Barbara Metzger (24 page)

Graydon took Daphne’s hand to lead her over the rough path back through the graveyard. “Do you think he’ll stay put this time?” she asked.

“Definitely. I tipped the sexton to come back and nail the door shut.”

* * *

Crime begets crime. That was Miles Pomeroy’s favorite axiom, and it was true. Give malfeasance an inch, it would take a mile—of highway. The news around the darker side of London, mostly thanks to Terwent’s panic-driven probes, was that there were easy pickings in Hampshire. Pigeons were just waiting to be plucked. So the hawks moved in.

There were five thugs waiting on the road Sailor and Handy had to take to get to London. Jake’s boys had decided to stop first at the Gypsy camp to trade a candlestick or two for a pair of horses. Why should they walk the whole way when they were rich? The fact that they still couldn’t ride a horse didn’t bother them. Sailor was an expert on the species now, from cleaning their stalls.

But the Gypsies were gone, having heard that the magistrate was looking into current robberies. The caravan left before the blame, as it inevitably did, fell their way. Miles found the empty grounds, and the empty woodsman’s hovel with its broken pottery and glassware. He was right, the bandits had come and gone. He could search the countryside from here till kingdom come—or till Lady Bowles ran off with Full Pockets Foggarty—without finding the culprits. They were halfway to London by now.

He was wrong. Sailor and Handy were no more than a mile from Woodhill when they were set upon by the London Mohocks. Now here was a gang Jake could have been proud of. Pop Bullitt’s boys had guns,
knives, and horses, and no
morals to interfere with their chosen line of work. In no time at all they also had the two sacks of stolen goods from Sailor and Handy.

That wasn’t enough. They wanted what was in the young men’s pockets. Handy protested. What he actually said, in his high, girlish voice, was: “I’ll sic my dog on you iffen you don’t leave us alone.”

The highwaymen laughed, and two of them dismounted to have at the runt who dared challenge them. One-eared Roger growled, “Thinks ’e’s up to our weight, ’e does, the little bugger.”

And Black Harry stomped toward Handy, huge fists dangling almost to the ground. “Seems top-heavy to me, anyways. I says we turn ’im upside down an’ see what falls out.”

Handy shrieked and Sailor jumped to his side. “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother!” Fists started flying, so many that the mounted outlaws couldn’t get off clean shots. Two more got off their horses and entered the fray.

Not even Sailor could withstand four antagonists with only Handy’s screams to back him up. They were losing, and losing badly, when Sal came tearing up the road, barking and snarling, growling and slavering. She went right for the heels—of the horses. Pop Bullitt, the only gallows-bait still mounted, was having trouble staying on his pitching, rearing horse. There was no way he could hold any of the other terrified beasts.

“C’mon, the horses is boltin’. These two nancies ain’t worth it.”

The bullies ran down the road after their nags, Sal getting in a few last bites. Sailor and Handy dragged themselves off the road, under the hedges and into the woods.

They wouldn’t have to worry about disguises for a while. Not even their own mother would recognize them now, even if it hadn’t been eight years since she’d left. Bruised and bloody, noses broken and one eye of each already swelling shut, the two once rich robbers huddled under some trees.

“Crime don’t pay,” Handy eventually sniveled.

“It sure as hell don’t pay as good as shoveling horse dung.” Sailor was removing his shoe and counting the pitiful horde of coins hidden there, tossed to him by gentlemen whose horses’ stalls he’d cleaned.

“Think they’d take us back?”

“Yeah, when Jake writes us another reference.”

Handy was emptying his pockets: a gold pickle fork, one pearl-handled knife, the tiny china bride and groom from inside the egg, some ribbons he’d saved from his feminine pose, the last bonbon, and the shilling every employee had been handed the morning of Lady Whilton’s wedding. They hadn’t stayed long enough to receive their pay.

“You almost got us kilt over that?” Sailor was so furious he blackened Handy’s other eye. He would have done more damage, but Sal growled. The hound was carrying a silver candlestick that the highwaymen had dropped in their mad dash after their horses. She laid it at Sailor’s feet.

“Good dog, Sal.” He handed her that last bonbon. Handy didn’t even protest.

They sat there, too tired, hurt, and discouraged to move, wondering if they were better off or worse from when they left London.

“At least we ain’t got Jake beatin’ us with a stick.”

Handy’s swollen-shut eyes couldn’t see the improvement.

