Drake's Lair (19 page)

“I… have no idea what you’re talking about,” was the tack he finally took.

“My accounts have been debited for supposed repairs that have never been made on about seventy percent of my lands—”

“That is preposterous!”

“—starting with the Terrill croft,” Drake went on with raised voice. “That’s the one that nabbed you. Technically, you’ve done murder. You debited the accounts just six months ago for a new roof on that house, the one we just put on together less than a fortnight ago, the one that was rotted through, that hasn’t been touched since Father was alive. If the work had been done when you stole the money and doctored the ledgers, little Will Terrill would likely still be alive. I couldn’t let that go. It got me to thinking, and I did a few mathematical equations, with the help of Bradshaw, and Mills, of course. I’ve never been good at that. You knew it, too, didn’t you, Jim? You were counting upon it. It was a very clever ruse, but not clever enough. While I lack mathematical genius, Bradshaw and Mills do not; that’s why I employ them. Our collective findings prompted the tour, and I needn’t tell you what I found.”

“All right now, I can explain—”

“It’s too late for that. There’s more. You’ve been paying salaries to six employees that have long since been sacked on this estate alone. There’s another five at the cottage. Those salaries were going straight into your pockets weren’t they, Jim? You needn’t bother to answer. I’ve been to the bank. You’re a thief. Plain and simple.”

“It’s not what you think. I didn’t steal… I was
borrowing
. I never meant to keep the blunt. I always meant to pay you back.”

“Then why did you hide it when I came home? Why didn’t you own up to it?”

“I’ve been going through a bad patch. That’s how I got in so deep. I… I was hoping to win enough back to replace it. I would have, too, but you came on too soon.”

“If you hadn’t stolen it in the first place, you wouldn’t have had to try and replace it would you? No, Jim, you were hoping that I wouldn’t come back. I’ve checked the ledgers. The heaviest debits occurred after I stopped writing. You thought I was dead. You knew I had you in my will. You had no intentions of paying anything back. You thought, with that besotted brain in there, that the blunt was yours. You were just waiting for word confirming my death weren’t you, so you could lay hold of your inheritance?”

“We’ve been friends all of our lives. You can’t just cut me off like this. If you’ll just give me a chance to make it up… just stake me this one last time. They’ll kill me, Drake. You don’t know these men. They’re dangerous.”

“Oh, believe me, you’ll pay it back. You’re hardly off scot-free. And you can ask Prowse how ‘dangerous’ they are. Ask him how easily I pitched them out of here on their arses earlier. I should have showed them up to your rooms and let them have you. Instead, I bought you some time. That’s far more than you deserve, considering. You’ll be gone when they come back, and they
will
come back, Jim, make no mistake. They’re going to run you to ground.”

“Y-you can’t just cut me loose. I have no blunt… I’m deep in under the hatches… I’ve nowhere to go.”

“You’ve been living in my pocket like a piece of lint for nearly seventeen years. At first I felt sorry for you. You got off to a bad start, just as I did, left to my own devices at sixteen, and there was a certain sporting camaraderie between us, when we were knocking about Town competing for this doxy, and that prize. It was all very exciting. But I didn’t do you any favors did I? Much of this is my fault, I’ll admit. I taught you to take—allowed you to use me. But no longer.”

Just then a light rap at the study door sent Drake to answer. Prowse was on the threshold, answering the bell call.

“Yes, m’lord?”

“Please have Voss pack a portmanteau for Mr. Ellery,” he instructed. “Have Griggs supervise. Mr. Ellery is leaving directly. Voss will be leaving with him.”

“I can’t afford him!” Ellery cried, throwing his hands in the air.

“In that case, he goes anyway,” Drake returned. “He’s sacked. I don’t need two valets.”

“I can’t possibly fit all my things into one portmanteau,” the steward objected.

“We will send the rest of Mr. Ellery’s things on once he’s settled in his new residence, and repaid what is owed,” Drake went on, addressing the butler. Have them pack only the bare necessities.”

“Yes, m’lord. Will that be all, m’lord?” said Prowse, his normally narrow eyes flung wide.

“Instruct the stable that he may take the sorrel mare. Voss is on his own.”

“Y-yes, m’lord.”

