Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (23 page)

He thought of all the night aboard the
Swift
had entailed.
Francesca had been frightened, and yet she had striven hard to hide it. He
smiled at the memory of the two of them lying side by side on the damp cold
deck, and the smile deepened when he remembered the words she had uttered.
You
greatly overestimate your appeal, sir.
And then there was the ball, when he
had danced with her and they had shared amusement at what he had done. He
suspected that they shared very much the same sense of humour.

He smiled as he remembered teasing her in the kitchen, and the
fact that he, who had never so much as touched a dirty plate in his life, had
helped wash and dry the family’s dinner dishes. His father would never have
believed it. Jack barely believed it himself. His friends would have laughed
and told him to bed her and be done with it. Before last Christmas he probably
would have said the very same thing. But Francesca was different, and Jack was
no longer the man he had once been. He shifted upon the sofa and, still
thinking of Francesca, eventually found sleep.

The next morning the snow was beginning to thaw. Francesca was
busy in the kitchen, packing up a basket with food, while her mother sat on a
chair pulled close to the fire.

‘I’m worried about her, Francesca. She’s an old lady, and it
isn’t right her being on her own.’

‘Mama, Mrs Beeley will have it no other way. How many times have
you asked her to come and stay with us? She’s too proud.’

‘So proud that we will find her dead and frozen one of these
mornings,’ said Mrs Linden.

‘When I saw her the other day she was fine. There was firewood
chopped, and enough coal. And I put an extra blanket on her bed, just as you
said.’

‘I cannot help but worry in this weather. What if she goes out to
fetch water and…?’

‘Ease your worries, Mama. I will take her these provisions and
check that she is well.’

‘But what of the snow? It’s more than a mile to her cottage. And
Tom’s ankle still pains him.’

‘I shall manage very well on my own, Mama.’

Mrs Linden coughed. ‘I do not like it. Maybe Anne should go with
you.’

Francesca smiled and shook her head. ‘Anne has enough to do
here.’ She wrapped her cloak around her, shoved her hands into a thick pair of
woollen mittens and gathered up the basket. ‘I’ll be back before lunchtime.’

‘Good morning.’ A deep voice sounded.

Francesca glanced round to find Lord Holberton standing in the
doorway.

‘Shall I fetch you some tea, my lord?’ Mrs Linden made to rise.

‘No, thank you, Mrs Linden.’ He walked into the kitchen. ‘Please
do not get up on my account.’ His eyes moved to Francesca. ‘You are going out,
Miss Linden?’

‘I am delivering some provisions to a neighbour.’ Something in
the way he looked at her sent a tingle down her spine. ‘If you will excuse me,
my lord?’ She made to turn away, but his voice stopped her.

‘Alone?’

‘I bade her take Anne, but she will have none of it,’ said Mrs
Linden.

‘Please allow me to accompany Miss Linden,’ said Jack. ‘It is the
least I can do before I leave.’

‘It would set my mind a little more at rest,’ said Mrs Linden.

Francesca met his gaze and saw the look that dared her to refuse
him. The devil in her made her smile sweetly and say, ‘Thank you, Lord
Holberton.’

The morning was bright and the air crisp as they walked together
through the melting snow.

‘I would offer to carry your basket, Miss Linden, but I know how
steadfastly you prefer to carry it yourself.’

‘If you are referring to the incident in Salcombe, then there was
no need to carry my basket.’

‘I was merely being polite,’ he said.

‘And I ill-mannered—as I’m sure you are about to tell me,’ she
replied.

‘I was about to say no such thing.’

She glanced round at him ‘But you were implying it.’

‘Was I?’

‘By pointing out your manners, you were highlighting my lack of
them.’

‘Or perhaps you are just feeling guilty, Miss Linden?’ He glanced
across at her.

‘Not in the slightest,’ she lied.

‘Good.’

She cast him a quizzical look.

He laughed.

Francesca found that she was laughing with him. ‘Perhaps I was a
little forthright in my refusal.’

‘Hercules could not have prised that basket from your grip.’

She laughed again. ‘I’m stronger than I look.’

‘You’re quite the strongest woman I know.’

‘Then you will admit that there was no need to accompany me on
this journey.’