“An’ they didn’t take Sal.” So they could start a flea circus.

“An’ the weather’s nice, so we don’t got to worry about sleepin’ outside.”

It started to rain.

*

Mr. Rosten was ready to begin the reading of the will in the library. He looked over his spectacles to view the small audience, like an actor counting the house. It was almost a private performance.

Daphne was there, of course, in one of the comfortable leather armchairs, with Graydon standing behind. They had decided the boys didn’t need to attend; even though they were most directly involved in the will’s contents, they were too young to make any decisions, and Torry was still looking peaked. Miles was there in his capacity as justice of the peace, anxious to see this whole matter put to rest. Seline was there in her capacity as snoop. She refused to accept Daphne’s polite hints to leave, thriving on the drama and Mr. Pomeroy’s attention. Head-to-toe in black, Terwent hovered in the background like the vulture he was.

Mr. Rosten straightened his papers again. Then he adjusted his spectacles again. “Yes. Let me preface the reading of the will by saying that Lord Whilton had no interest in writing such a document.”

“Most likely refused to believe he’d die,” Graydon whispered in Daphne’s ear. Mr. Rosten frowned.

“As the family’s solicitors
and financial consultants, however, the firm of Rosten and Turlow insisted that the baron express his wishes regarding the disposition of his estate and the guardianship of his minor sons. Lord Whilton finally agreed. His behests were conveyed herein.” Mr. Rosten held up a torn sheet of paper with a few lines scrawled across it. “Which the firm of Rosten and Turlow dutifully transcribed into proper form.” He held up a document of at least twenty pages. The major groaned.

“Quite. Now, this document”—he tapped the will—“is entirely legal, signed, witnessed, notarized, and filed with the proper authorities. This one”—the scrap of paper—“is not. Which shall I read, Miss Whilton?”

Daphne didn’t need Graydon’s hand squeezing on her shoulder to convince her to go for the shorter version. “The note, please, Mr. Rosten.”

The solicitor fixed his spectacles more firmly in place. Then he looked up. “I shall, of course, leave a copy of the official will behind for your perusal.”

Daphne nodded. Mr. Rosten cleared his throat. “‘Everything entailed,’” he read, “‘goes to the older boy. Everything not, to the younger. Make Daphne’s husband guardian. Whoever the peagoose chooses, he’s bound to be dull as ditchwater, but honest. Meantime, Rosten, you do the job.’ My apologies, Miss Whilton, but those were your uncle’s words.”

Graydon was chuckling behind her, but her reply was drowned out by Terwent’s voice: “What about my pension? Where’s it say about my retirement he promised me?”

The valet had rushed forward to snatch up the legal papers, but Mr. Rosten put his hand atop them. “Your name was not mentioned, Mr. Terwent. Not verbally, not in his note. I believe your salary was owing, however. As guardian of the estate, I took the liberty of withdrawing such funds, and a month’s bonus.” He handed the valet a small pouch. “The firm shall write a reference, if you require.”

“A reference? I wasn’t going to have to work again! The old rotter promised! Why else do you think I stayed on with the miserable bastard?”

Mr. Rosten was ignoring the valet’s tirade. He told Daphne, “I have seen that the London town house has been padlocked. It is customary to take such precautions when a death is announced and the residence is left empty.” He did give a pointed glance to Terwent, who’d already removed a few items from the baron’s rooms as soon as he heard the makebait was truly dead.

“Thank you, Mr. Rosten,” Daphne was saying. “But about Torrence’s portion…”

“I’m afraid the baron was a trifle optimistic. There doesn’t seem to be any unentailed property left. In fact, the baron’s personal debts will have to be paid out of the estate itself. Most improper, as I told him many times. Even if he had specified an amount for his servant, the funds would not have been available. Of course, as guardian, I shall set up a fund for Master Torrence, a percentage of the future income, shall we say. Unless you have my replacement already, ah, selected?”

Her cheeks going scarlet, Daphne stammered, “No, no, whatever you decide. I’m sure you’ll do what’s right. Thank you, Mr. Rosten. Would you like some wine?”

No one noticed when Terwent stormed out of the room. Ohlman and a footman did make sure he got in his hired rig and down the drive before shutting the door behind him.

