Читать книгу Confessions Bundle - Jo Leigh - Страница 28

Grace hurried along the road, no longer running, but walking as quickly as her laboring lungs would allow. A light rain had started to fall, and her high-top boots would be thick with mud if she was not home soon.

She was also mindful of the ruffians she had seen loitering outside The Three Crowns that afternoon. There had been many itinerant workers in Lincolnshire of late, causing some unrest, and certainly a sense of unease. Donald Franklin had brought over many poor Irish to work on his estate, and there were others, like those men today, who she suspected had never done an honest day’s work in their lives. Why they were in Barton-by-the-Fens was a mystery, and Grace hoped they wouldn’t linger, or, worse, come along this particular stretch of road.

She glanced back over her shoulder, then sighed with relief. Mercy would say it was only her imagination running away with her again, but Mercy had never understood how upsetting it could be when one’s mind persisted in creating vivid pictures of possibilities, most of them bad.

Grace halted abruptly. There was a bundle of clothing in the ditch. Some poor soul was going to be the worse for that. Maybe she should take it to the vicar.

She went closer to investigate and let out a gasp of shocked surprise, for it wasn’t an abandoned bundle of clothing: it was a man lying there, not moving.

For a moment Grace’s heart seemed to stop beating, until she saw his back rise and fall as he breathed. “Not dead,” she murmured with relief.

She regarded him from where she stood, nearly five feet away. His trousers and jacket were not clean, something not unexpected when one was lying in a ditch. His hat had tumbled off and lay on its side nearby, so she could see his rather unkempt blond hair. His shoulders were broad, his hips narrow, his legs long and lean. His clothes, while dirty, were not ragged or patched. Indeed, once they had been quite fine.

Despite his resting place, there was something almost elegant about him, as if he were a prince in disguise. His head was turned away from her, and she very much wanted to see his face.

“Sir?” she said quietly, setting down her basket and taking another step nearer. “Sir?”

He didn’t stir, so she ventured even closer, moving slowly around his long, lean legs until she could see his face.

He was a young man, probably no older than she, and his profile revealed remarkably handsome features, including a shapely nose, strong chin, and long lashes, for a man. His complexion was quite brown, as if he spent time out-of-doors, and his blond hair clung to his brow. She wondered what color his eyes would be.

She bent down, prepared to rouse him with a slight shake, when the overpowering smell of wine drove her back.

Why, he was drunk! Handsome prince indeed! He was just a common…common…drunkard!

What a waste! she thought as she turned on her heel to leave, even as she wondered what had brought a young man to such a pass.

Then she told herself it didn’t matter. She had enough troubles of her own without worrying about a drunkard who didn’t even know enough to get out of the rain.

She grabbed her basket and started to march away, once again aware that she was far from physically comfortable herself. Her skirt was muddy, and her cloak getting wetter every moment.

Then she noticed the hoofprints fast dissolving in the mud. There was no sign of a horse nearby. None of their usual visitors had saddle horses, only the heavier draft animals. Had he been mounted?

If so, it was possible that he had been attacked. She recalled Miss Myrtle’s tale of a band of brigands robbing travelers. His less-than-sober state would have made him an attractive target for thieves who could have robbed him of his horse and money, too. Perhaps this poor man was not asleep, but unconscious.

She glanced back at him again, noting that the rain was falling harder now. He would soon be soaked to the skin.

Victim or not, he was none of her concern, and if she were smart, she would leave well enough alone.

She started to walk again. She should be thinking about Mercy, who was her responsibility. Mercy had been unwell this morning. When questioned, she had dismissed Grace’s fears and told her not to worry so much.

But it was Grace’s nature to worry, about her sister, and the rent and the village and strange men lying on the side of the road…

She halted again. Perhaps the smell of wine was strong because he was damp. Maybe he had spilled some on himself the last time he had a meal, and his condition had another cause entirely.

Grace emitted a sound that was both a sigh of dismay and admission of acceptance. She couldn’t leave him, or her conscience would give her no peace. At the very least, she could get him to shelter, someplace that wouldn’t put Mercy or herself at risk. A good Samaritan she would be, but not a fool.

The cow shed. They had only one cow, and there were three empty stalls. Surely Daisy wouldn’t mind a visitor, and there was nothing except Daisy he could steal, if he was a thief. But Daisy was better than any dog when it came to keeping watch. If someone other than Mercy tried to lead her--even Grace--she mooed so loudly and so long, it would wake the household.

