The Dragon's Bride (27 page)

Yesterday Con had mentioned visiting him. Though that had been about all he’d said on the subject, she felt the visit had helped him settle his mind about many things.

“Hawk’s in charge,” Con said. “I feel blessed to have the paperwork. Most of the rest of the stuff is foul in both physical and metaphysical ways.”

“But remember,” Delaney said, “I have an interest in these matters. Is that claiming to be mandragora?” he asked, going over to a jar on the shelves.

“Can you tell if it is or not?” Hawkinville asked.

“I was given an illustrated lecture on the subject once.” Delaney opened the jar and extracted a withered, bifurcated root. “By all the sorcerers, I think it is.” He popped it back in the jar. “You can sell that for a fair amount, Con.”

“Excellent, but need I remind you that we’re looking for a document?”

Nicholas laughed. “Aye-aye, sir!”

Hawkinville said, “If you have knowledge, Delaney, perhaps you could check for treasures while de Vere takes over my wall of books. I will search the spaces in between.”

Susan saw Delaney nod as if this made perfect sense.

He caught her looking at him and smiled. She turned hastily back to her shelves of books, resenting another perceptive observer.

More than perceptive.

Knowing.

What had Con told him?

Nicholas Delaney worked quickly through the rest of the ingredients, then came over to study the books Susan had already opened and checked. “Did you see anything by the Count de Saint Germain here?”

“I haven’t been looking at titles,” she said. “But Mr. Rufflestowe has catalogued all these, I believe.”

“He being interested in titles, but not in clever hiding places. I’ll check his lists. Con has offered me first pick.”

“You are a student of alchemy, sir?” She couldn’t help but show her disapproval.

“I’m a student of everything,” he replied with a smile, taking out a book, opening it, then returning it to the shelf. “You have lived in this area all your life, Miss Kerslake?”

“Yes.”

“Probably you knew Con when he visited here years ago, then.”

She grew belatedly wary, but wouldn’t lie. “Yes. We are of an age.”

“He clearly had interesting memories of his time here. Ah, excuse me.” He reached in front of her to take a tall, leather-bound book off the shelf. “A
Physica et Mystica.
Con,” he called across the room. “Your fortune is made. The last copy I heard about went for three hundred.”

“The Earl of Wyvern’s fortune is made,” Con corrected. He looked at the desk and table. “I think I’m finished here. I suppose it was unlikely that the marriage certificate would be in such an open spot, and I can’t see any secret compartments.”

“No offense, Con,” Hawkinville said, “but I’d like to check that.” He pulled out all the drawers, checking for hidden compartments. Then he slid under the furniture on his back and they heard tapping and rattling, but when he worked his way out, he said, “You’re right. Nothing.”

He dusted himself off. “Nothing in the floor or ceiling. The shelves here are fixed very solidly to the walls, and there are no spaces between them. Windows, curtains, doors. All clear. The proportions of the room seem right.”

So that was what he’d meant by the spaces in between. Susan thought of her haphazard search for the gold and knew they were in the hands of a professional.

She honestly wished she could leave it entirely in his hands.

“I think we should have a luncheon,” she said, then realized that it was no longer her place to even think of such things. Even as housekeeper it had not been her place.

But Con said, “An excellent idea. We might as well invite Rufflestowe.” He opened the door to the bedroom and Susan saw the curate bent over something on the cleared top of a bookcase.

“Found something?” Con asked.

The curate straightened, looking a little pink. “No, not really, my lord. I suppose this is not part of my ascribed duties, but the poor lady looked so …”

Con went in, and Susan followed. Rufflestowe had been bent over the slashed picture that had hung on the wall.

“I begged some egg white from the cook, my lord,” the poor man said, looking as if he expected to be rebuked, “and used a sheet of thick paper on the back. It is not sticking down very well as yet.”

All the same, the slashed scraps had been pulled together enough that a face existed.

Delaney demanded the story of the picture, and Con told it.

Amelia leaned closer. “She looks familiar….”

“We think it’s Lady Belle,” Susan told her gently. “When she was younger than you.”

“Oh, yes, there’s a family portrait of her and Aunt Sarah hanging at the manor. This is probably a drawing for it. How horrid of him to cut it up like that and then keep it. If he disliked her so much, why not throw the picture away?”

“The ways of hatred,” Con said thoughtfully. “I wonder if this can be picked up….”

He did so, carefully, and it more or less stayed together. “Follow me.”

He went out into the corridor and along to the Saint George rooms. Susan, realizing what he was thinking, hurried ahead to open the doors. They all ended up around the Roman bath with Amelia commenting wide-eyed on the pictures.

