believe his information came from this miscreant—one Mr. Tugg from London. As he will tell you, the information was spitefully given. I have never in my life aided a French prisoner to escape, let alone hidden such a creature.”
“On top of which,” Wickenden interjected, “you should know that Mr. Grant was a captain of the Queen’s Own.”
“This is Lord Wickenden,” Grant said hastily. “Who helped me track down and capture Mr. Tugg.”
“Lieutenant Harper,” Overton barked. “Are you hearing this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Always check the source of your information! Especially when it’s against someone as upstanding as a clergyman!”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said miserably. He turned to Grant, lifting his chin. “I was heavy handed and overzealous, sir. I apologize.”
Grant, feeling a shade uncomfortable, said ruefully, “Perhaps, but the true fault was mine, sir. I suspected a conspiracy when I saw this fellow, and I bolted. I apologize for that. Now, perhaps we should go inside so you can see what this fellow has to say…”
*
“I don’t understand,” Vernon complained yet again.
He’d followed Kate, Peter, and Little into the hotel’s small reception room, where once she’d bathed Grant’s knuckles. Now, she cleaned and bandaged Peter’s head while the hotel staff arranged the return of the horses to the stables.
“It’s perfectly simple,” Kate said. “Those men attacked Peter to get to me. Mr. Grant stopped them.”
“But even if such a wild story is true, how could he know?” Vernon demanded with an air of triumph.
“Well, it isn’t the first time he’s saved me from those same men,” Kate informed him.
Vernon didn’t quite like that, but then he wasn’t meant to. Scowling, he said, “Why is he sniffing around you? Why didn’t you tell me you’d met him here?”
“For one thing, it’s none of your business who I meet where. For another, he seems to value his privacy.”
Vernon let out a crack of laughter. “No wonder. My father would crucify him if he caught up with him.”
Kate glanced at him, holding the bandage in place around Peter’s head. “You will respect that privacy, won’t you?”
Perhaps he heard the genuine anxiety in her voice, for a speculative look came into his eyes. “That might depend.”
Kate scowled and seized the pin from Little’s fingers. She had to remember to be careful jabbing it into the bandage and not into Peter’s head. “Don’t you dare consider coercing me over this. It won’t work. I don’t want a husband, Vernon, and I don’t want a lover. You might as well return to London.”
“Not without you. You need a husband, Kate. I won’t get in your way.”
Idiotically, Kate felt both annoyed at the concept of a husband who wouldn’t get in the way, and irritated by the false concept of “needing” a husband at all. “Go away, Vernon,” she said wearily. “If you want to be useful, tell them to arrange a room here for Peter. He can’t return to the stables in this state.”
“Course I can, my lady,” Peter said at once.
“No, you can’t. You’ll stay here, and what’s more, I’ll be sending for a physician.”
Vernon at least did her bidding, and by the time she emerged with Peter, a young man waited to show them to Peter’s room, conveniently close to her own. The young man, who had shiny shoes, seemed to make Little blush. Kate wondered, with mixed feelings, if she was about to lose her maid. She’d grown too used and too familiar with Little. She didn’t want to go back to having some fussy stranger constantly about her.
With Peter settled on the bed, resting in the darkened chamber, Kate left and found Vernon still in the passage, frowning.
“It doesn’t make sense. Isn’t the curate the fellow everyone’s talking about? The one who gave the soldiers the runaround when they tried to arrest him for hiding a French prisoner?”
Kate brushed past him. “You shouldn’t listen to gossip.”
“No, I shouldn’t,” he agreed. “Because although Tris is a pain in the neck, I can’t imagine him aiding and abetting the enemy! He fought them, for God’s sake.”
“Good morning, Vernon,” she said civilly, opening her own door.
“Wait, don’t you want to ride?” Vernon reminded her.
“No, I’ve gone off the idea. I shall make morning calls instead.”
“I’ll come with you.”
Kate shut the door on him, although the gesture was spoiled slightly by having to open it again almost immediately to let Little in. Her mind was all on Grant and what further trouble he might have got himself into trying to help her. Why did people never believe she could help herself?
In truth, she’d been afraid their quarrel in the secret passage had parted them for good. She certainly hadn’t expected him to be rushing to her rescue from his own fugitive position. And so, she changed from her riding habit into the first morning dress Little suggested, and then had to pace the rooms until it was a reasonable time to call.
Even so, she was aware it was unconscionably early for fashionable households. Fortunately, the Muirs did not count themselves fashionable, and a young footman showed her at once into an upstairs sitting room where she found not only the ladies of the house and the baby, but Cornelius, who eased to his feet as she entered.