Grace turned back and approached him again. “Sir?” She set her basket down on the driest patch she could find, reached out and shook his shoulder. “Can you hear me, sir?”

She continued to shake him, but with increasing urgency when he did not respond. “Sir!” she repeated loudly.

He moaned softly and rolled over, and she gasped again, for there was blood on his forehead. She carefully brushed back a lock of hair to reveal a very nasty gash.

He must have been attacked and robbed, and left to die on the side of the road. Thank heavens she had followed her conscience!

The stranger opened his eyes, which were a shade of blue so brilliant Grace drew back in astonishment. He looked about confusedly. “Where…?” he mumbled.

“You are--” Grace didn’t finish, because by the time she had opened her mouth, he had closed his eyes again, apparently to relapse into an unconscious state.

Grace regarded the recumbent man and wondered how she was going to get him to the cow shed. He wasn’t going to be much help.

Maybe she could get him to stand. Grace stood behind his head, leaned over and put her hands beneath his shoulders to try to hoist him to a standing position. The man was heavy and limp, and he did not wake up again.

She straightened and wrapped her arms around herself as she shivered from the cold and her rapidly dampening clothing. It was getting dark, too. Mercy would be very worried and, Grace thought ruefully, not without some cause. If she escaped this adventure with nothing more serious than a cold, it would be a miracle.

And wouldn’t Mercy be surprised to see what Grace had brought home! Usually it was Mercy who collected strays and wounded animals, her tender heart making her particularly susceptible to such creatures. She would finally be able to make sport of Grace for an even more outrageously generous impulse.

Well, there was no help for it, and once Grace made a decision, it generally stayed made. She would just have to endure, and so she was going to have to drag him. With a determined frown, Grace tucked up the hem of her skirt into her belt to keep it out of the mud as much as possible-for at least there was no one here to see her immodesty-put the handle of her basket as far up her arm as she could, and taking hold of his shoulders again, she turned him around and began the slow process of dragging him home.

Bob Boffin took a long pull on his mug of ale, then wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand and surveyed his comrades as they sat together in the dimmest corner of The Three Crowns. “I say we stay another couple o’ days,” he growled.

A tall, thin man with a narrow scar on his cheek glanced around at the few other patrons who were enjoying an evening’s repast. “What for?” Treeg muttered. “He’s long gone by now. Probably in London. And your money with him!”

Boffin’s gaze took in the other two men seated at the battered table, one young, one old, before coming to rest on Treeg. “He didn’t get to Lincoln. Nor Stamford, neither. He couldn’t ’a traveled that fast, not on that nag.”

“That’s true,” confirmed young Skurch, whose face was ruined by smallpox scars.

“He could’a gone another route,” Treeg said. “Or took the train.”

“Or he could be dead,” Boffin replied. “But I don’t think either one’s true. He’s around here somewheres.”

The old man, who looked as if he had spent several years at Her Majesty’s pleasure, which was indeed the case, raised his eyes to Boffin. “It’s only a matter o’ ten pound,” Wickham said in a low, hoarse voice. “I say, why hang about lookin’ suspicious?” He nodded at the other people in the tavern. “They knows we ain’t no sheep men.”

“Aye!” Skurch said. “And there’s no women worth lookin’ at, neither.”

“‘Ceptin’ that one we seen, eh?” Boffin said with a jovial gleam in his eye that made Skurch smile, until Boffin reached out to grab him by his thin throat. “You’re goin’ to get yourself in trouble agin if you don’t keep it in your trousers,” Boffin snarled. “I don’t want nobody doin’ nothin’ that’d make folks more suspicious than they are.”

He let go of Skurch, who coughed and rubbed his throat, while Boffin’s eyes narrowed and he leaned toward the old man. “I’d be careful ’bout usin’ the word hang if I was you, Jack Wickham. Might give people ideas.”

Wickham’s hand tightened on his mug, and his other went toward his belt, where a knife’s handle was barely visible. “I ain’t gettin’ hanged for no ten pound,” he whispered forcefully. “Not on your say-

so!”

“Quiet!” Boffin admonished. He looked around to make sure no one was paying more attention to them. “Listen to me, then, Jack, and I’ll come straight wi’ you. We’re lookin’ at considerable more than my ten pound.”