“It’s the same,” Susan said, whispering for some illogical reason, as if the woman on the ceiling, and on the floor of the bath, and in the portrait, might hear.

They were all the same person. All Lady Belle.

Her mother.

“And the fountain figure,” Hawkinville said.

“By heaven, you’re right.” Con looked again at the slashed picture. “He had them all done in the image of Isabelle Kerslake, and doubtless saw himself as the dragon. God damn his black soul.”

“Already done, I have no doubt, my lord,” said Mr. Rufflestowe.

Con gave him the picture. “Take this back to the Wyvern rooms, Rufflestowe, then join us for luncheon.”

The curate took the picture, but said, “I thank you most kindly, my lord, but I must return home. I am to preach tomorrow and must work on my sermon.”

Con smiled wryly. “I think we must have provided much material for it.”

The curate headed back to the old earl’s rooms. The rest of them made their way thoughtfully down to the lower floor, coming to rest in the garden. Susan had no doubt they were all feeling in need of the relief provided by green and growing things.

They chatted about the strange items they’d encountered, and Susan wondered aloud where David was. Then she noticed Major Hawkinville still and silent. She glanced at Con, who was by her side as if it were the only place to be.

He said, “Thinking. He can become an island of calm in the middle of riotous disorder.”

As if he’d heard, Hawkinville looked over at them. “Can I see those fountain figures again, Con?”

“Of course. You think there’s a clue there?”

“Perhaps.” There was something in the major’s eyes that could almost be unease. When they paused outside the curtained alcove he said, “I’m not sure if decency requires that the ladies be excluded, or that only the ladies be permitted to search.”

“Ladies should never be excluded,” Delaney said. “Rogues’ law.”

“Really?” It was clear to Susan, at least, that Hawk Hawkinville thought this peculiar, but he said, “Come along then. Con, can we have a light?”

It was de Vere who went off to the kitchen to get a lighted candle. They all waited. Susan wanted to ask why Hawkinville thought they’d find the marriage certificate here.

“Because the fountain is labeled ‘The Dragon and His Bride’?” she asked.

“It does seem somewhat pointed.”

“And those figures are hollow,” Con said. “But there are no openings to the inside. The pipe that fed water out of the dragon’s er … shaft? Is that it?”

“It would be nice,” Hawkinville said, but Susan didn’t think he was optimistic.

De Vere returned with a candle guarded by a glass funnel, borne very obviously like an angel bearing a fiery torch. Con pulled back the curtain, de Vere marched in, and they all squeezed in after.

In the flickering candlelight, the dragon did not look so funny, and its mouth did seem to snarl. It was an opening of sorts, however, where not filled with the long forked tongue. There was also the water pipe.

Major Hawkinville said, “Con?” offering him the job.

“Please,” Con said, gesturing for his friend to have the honor.

Hawkinville poked a finger into the mouth, but shook his head. He rolled the beast to peer down the pipe. “Anything hidden in here would have to be waterproof, securely attached, and quite flat. And fairly close to the opening.” He produced a long, thin knife from somewhere and probed, then straightened. “I don’t think so.”

“You never did think so,” Con said. “Where?”

Hawkinville turned to the figure of the woman. The raped or rapturous Lady Belle.

“Where,” he asked, “do you think the demented earl would have hidden it?”

The bride’s mouth was open, but it was obviously a shallow space.

Then Susan realized and looked down between the spread legs. It hadn’t been obvious in the fountain with the dragon pressed against her, but the figure was anatomically correct. There still didn’t seem to be a hiding place, but she went forward. “I’ll do it.”

Her tentative fingers found something that wasn’t metal. Wax. “A knife, or something,” she said, hearing her voice waver slightly in the silent room.

Con knelt beside her, offering his penknife. “Do you want me to do it?”

“No, it should be me.”

Wincing slightly, she dug the knife into the wax and carved it away. It became easier. It became only wax. And when the final bit came free, she saw a slender roll. She pulled it out and gave it to Con, then picked up some wax and pushed it back into the space as best she could.

Nonsensical, but she had to do it.

She stood. “I want this statue melted down and made into something else. Something good.”

“Saint George?” Con said. He took off his jacket and spread it over the statue, then led the way out of the alcove.

“No. Something free. A bird, perhaps. Perhaps it has never been easy being Isabelle Kerslake, fighting to be free.”

Con gave her a smile that said he understood, then unwrapped the package and unrolled the document. “The record of the marriage of James Burleigh Somerford of Devon, and Isabelle Anne Kerslake of the same county, on July 24th, 1789. Nearly a year before you were born, Susan.”

He’d understood the depth of her fear that she might be the daughter of the mad earl.

“He probably never could father a child,” he added. “Now, however, it’s all up to your brother. You can take these to him.”