“I presume the doors are still locked from before?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“Good. See that they stay that way. Mr. Ellery will be leaving as he came in just now, by way of the terrace. He is not to be admitted here again—ever. Pass the word.”

“Y-yes, m’lord.”

“That will be all, Prowse. See that the portmanteau is delivered to the stable once it’s packed. Mr. Ellery will be waiting for it there.”

“Very good, m’lord,” said the butler, disappearing.

“You would actually hold my belongings hostage here?” the steward snarled, moving toward the study door. “They’re my things, and I will pack them.”

“You’re wrong, they are mine,” Drake contradicted, arresting him with a quick hand. “My money bought them, and I can do anything I like with them. I should send you packing naked as a jaybird. Don’t presume to fly in the face of my generosity.”

“You can’t put me out just like that! What will I use for blunt? I’ve got less than two quid on me. How will I live? For the sake of our friendship—”

“That’s over. And, you’ll survive. Look how well you managed duping me. I have no doubt in my mind that you’ll find some slapskull to flummox before the sun sets on the meadow. You fancy yourself a gambler—gamble. Sell the horse, or let your ladybird support you. She’s plump enough in the pockets now, thanks to my stupidity, and she, too, seems to have a knack for survival. You’ll manage. There it is. It’s what I’ve just proposed, or Bow Street. You decide.”

“You would really do that… bring in the Runners?” the steward murmured.

“I may have to in any case, once Bradshaw and Mills arrive,” Drake said with a crisp nod. “I’ve already sent for them, and I may not have a choice when they view my findings. You’ve nearly rolled me up, old boy. There are bound to be criminal charges leveled against you—extortion and fraud. I shan’t have control over that. You’ve broken the law. For the sake of our… ‘friendship’, I’m giving you a running start. That’s the best I can do, and more than you deserve.”

“You’re going to be sorry you’ve done this, Drake,” the steward snarled. “You’re going to rue the day.”

“I’m sorry I had to,” he responded sadly. “And, if that was a threat, I am not intimidated. Just keep in mind that you have a great deal more to lose than I do. You’re a gambling man—calculate the odds. No, old boy, it would be very unwise of you to threaten me.” He held out his hand. “Give me your keys.”

“Damn you, Drake!” the steward railed at him. Unlatching the key chatelaine from his waist, he thrust it toward him. “Satisfied?”

“For the moment,” Drake said, flinging the French doors wide. “Now, get out, before I change my mind.”

The steward stomped past, red-faced, his jaw muscles ticking. Drake monitored the rage in his step, and the bleary, glaring eyes boring into him. They left him cold.

“This is not the end of it,” the steward warned.

“That’s up to you,” Drake sallied. “Oh, and, by the way, that was no dream you had last night in the wine cellar, Jim, and it wasn’t a facer I planted. It was a leveler.”

Fifteen

James Ellery clung to two things Drake had reminded him of, like a drowning man clings to a timber—that Demelza was
parvenue
now, suddenly wealthy, with plenty of blunt to stake him, and that Drake had included him in his will. He’d forgotten about that. Clopping along in the twilight on the swayback mare, he gave both considerable thought.

Demelza had left Drake’s Lair. The servants spread that tale at lightning speed. It came as no surprise, however. Fear that her leaving was imminent had haunted him since he’d sneaked into her rooms and perused that contract—
a hundred pounds
. How he could make use of a hundred right now. It wasn’t nearly enough, of course, to cover all the vowels he had outstanding, but it would certainly do for a start, and if he dodged his pursuers and gambled wisely, he could triple it and then some. Easily. He knew it.

It was true that she hadn’t responded to his overtures thus far, and become even cooler toward him since she met Drake, but he could remedy that. Once he finished telling all—running the Earl of Shelldrake into the ground, he had no doubt that he could turn her head. She was a lady after all, a real one, not the type to be flummoxed by a rake. His charm had never failed him in the past. Not even with Eva. If Drake only knew! Love-blinded, he was such an easy cuckold. Maybe he should have told him. It would have been a fitting final triumph. He rubbed his swollen jaw and flexed it stiffly. No. That would have been suicidal in Drake’s present state. But he would, when the time was right. Drake Hannaford hadn’t seen the last of him—not by a long shot.