“What d’you mean?” asked Treeg, leaning in to hear. Young Skurch also moved closer.

“Do you mind me asayin’ how that bloke looked familiar, but I couldn’t place ’im?”

“Aye,” Wickham acknowledged. The others nodded.

“It come to me yesterday, when we was on the road, where I seen ’im before.”

“How come you didn’t say nothin’ then?” Wickham demanded in a harsh whisper.

“’Cause I thought you was all with me, that’s why,” Boffin replied. “I knows who he is, I tell ya.”

“So what?” Wickham said scornfully.

“So he’s rich-leastways his family is. And they’ll pay plenty for knowin’ where he’s at. Or he’ll pay plenty for us to keep it quiet,” Boffin finished triumphantly.

“Who is he then?” Treeg demanded.

“He’s Lord Elliot Fitzwalter, that’s who. Missin’ these five years. When he up and did a bunk, his brother, the Duke of Barroughby, offered to pay a handsome price for news o’ his brother.”

The men’s eyes widened, then Wickham scowled. “Thinkin’ you’ll put the black on ’im? That was five years ago. Maybe the duke’s changed his mind.”

“Maybe he hasn’t,” Boffin countered.

“P’rhaps they’ve patched up their quarrel,” Skurch offered.

Boffin gave the lad a sarcastic look. “You must be off your chump. If they was friends, why’d he come back lookin’ like he hadn’t but two pennies to his name? Why did he tell us he was David Fitzgibbons? Why did he cheat me out o’ ten pound? I tell you, he’s hidin’.”

“So how’s he goin’ to pay for us to keep our gobs shut, if that’s what he wants?”

“He’s got to have friends. How else could a man disappear the way he did?”

“If he’s gone to ground again,” Wickham said, “then how d’ya expect us to find him when his own rich brother couldn’t? Take out an advert in The Times?”

“No!” Treeg said excitedly. “If Boffin’s right, and he’s still around here, we’ll find out soon enough. A good-lookin’ toff like that’s bound to stand out, and Lincolnshire’s not exactly a popular spot with the aristocracy, now, is it?”

“With good cause,” Wickham muttered.

“Exactly!” Boffin said, ignoring the ex-convict. “Now you’re understandin’ me. He’s hidin,’ all right, but probably some place ’round about here.”

“Now hold on,” Wickham demanded. “How come you know a lord? Been to his club, have you? Gone to a few society balls and made his acquaintance?”

“This particular lord liked things ’sides gentlemen’s clubs and assembly balls,” Boffin said significantly. “I’ve seen ’em, and that’s a fact. I say we start with the gentry ’round here.”

“What, walk up to the front door and say, ‘Scuse me, have you seen Lord Elliot Fitzwalter ’round about?” Wickham proposed with a cynical sneer.

“Yeah, right, that’s exactly what I thought!” Boffin replied with an equally cynical sneer. “We’ll keep an eye out on the fine houses nearby. And the village, too, and anybody else looks like they might have company.” He smiled at the young man. “A good-lookin’ bloke like him, I bet he’s holed up with some woman. You can see about that.

“Either way, we’ll find my fine lord.”

With a relieved sigh, Grace opened the garden gate and tugged the man through. She would be a happy woman when this was over. She hadn’t been this out of breath since the pig had gotten into the garden two summers ago.

She glanced down at her burden. The man’s trousers were going to be in a terrible state, but she thought that a small enough price to pay for preventing illness and possibly death-if she didn’t fall ill and die from the effort herself.

She closed the gate and began to pull him toward the cow shed, finally managing to get him inside. Brushing a damp, dangling lock of hair out of her eyes, she smiled at Daisy, who was placidly chewing and regarding her with large, bland brown eyes. Then, to Grace’s considerable surprise and chagrin, she noticed a fine black stallion comfortably lodged in the stable she had intended to use as temporary accommodation for the stranger.

Only one man in the county had a stallion like that, and that was Donald Franklin.

What was Sir Donald Franklin doing here? Had he come to inform them of the rent increase personally?

Grace stifled a groan. She had hoped to keep that particular difficulty from Mercy, at least until she had thought of a solution to their problem. How was Mercy coping with Sir Donald’s unwelcome presence and, more importantly, was she managing to act a little polite? Now would hardly be the time to offend their landlord.

Unfortunately, Mercy had never liked Sir Donald, and if he told her what he intended to do, she would surely burst into tears or angry denunciations.