She met his eyes, but he had himself under control as well. “Keep them, please. If he declines the honor, they are for you to deal with.”

“As you will.”

It was farewell, and they both knew it. They were under the eyes of others, but it was, in its way, a blessing.

“Come along, Amelia.”

Susan did not look back as they headed for the exit to Crag Wyvern, but they were stopped by a young lad hurtling breathlessly in.

“Miss Kerslake!” But then he broke off, looking wild-eyed at the people nearby.

Sudden fear gripping her, she took Kit Beetham’s arm and pulled him aside. “What?”

“It’s Captain Drake, ma’am! He’s holed up in old Saint Patrick’s Chapel with the Preventives around him. Maybe wounded, too!”

“Wounded? How badly?”

“Don’t know, ma’am. They flashed a signal down and my dad saw it. Trouble. Three of them there, and one or more wounded. Dad reckons Gifford will have sent for reinforcements and is pinning them there until they come.”

Susan’s heart was thundering, making it hard to think.
Stupid, stupid!
was running through her head. How had David been so stupid as to try smuggling in broad daylight?

“What is it?” Con appeared beside her. “What’s happened?”

She shared the boy’s message. “I’ll have to try to organize a rescue. There’s probably no one else….”

“Of course there is. There’s me for a start, and Hawk Hawkinville, and King Rogue.”

She looked up at him. “You don’t want to be involved in this.”

His gray eyes were rock steady. “If you’re involved, I am. And where I’m involved, so are my friends.” To the boy he said, “Wait here for instructions.”

“Yes, sir!” the lad declared. Susan could see an instinctive response to command, and the comfort of it. Someone was in charge and all would be right with the world.

She felt it too, but beneath it lay terror. David was in dire danger, and Con could be too, earl or not.

He led her back into the great hall and said to the men, “Council of war. The office, I think.” To Susan, he said quietly, “What of your cousin?”

But Amelia said, “It’s David, isn’t it? I knew he’d do something stupid!”

“It appears she’s part of our merry band,” Susan said, startled that Amelia clearly knew more than she’d thought.

In the office Con related the basic situation. He included Gifford’s threat to Susan without giving the history behind it. “He’ll lose leverage by this. A strange maneuver.”

“Perhaps not,” Susan said. “Catching David red-handed would put even more pressure on me.”

“But then why send for more troops? He’ll want a quiet settlement with you.”

“That’s speculation. He might not have sent for anyone. He’ll have the local boatmen….” Then Susan sucked in a breath. “Con, Saint Patrick’s Chapel is that ruin near Irish Cove.”

Their eyes met. If Gifford had seen them embrace, he might be acting out of rage and envy.

Unpredictably.

And David might be wounded.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said.

Con took her hand. “It will be all right. How many men could Gifford have with him?”

“There are six boatmen here, but they usually go in pairs on land.”

“We’ll assume just Gifford and two for now, then.” Con described the chapel to the others. “Easy to hold out in there against a couple of local men who don’t want to get killed, and probably don’t much want to kill, either.

The ground around is mostly open. I don’t want this to be a pitched battle, but I want Kerslake and his men safely away. Suggestions?“

Delaney said, “Hawkinville and I are strangers here. That’s a good card to play. If we happen upon the scene, we can’t be blamed for getting in the way.”

“Of a musket ball?”

“We take our chances. Meanwhile, you and de Vere can attempt your rescue.”

“And me,” Susan said. “I’ll not be left behind.”

“I want to help, too,” Amelia said.

Before Susan could protest, Delaney said, “Of course. But like any inexperienced trooper, you’ll follow orders. Yes?”

Amelia frowned, but then said, “Yes, sir!”

“I’m not military. I’m just a Rogue. Con, is there a map of the place here?”

De Vere produced one from a drawer, spreading it on the desk. He traced the coastline, then said, “I thought so. Here it is. Irish Cove, and the cross must mean the chapel. It seems to be not far from the road to Lewiscomb, but there’s a break.”

“There was a landslip there fifty years or so ago,” Susan said, “cutting the road off. No one uses it anymore.”

“Except smugglers,” Con added.

“And people out for a stroll.”

Their eyes met for a strangely peaceful moment.

“A road still suitable for riding?” Hawkinville asked.

“Up to the break,” Susan said. “But if you ride out from here, you’ll be cut off before you get to the chapel. Walkers can make their way over the rough patch, but not horses.”

“We’ll come around from the other way,” Delaney said, tracing a path. “Even less connection to Crag Wyvern. As ignorant strangers, we don’t know the road is a dead end. We ride along, see something to catch our interest, and approach the chapel.”

“Gifford shouts to you to get out of the area….” Con supplied.