‘I desired some fresh air, and to stretch my legs. I feel secure
in the knowledge that your superior strength will protect us both.’

Francesca looked at him and shook her head, then smiled. ‘Well,
if I am doing the protecting, you may do the carrying, Jack Holberton.’ She
held out the basket towards him.

He grinned and took it.

Together they walked on, leaving behind them two sets of
footprints—one large and one small.

Mrs Beeley proved to be in robust health, and she much enjoyed
the company of Francesca and her ‘young man’, as she kept referring to
Jack—which embarrassed Francesca and amused Jack.

With the provisions delivered, water fetched and tea made,
Francesca and Jack set off to return to the Lindens’ cottage. The thaw had
opened up gaps in the white blanket that shrouded the countryside, allowing
earth and grass to peep through. The sky was clear and pale, and filled with a
weak, watery sunlight that found jewels within the melting ice. Great sparkling
drops dripped from branches through which there darted a flicker of red: a
robin singing its staccato song. From the distance came the caw of crows, and
somewhere closer by the alarm call of a startled blackbird. Snow crunched
beneath their boots.

They were soon close to Lannacombe, and had almost reached
Francesca’s home at the edge of the moorland. The burned-out shell of a cottage
lay immediately ahead, its usual dark, dismal outline softened by remnants of
snow. Opposite the old derelict building was a group of scrubby bushes, their
thin twisted branches now more brown than white.

Francesca and Jack had been talking and laughing, but as they
neared the ruins there seemed to be a strange silence in the air, as if all of
the birds had fallen quiet. Jack slowed his pace and scanned the surrounding
landscape.

‘Jack?’

He touched his forefinger to his lips in a hushing sign.

There was a prickling across her scalp, and a shiver of
foreboding rippled through her. Something was wrong. Francesca just did not
know what. Then she saw the figure slip out from behind the dilapidated walls
to stand directly in their path. The breath froze in her throat. She stared in
horrified disbelief, for there, not four paces before them, was Edmund Grosely,
leaning on his cane.

‘Ah, Holberton—at last. So noble of you to accompany Miss Linden
on her visit to Mrs Beeley.’ He glanced at Francesca, ‘Your sister was very
helpful when I called at your home, looking for my dear friend Jack.’

Grosely had been at her house—had spoken to her sister…Francesca
felt her stomach turn over at the thought.

‘What the hell are you doing here, Grosely?’ asked Jack.

‘When I should be rotting in some jail awaiting my execution, you
mean?’ Grosely raised his eyebrows. ‘What did you expect dear Papa to do? Turn
up with the rest of the crowd to watch me swing?’ Grosely smiled. ‘No, we
couldn’t have me letting the family name down like that, could we? He’s
contesting your accusations.
You
planted the papers and framed me—didn’t
you know? Your wickedness was all so clear once my father had greased a few
palms. To think what you would do to your own friend in a bid to save yourself.
Shocking.’

‘You introduced me into smuggling, remember. Not the other way
around. And there’s plenty that will testify to your actions, Grosely.’

‘I think you’ll find that your paltry witnesses have all
disappeared. Christmas is such a dangerous time of year. Sets tempers alight in
the prisons and on the streets outside gentlemen’s clubs as well. Dead men
cannot take the stand.’

‘You always were a bastard,’ Jack’s eyes were cold and his
expression hard.

‘Just like you,’ said Grosely, and stepped forward.

Jack handed Francesca the basket and gestured her behind him. ‘You
haven’t yet answered my question, Grosely. What are you doing here?’

Grosely smirked. ‘I’m sure you know the answer already, dear
fellow.’ And then his mouth straightened. ‘I’m here to kill you—as slowly and
painfully as I possibly can.’

Francesca’s blood ran cold at the chilling words. ‘But if you
kill him then you’ll rob yourself of a scapegoat,’ she said.

‘Not necessarily,’ said Grosely. ‘My father will have it put
about that Holberton fled to the continent to avoid arrest. Still ploughing
you, is he?’ he asked conversationally.

She saw Jack’s face pale, the tiny twitch in his jaw and the
dangerous glitter in his eyes. Anger and disgust welled in Francesca. ‘You are
a disgusting and vile excuse for a man!’

Grosely laughed. ‘You’ll soon be singing a different tune, Miss
Linden.’