* * *

No pension! Neither that stiff-rumped solicitor nor that blue-blooded bitch had suggested making good on the old whoreson’s promise out of the estate, or out of their own pockets, for all Terwent cared. Blast, the French had the right idea! Get rid of all the aristos, so no poor bastard like himself had to spend the rest of his days powdering their butts. What, was he going to have to change his name again to find some doddering old fool willing to change his will? Damn and blast!

Terwent was so angry, he almost ran over two boys playing ball in the carriageway. Two boys that bitch cared about. Two boys who were getting
his
pension money! Terwent backed the hired gig around. He pulled out the pistol he’d taken from the baron’s luggage. “Get in or I’ll shoot.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Thank
God that’s over.” Daphne may have said the words, but others shared the sentiment. Daphne was happy they’d squeaked through the wedding and the funeral without causing dear Mama a moment’s grief.

Still chuckling over the baron’s words, Graydon was pleased they hadn’t misplaced Albert again. “Dull as ditchwater” indeed. The old rip must have thought she’d marry portly Pomeroy. Not a chance in hell, Howell mentally told him, addressing his comments to the right direction. The major took Mr. Rosten aside to discuss a few improvements that could be made in Woodhill’s farming methods.

Lady Seline Bowles was delighted the reading had gone so quickly. Now she could spend the afternoon getting ready for her dinner with dear Fogey. Foggarty, she meant. And what delicious tidbits she’d have to share about the Woodhill will. Seline felt no remorse over gossiping about her hostess’s family, not when Graydon still preferred that quiz in black bombazine to her own elegant self.

Miles was most relieved of all. No one had questioned the date of death, the cause of death, or the place of death. His career as magistrate was safe. His self-esteem as an honorable, law-abiding man was restored. So was his affection for Miss Whilton. That bit about ditchwater hadn’t registered with Miles at all, only the fact of Daphne’s husband getting to control this vast estate for years, until young Eldart came of age. They could even live here, so Miles wouldn’t have the expense of setting up another household, for his mama wouldn’t like those young boy cousins of Daphne’s underfoot at holidays. Miles had also been relieved to see that, for all her faults, Miss Daphne had donned proper mourning. His mama would like that.

His mama had not approved of Lady Bowles. Fast, she’d declared, even for a widow. Wasn’t she right now preparing for a dinner
a deux
with Foggarty? Miles felt his position demanded a wife above reproach, much less outright suspicion. Besides, he couldn’t compete with the nabob. No, by light of day the Moon Goddess looked a little tawdry.

“Miss Whilton, a moment of your time, if I may?”

“Of course, Mr. Pomeroy. I’ll just ring for the tea things, shall I, then we can have our chat.” Daphne had noticed how his eyes followed Seline’s every move. Who could blame him, as perfect as she looked? It was time and past Daphne put the poor man out of his misery and set him free to pursue the widow. Not that she thought he had much chance, not against Mr. Foggarty’s purse, but it wasn’t fair to keep Miles dangling.

When she told him of her decision, thanking him for the great honor of asking her to be his wife, but declining, Miles lost his appetite for once.

“It’s not because I made a cake of myself over Lady Seline, is it?” Miles wanted to know.

She tried to convince him that she had decided they wouldn’t suit, the widow notwithstanding.

“I know you set great store by such things, Miss Daphne. I admire you for it, I do. And I meant nothing but admiration for the lady. Deuced attractive female.”

“Every man seems to find her so.” Thinking of her as Graydon’s mistress, in his arms, in his bed, made Daphne push her own cucumber sandwich aside.

Echoing her thoughts, Miles mused, “Don’t suppose she’s the type of female a man takes to be his wife, though.”

“No, not a man like you, Miles. You deserve someone better, someone who would be happy in the country, raising dogs and children and roses. I don’t think Lady Seline is cut out for such a life. She prefers London, the gossip and gambling and grand social events.”

“Dashed expensive female, I guess.”

Daphne pictured those diamonds around the widow’s graceful neck. “Very.”

Miles managed to take a bite of his buttered bread. “I don’t suppose you’ll reconsider? I mean, there’s no reason to rush into a decision.”

Daphne shook her head. “No, I shan’t change my mind.”

He saw how her eyes slid away, following Howell’s movements. “So that’s the way the wind blows, eh? Not surprised; Mama told me that’s the way it’s always been. I’d hoped…But there, enough said.” He finished that piece of bread and reached for another, thinking of Admiral Benbow’s unmarried niece. “Well, here’s a piece of advice for you, then, my dear. Go ahead and take him. We’re none of us perfect.”