Grace expelled some air, put her hand on her aching back as she straightened, regarded the horse and then the stranger.

She could tell Sir Donald about the man, of course. He might be able to offer assistance. The stranger and his welfare would be out of her hands, and she and Mercy need not have any fear of being attacked by a runaway criminal, if he was a criminal.

Therein lay the problem, for Donald Franklin had never been known for his merciful qualities. He would be far more likely to have the stranger thrown in the village lockup, a small, damp building little better than the out-of-doors. He would probably never entertain any possibility that the wretched man might be a victim himself.

Grace could just see herself trying to convince Sir Donald of that notion. He would undoubtedly claim she was being a silly, sentimental young woman-and she could even envision him using his callous solution as an example of his fine leadership and concern for the safety of his tenants.

She was not about to have her efforts to help this man undone by the unsympathetic Donald Franklin.

Grace tugged the stranger into the farthest unused stall as quickly as she could, and piled some straw over him for warmth, as well as to hide him from Sir Donald, who would have to come to fetch his horse. Hopefully, the fellow would sleep quietly until Sir Donald was gone. Considering that he hadn’t awakened again, and the mode of movement had not been very gentle, she felt there was little danger of that.

She would come back as soon as she could to see if he was awake, with her father’s pistol tucked into her skirt for safety.

Giving the slumbering stranger a final glance, she went on her way, dashing through the farmyard and into the back door of their house, reflecting that it was a good thing the drawing room was at the front of the house and faced the main road.

When she entered the kitchen by the scullery, she called out a cheery “Mercy, I’ve come home!" as if she hadn’t seen Sir Donald’s horse. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have, and she certainly had no desire for Sir Donald to suspect that anything abnormal had happened today, beyond his surprise visit.

She removed her boots and cloak, surveyed the wreckage of her dress, which looked as if it might never come clean, set her basket on a sideboard, then grabbed a linen towel used to dry the dishes and wiped her face and neck.

As she did so, a quick survey of the small kitchen showed that Mercy must be feeling better, for a kettle was on the hearth, and the smell of beef stew emanated from the small iron pot dangling over the fire. If Mercy was still feeling ill, she wouldn’t have bothered with a stew, for Grace had told her before going to the shops that morning that they could have cold meat for supper.

“I’m sorry I’m so late, Mercy,” she said, still feigning an ordinary day as she proceeded into the drawing room, pausing to put on her shawl, which was laid over one of the Windsor chairs. “I fell in the mud. My cloak is quite a disaster”

She halted on the threshold, taking in the scene before her quickly. Sir Donald was standing by the window, his face red, his chest puffed out like a pigeon, and his stance belligerent. As always, he was finely and extravagantly dressed, in the latest of fashion. The ensemble he wore would have looked rather odd on the most handsome of men, for even a sudden vision of the outfit on the stranger in the cow shed was not pleasing. On Sir Donald, the blue frock coat, green-and-yellow-striped vest and plaid, tight-fitting trousers looked utterly ridiculous.

Mercy sat beside her small work table, the fabric for her new green gown heaped negligently on the floor at her feet, her pretty face surrounded by its halo of blond curls pale and worried, and with her slender hands clasped together on her lap.

With dismay, Grace guessed that Sir Donald had told her about the rent. She hurried to her sister, taking her cold hand in her own, even colder one.

“What is it?” she demanded, although she knew very well what was the matter and she hated Donald Franklin even more. “What has happened?”

“Good afternoon, Miss Barton,” Sir Donald said loftily, and there was an angry expression in his gray eyes which Grace couldn’t help thinking was an improvement over that other, lustful look she had last seen there.

“Oh, Grace!" Mercy whispered. Then she pulled away from Grace’s grasp, put her face in her hands and started to weep. “He’s…he said…”

Grace cast an accusing look at Sir Donald before putting her arms around Mercy’s slender shoulders. “I think I know what this is about,” she said. “Don’t cry, dear. It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does!" Mercy wailed. “We’ll be thrown out of our home! We’ll have to go to a workhouse!”

In her mind’s eye, Grace could see both of them lying on the side of the road the way the stranger had been-hurt, hungry and sick. Perhaps some kind unknown person would take pity on them, but perhaps others would assume that they were no more than tramps or, considering they were women, something worse.