He would have had everything he’d ever wanted with Eva. He had always been jealous of Drake—of his dark good looks, his impeccable taste, his money, and charm. Drake had always shared the blunt, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more, he wanted it all. He wanted to
be
Drake. He had always wanted that, ever since they were schoolboys together.

It began as hero worship he would allow, but at some point along the way—he couldn’t put his finger on exactly when that was—the contest ceased to be a game, and
he
became the hero. Besting Drake in every way imaginable was what drove him then—proving that he was the worthy one. He hung on like a leech attempting that. Drake never knew why. The nodcock felt ‘sorry’ for him. Sorry—for
him
. That’s what he’d said. Eva’s money would have saved him. She would have been his final triumph—the last phase of his transformation in becoming the man he envied—worshiped—hated. Yes, hated. He was so much more deserving of everything that Drake possessed than Drake was. He would have had it
all
. He’d come so close. Then everything went wrong—terribly, fatally wrong. Eva had opted for Drake’s wealth rather than his charm. But all that was over now and he had a new opportunity in the person of Demelza Ahern. Not nearly as prestigious an opportunity as the countess would have been, of course, but an opportunity nonetheless, and in his current circumstance, he could hardly be choosy.

That she was a beauty—a ripe little morsel—was a plus. He’d bedded many a plump-in-the-pockets harridan to feed his appetites before Drake went off and left him in charge of all that blunt. It was Drake’s own fault. He’d gotten just what he deserved. What? Did the man expect him to live on a measly steward’s stipend when he had access to a king’s ransom? Who knew that he would even be returning after five years? Yes, he considered the money his. He’d worked hard enough to attain it. Drake should never have come home. That isn’t how it was supposed to be. He wasn’t a professional soldier. He would have been killed eventually had he stayed in the army. That’s how it was supposed to be. Hadn’t he been the one who suggested Drake buy himself a commission? At the time, he had thought that strategy inspired. Let Napoleon do his dirty work for him. It had seemed the perfect solution.

That thought brought to mind the other point Drake had made mention of—the most important point. The will. Drake had provided for him handsomely. He’d never disclosed the exact amount, of course, but now that Eva was gone and he had no heir, it would be substantial, certainly worth going after. Worth risking one’s life for. Could he have had time to change it? It was doubtful. Bradshaw and Mills couldn’t do it. His solicitor, Malcolm Snead, in Truro was in charge of that, as he had been with his father’s before him. It wouldn’t be long now before he did amend it, however.

Something had to be done immediately—before he had the chance. That inheritance would set him up smartly—with or without Demelza Ahern. He was, of course, contemplating murder. His future depended upon it—necessitated it. But it would have to look like an accident. It would be tricky now that they’d had a falling out, but certainly not impossible. Drake said he’d sent for Bradshaw and Mills. It wanted to be done before they arrived, and in such a way that it couldn’t be traced to him. That was key. They would surely be here in a day or two. Yes, decidedly tricky, but not impossible if it were to happen now—right now—after everyone in residence witnessed his ejection—saw him ride off, portmanteau and all on the swayback mare into the low-sliding sun.

That sun had set now, and he had reached the Black Stag Inn on the moor just outside St. Kevern village. Wild, daring plans were taking shape in his brain. Everything was meshing and, after taking a room at the back of the inn and very visibly stabling the mare at the livery with Drake’s Andalusians, which had finally arrived, he quietly stole away unseen, and returned eastward along the beck on foot through the wood toward Drake’s Lair.

*

After dinner, Drake assembled the staff in the servant’ hall. There could be no margin for error. James Ellery had been in charge of Drake’s Lair for five years. If there was to be any dissension in the ranks over booting him out, he needed to know it before he left for Truro.

A sea of solemn gray faces stared in silence as he stood at the head of the table. It was plain that the word had spread lickety-split below stairs. There wasn’t a nonplussed expression among them, just a collective aura of sober apprehension.

“I’ve assembled you all here,” he began, “to explain my actions of this afternoon, not because I feel a need to defend them, but so that there shall be no speculative
on-dits
making the rounds. Since gossip is inevitable, I shall provide you with the facts, in order to insure that the gossip shall at least be accurate. When I’ve had my say, you may act according to your own consciences.