“Oh, Kate, have you news?” Gillie cried, rushing toward her. “Do you know what’s happening?”
“I was hoping you did,” Kate said in dismay, pausing only to greet Gillie’s aunt and stepmother with civility before she allowed herself to be yanked down on the sofa by Gillie.
Gillie said, “I know only that David and Mr. Grant left here at the crack of dawn, taking Danny with them.”
“Danny?” Kate asked, since Gillie seemed to accord some significance to his presence with them.
“My father’s old sergeant. Among other things, he’s most useful in a fight,” Gillie said ruefully. “Which is what makes me wonder. Only, in this case, he was driving our travelling coach!”
“Well, that makes sense,” Kate allowed. “I saw them briefly, outside the hotel, where I’m afraid they—er—snatched someone off the street. I believe they were trying to help me, only I’m very afraid they’ve got themselves into more trouble.”
“Who was this man they snatched?” Cornelius demanded, apparently torn between amusement and outrage that they’d acted without him.
“Someone who threatened me,” Kate said reluctantly. “I have a complicated life,” she admitted when everyone stared at her. Even the baby, who surprised her by suddenly smiling at her. To her own astonishment, Kate smiled back. Then, pulling herself together, she coughed. “We must work out where on earth they’ve gone. Are you sure they haven’t returned to the cellar?”
“Not when I came up ten minutes ago,” Cornelius said. “We’re pretending I’m a morning caller,” he explained.
Regarding him properly for the first time, Kate registered that he was wearing a set of smart clothes that almost fitted him. “Well, you almost look the part. Wickenden’s clothes, I apprehend.”
Cornelius grinned. “They’d never believe this in the clubs. What a pity I’ll never be able to tell.”
“Ah. Talking of telling, you should know that your other brother, Lord Vernon, is here, and that he’s seen Mr. Grant. I don’t begin to understand your relationship to each other or your father, but I feel you should both be aware.”
“Damn,” Cornelius said with feeling. “Beg your pardon, ladies. Does he know I’m here, too?”
Kate shrugged. “Why should he?”
“If you told him,” Cornelius said bluntly.
“I didn’t tell him anything except ‘go back to London’,” Kate snapped. Catching Gillie’s eye, she paused and admitted, “Though, come to think of it, I might have encouraged him to beg, borrow, or steel an invitation to the Winslows’ ball on Saturday. Maybe Bernard can shoot him before then.”
Cornelius gave a bark of laughter. “Anyone would think you and Vernon were married. What does he think about you and Tris?”
Kate stood abruptly. “Don’t be ridiculous. There is no me and Tris. And if there were, it would be neither his business nor yours. Gillie, I’m going to the pump room, which is always a hot bed of gossip—” She broke off, for Gillie had turned to her, one finger on her lips in a gesture of silence.
And sure enough, muffled voices and even laughter drifted from below. An instant later, there came quick, steady footsteps, more than one pair, and Wickenden’s voice. Gillie jumped to her feet, the door opened, and Wickenden and Grant walked in.
Gillie ran to her husband with uninhibited joy and he caught her to him with the same natural affection. It cost Kate an unexpected pang, not for her lost love with David, but for the unlikelihood of her ever knowing any relationship so honest and intense.
I kiss you to make you love me. But I can’t, can I? Grant’s words in the tunnel came back to her without warning. It had seemed an odd admission of surrender from the man who never gave up. She wondered suddenly if he’d seen Vernon before that, if he knew her old lover was here.
Have I made him jealous? The possibility awed her for a moment before simple curiosity took over.
“Where have you been?” Gillie demanded, beating Wickenden’s chest with her little fist. “Why did you abduct that man? And why is Mr. Grant now wandering about as though he’s free?”
“He is free,” Wickenden replied, detaching his lapel from her clutching fingers, although it was noticeable he kept one arm around her.
“Am I?” Cornelius asked hopefully.
“You,” said Grant, “will be taken by coach to the estate at Filby, where you can properly recover and then go where you will. I’m only free because I denied any knowledge of a French prisoner—”
“Technically true,” Cornelius pointed out.
“So, if you’re discovered here,” Grant pursued. “We’re both done for, and so is Keith, who vouched for me.”
“Is he well enough to travel?” Kate asked doubtfully.
It was Cornelius himself who answered with a sigh. “Yes, I am. Filby isn’t so far from here, and my father hates the place so he’s not likely to come anywhere near. So, this fellow you abducted, is he under lock and key? Did you do some kind of exchange with the military?”
“No, I pled for him and sent him back to London,” Grant said casually. He’d barely looked at Kate, and her warm pleasure in his care for her was slowly freezing.
“Why?” she asked, as everyone looked at her askance.