Grace rose and looked steadily at Sir Donald. “You are raising our rent,” she said flatly.

“There is no need for this emotional display,” Sir Donald blustered, spreading his hands in a gesture of incomprehension. “It is a most unfortunate necessity”

“Necessity?” Grace declared as her sister continued to sob. “It’s greed!”

“Please, my dear Miss Barton!”

“I am not your ‘dear Miss Barton,’ ” Grace answered, fighting to regain control. She wouldn’t let this man upset her. He mustn’t be able to dismiss her as simply an emotional female. “By how much do you intend to raise it?”

“Fifty pounds per annum.”

“Oh, Grace!" Mercy whimpered.

“That’s more than twice what we pay now,” Grace replied, achieving a dispassionate tone with great effort. “You know we cannot afford that much.”

Sir Donald flushed, and then shrugged his beefy shoulders. “I have a position to maintain.”

Grace would have liked to ask exactly how he had come to be knighted-who he had bribed, or by what secret means he had managed to get it done.

“The increase will not come into effect for three months,” Sir Donald said placatingly. “In that time, you may pursue other opportunities--”

“Opportunities!” Grace interrupted angrily. “What opportunities? You will take away our home and cast us out to-what?”

“You have no family to whom you could appeal?”

“No, we do not, or at least none close enough that we would beg of them,” Grace retorted.

Sir Donald looked as if he were trying to appear sorry, but he couldn’t quite manage the subterfuge. “I understand how difficult this must seem to you, because of your family’s connection with the county, but I have been holding off raising your rent out of respect long enough." He smiled. She would have preferred an angry frown, for that, at least, would have looked natural. “I deeply regret the effect this must have upon you.”

Liar! Grace thought angrily.

“I think it would be wise of me to take my leave of you,” he said, glancing at Mercy.

“So do I,” Grace retorted. “Good day.”

She watched him turn on his heel and suddenly remembered that he must not find the stranger in the shed.

“No, wait!" she cried in a most undignified manner. “There is much more to be said!" She started to follow him to the door.

Mercy grabbed hold of her hand. “Oh, Grace,” she pleaded softly. “Let him go. He won’t change his mind. He’s so mean and hateful!”

“I must speak with him,” she replied hurriedly, freeing herself gently from Mercy’s grasp and rushing after Sir Donald.

“But your cloak-!" she heard Mercy cry as she closed the front door behind her. It was still raining; nevertheless, Grace didn’t have the time to fetch her cloak. Sir Donald was nearly at the cow shed.

Sir Donald paused at the entrance, looking back at her with an interrogative smile. “Yes, Miss Barton?” he inquired as she joined him at the door. “Please, come inside out of the wet.”

He pushed open the door and gestured for her to enter, which she did, although that meant she had to push past him, her shoulders brushing his immovable chest. A quick glance around the cow shed revealed Daisy, still chewing, and the stallion, still waiting. There was no sign of any other human there, and for a moment, Grace wondered if the stranger had awakened and left.

“How can I help you, Miss Barton, who only moments ago was so anxious to have me gone?”

She whirled around to face her landlord, noting the smug amusement in his heavily lidded eyes.

“You must reconsider,” she began. “You must be reasonable.”

“Reasonable?” he countered. “I am being reasonable. I either need money from you, or from someone who can provide it.”

Grace took a deep breath and struggled to remain composed. She wouldn’t beg. Not of him, not even for Mercy’s sake.

Sir Donald’s smile grew broader, and his gaze more intense. “I could perhaps be persuaded to reconsider,” he mused, his voice low and uncomfortably intimate. “You are a remarkable-looking young woman, Miss Barton.”

Grace’s eyes narrowed with suspicion and disgust. “I hope what you are about to propose is not going to insult me,” she warned.

“Believe me, Miss Barton, when I tell you that nothing could be further from my mind.”

This time, Grace did not try to hide her skepticism.

“Oh, do not frown so, sweet lady! It quite mars your loveliness.”

“If you don’t mind, Sir Donald, say what you have to say at once. I’m rather cold.”

He ran his gaze over her in a way that reminded her of the damp clothes clinging to her body and she hugged herself. “I see that you are,” he said. “Therefore, although I would much prefer to take my time about this, I will be brief and to the point.”

Suddenly, and to Grace’s utter amazement, Sir Donald Franklin dropped to one beefy knee. “Miss Barton, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”