‘This is between you and me,’ said Jack. ‘Let the girl go.’

‘You know I can’t do that. She knows too much—her and that
brother of hers.’ Grosely angled his head to the side and looked at Francesca.

Jack moved so suddenly, so fluidly, so fast, that Francesca
jumped. His fist slammed hard into Grosely’s jaw. Grosely’s head whipped back
under the force and he seemed to stagger slightly, so that Francesca thought he
would fall in a daze. But Grosely kept his feet. He fumbled with his cane, and
then used it to strike at Jack. Francesca heard the whir of the wood as Grosely
swung it through the air to land with a sickening thud against Jack’s ribs.
Grosely drew the cane back, and as he did so Jack kicked at the villain’s hand,
sending the cane flying off somewhere behind, where it landed with a clatter on
top of a crumbling section of wall. Grosely grabbed at Jack, but the hold only
brought a series of quick, fast jabs thumping into his body. He stumbled back;
Jack pursued him, each punch more brutal than the last, each fist finding its
target. But the beating did not stop Grosely. He kicked, and punched, and tried
to bite.

The two figures strained backwards and forwards, trampling the
grass and the snow flat, unwittingly edging closer to Francesca. She drew back,
but she was still close enough to see the blood splatter from each impact of
fist against face, to hear the awful thud of flesh and soft tissue and bone.
Her heart was thumping so hard she thought she was going to be sick. She had no
idea how to help Jack.

The punches rained harder in both directions, but Jack was the
stronger, forcing Grosely back towards the wall of the cottage, punch by punch,
hit by grinding hit. Francesca clenched her own fists, praying for Jack,
willing him on. And it seemed that God heard her prayer, for once at the wall
Grosely seemed to collapse, lurching forward and wrapping his arms around Jack,
as if clinging on to that support was the only thing that kept him from falling
completely. Jack had won.

But Francesca’s joy and elation were barely formed when she saw
Grosely’s hand grope behind him, feeling desperately over the broken stones
until it closed upon his cane. His fingers scrabbled with the handle until, she
saw with horror, he pulled from the cane a long thin sword. Jack would not see
the blade that arced towards his back.

Francesca screamed a warning and ran. Her only thought was to
stop Grosely and save Jack. It seemed that time slowed. She could hear her
breath loud in her ears, the thudding beat of her heart. All that filled her
eyes was the terrible scene before her, and then she was there, and her hands
had wrapped around Grosely’s wrist, and she was dragging at his hand with all
of her strength, stopping it from finding a path to Jack.

But Grosely was strong; that one solitary wrist did not
relinquish its weapon, or its deadly intent. And then, just when she thought
that he would not yield, that his strength would overcome hers, his hand slid
back. She threw all of her weight against it as hard as she could, driving his
hand back, pinning it against the wall, holding it there, where the sword still
tight in its grip could not strike Jack. Jack landed one last punch, so hard
that Francesca felt the reverberation of it through her hold on Grosely’s hand.
Grosely’s head jerked back, hitting hard against the stone wall. There was a
grunt, and the hand that Francesca was grasping with such determination went
limp. The sword tumbled noiselessly to the ground. She loosed her hold. Grosely
slumped to his knees before pitching forward to land face down, his life blood
seeping out to stain a crimson arc within the snow. The only sound was the
laboured breathing of Francesca and of Jack.

Jack bent and pressed his fingers to the pulse point in Grosely’s
neck, knowing that the man was dead even before he did so. Blood trickled from
Grosely’s ear, and from the ragged wound at the base of his skull. The hair
which had been silver-blond in life was matted and darkened with blood in death.
Jack rose and saw that Francesca had not moved. Her eyes were wide with horror,
and she was staring at the gore of Grosely’s head.

‘Francesca?’

But it seemed that she could not hear him. She still did not
move, just stood there staring, with her face as pale as Grosely’s and a
haunted look in her eyes.

‘Look at me, Francesca.’ His hands moved to grip her upper arms,
pulling her round to him, his fingers were at her chin, tilting her face up to
his.

Slowly her eyes raised to his, and he saw in them shock and
horror and disbelief. Her breath was ragged. ‘Is he dead?’

Jack nodded.