Slowly, Grant swung his gaze around to her face. “So that he’ll tell Dickie Crowmore he killed you.”
Her breath caught at the ugly word.
“Mr. Grant!” Gillie protested, clearly distressed.
“Bit sick, little brother,” Cornelius said sternly.
But Kate understood at once. “He’ll betray himself. Why on earth should he imagine I’m dead when I’m clearly shocking the natives in Blackhaven?”
Grant’s lips quirked. He inclined his head.
“Clever,” she allowed. “Gets rid of them, baits Dickie, and sets you free, all in one blow. If he tells Dickie. Do you think he will?”
Grant shrugged. “I believe so. He has every reason to. How is your groom?”
“He has a sore head. I’ve asked Dr. Lampton to call on him, just to be safe, but I think he’ll recover.” She rose to her feet, uncomfortable with having all this discussed in public, which was ridiculous considering the nature of the gossip she knew was discussed about her all the time. “It only remains for me to thank you both,” she said lightly, with a bow, “and to be on my way. Good morning, ladies. Gentlemen.”
“I’ll walk down with you,” Grant said. “I have a hundred and one things to do at the church.”
Cornelius made a derisory noise before adding, “Yes, and you’d better watch out, especially in Lady Crowmore’s company, when Vernon’s in town.”
“I know,” Grant said. She could imagine his carelessness was studied. Certainly, he didn’t even glance at her as he spoke. So, he had known before but said nothing. Why would he say nothing? Through delicacy? Suspicion? And she wasn’t going to marry him anyway, so why did it matter?
Because he wanted to court her and, God help her, she liked that idea. Without the marriage at the end of it, of course.
“Well,” Kate said as they left the house after making civil farewells to the Muirs and Wickendens, “We may both finally walk without fear in Blackhaven. Except fear of gossip, of course.”
He cast her a glance of sardonic amusement. “I never heard that Lady Crowmore feared gossips.”
“I meant you, sir,” Kate replied, and he laughed. She liked his laugh, ready and infectious, the kind that came from genuine entertainment rather than politeness or affectation. And the way it lit his face sparked butterflies in her stomach. She drew in her breath. “I owe you an apology, Mr. Grant.”
“You do?”
“I was ill-tempered yesterday and quite unreasonable. I am not used to being one of a crowd and I didn’t like to think of myself as just one of the people you help. And yet, that you help everyone in need is one of the things I like most about you.”
It wasn’t easy to say, but at least she’d surprised him. His gaze lingered on her face. “You do apologies very well,” he acknowledged. “But in this case at least, there is no need. No offence was taken. In fact, I thought it was my interference which irritated you.”
“Perhaps it did. I can be quite bad tempered.”
His lips quirked. “And sweet-natured.”
Warmth rushed upon her, at the same time as sadness. She looked away. “I’m not. I wish you didn’t have these illusions about me.” Now was her moment to tell him about Vernon, to explain that nothing had ever happened between them beyond a flirtation that she had no desire to repeat. That she didn’t want him here, that he meant nothing to her.
But how could you say that to a man about his brother? Especially when you didn’t even know why you wanted to say it. There could never be anything between her and Grant, because she would never marry him, and he would accept nothing less. It brought a certain exquisite torture to walking beside him.
“I like your illusions,” she confessed at last. “But they are only illusions.”
Whatever he would have replied to that was lost in the exclamations of three ladies approaching from the direction of the market, all declaring their joy in seeing him and begging him to dispel the ridiculous rumors of his arrest.
“I can imagine the rumors,” Grant said smoothly, “but the whole thing was born of misunderstandings, since put to rest by Major Doverton and myself.”
“Then you will still christen Edward on Sunday?”
“Of course.”
Kate had eased herself out of their circle and meant to melt away in a somewhat uncharacteristic manner. But Grant merely tipped his hat to the ladies and moved on with her.
“You don’t need to escort me, you know. I am now perfectly safe,” she pointed out.
“I know. But, selfishly, I like your company.”
“Your congregation will talk.”
“Let them.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “You’ll be doing your father’s work for him and losing your place here.”
“I don’t believe that.” He raised his hat to people across the street and murmured greetings to a family of lower social standing who passed him wreathed in smiles. “I really do have work I need to catch up on for the rest of the day, but perhaps you might consider lending me your horse and riding with me again tomorrow morning?”
“That would be most obliging,” she said calmly, although her heart beat like a debutante’s accepting her first dance. “Gladiator needs the exercise, and I have no intention of letting Peter ride as soon as tomorrow.”
Grant smiled. “I always said you were a good woman.”
“No, I’m not,” she said at once. “Peter is an excellent groom and I have no desire to lose him.”