“And we hang around asking what’s the matter. That gives you some room to act. With such open ground, however, it’s going to be hard for the trapped men to escape without being shot.”

“I’ll deal with Gifford,” Con said, “but we may need another distraction.”

“Children,” offered Amelia. “I take the schoolchildren for nature walks up there sometimes. He wouldn’t be able to shoot with children around, would he?”

“It puts them at risk,” Hawkinville protested, and clearly the other men shared his objection.

“They’re used to taking part in smuggling,” Susan said, “and we’ll keep them out of danger. Go, Amelia, and take Kit Beetham with you.”

Amelia turned to leave, but Con said, “Wait. We might be able to get the men away in disguise. Have two other women go with you—the tallest women available—and have them wear an extra layer of clothes that they can slip out of easily.”

Amelia grinned. “Clever idea! But what of David? He’s too tall.”

“I know. He’s my estate manager, however, and I’m going to be haughtily furious with whoever threatened him on my land. Get word to him if you can, Amelia, that that’s his role.”

“Amelia,” Susan said as her cousin turned to leave. “The message said he’s wounded. Bring bandages and such as well.”

“Right.” Amelia had paled at the mention of wounds, but she hurried off.

Susan swallowed. She’d supported using the children, but even with the utmost care, there could be a disaster. She saw Major Hawkinville looking at her.

“The commander’s burden,” he said. “It’s never easy.”

“I’m not the commander here.”

“You’re doing very well. Forgive me, but your charming dress does not seem suitable unless you’re going to ply your wiles as a card with the riding officer.”

“Oh, no.” Susan’s protest was instinctive. She added, “I have a better idea.”

She hurried off, glad that she hadn’t had a chance to move her possessions out of the house. The more strangers involved, the better. Gifford might not recognize her dressed as a man.

In short order she was in her breeches, shirt, and jacket, a neckerchief making a rough cravat. She looked in the mirror, unable to dodge the thought that she’d last dressed like this on the night that Con had returned.

She screwed up her eyes to force back tears and concentrated on completing her disguise.

She didn’t usually bother with a hat, but she had one, a wide-brimmed countryman’s hat. She pinned up her hair and crammed the hat on top. As a subtle touch, she wiped some soot from the chimney with her finger and made a bit of a beard shadow on her jaw and over her lips.

She studied herself in the mirror and decided it would do. Shame she wasn’t tall enough to pass for her brother.

She made sure to stride boldly back into the office. “Well?”

Only Con and de Vere were there, but both looked impressed.

“It’s pretty convincing,” de Vere said, “and I have another idea. Back to your rooms, quickly.”

Con came with them, and when they arrived, de Vere began to strip. “I can probably fit in your gown.”

They were of a height, Susan realized, though she wasn’t sure the shoulders of her peach gown would hold. She helped him into it and didn’t quite manage to fasten the buttons all the way up the back. She dug in a drawer and found a pretty shawl to drape around his wide shoulders.

“Shoes,” he muttered, looking down at his boots. “Con, my dear fellow, I have evening shoes in my room.”

Con went off to get them.

“Hat,” Susan said and found her straw villager one. She fixed ribbons so it could be pulled down at either side to hide his short hair.

“Too strongly featured to be a beautiful woman,” she said, “but too beautiful to be a man.”

De Vere fluttered a smile. “Ambiguous creatures, aren’t we?”

“Not if anyone looks too closely.” She dug out her rouge and reddened his lips and cheeks. “You’re not quite proper, dear, wearing so much paint, and keep your hands inside the shawl. You’ll have to distract them.” She pulled stockings out of a drawer. “Here. Stuff these to make a bosom.”

While he did so, she found her watercolor paints and mixed a little dark brown. “I don’t think this will hurt your eyes.”

“Thank you,” he said with some alarm, but stood still as she painted dark lines around his eyes.

“Definitely not proper, but it makes you look more feminine.”

“You can’t imagine how reassuring it is to know it’s such a challenge.”

They were chuckling when Con returned with the black kid slippers. De Vere put them on and Susan said, “It will do, I think. So we are to be a courting couple, are we? And you, Con?”

“I’m going to be the bloody arrogant Earl of Wyvern. Your job will mostly be to distract his men so they can’t hear what I’m saying to Gifford. Much as I’d love to throttle the man, we have to leave him a way out of this with his honor, such as it is, intact. Let’s go.”

Susan strode at Con’s side in a blend of excitement and fear she’d never experienced before. A good part of the excitement was Con by her side. If nothing else, they were partners in this adventure.

This was the end of their time together, but it was a glorious end. As long as David came away safe.

Con had ordered horses brought up by Pearce and White, so they rode part of the way, dismounting only when they’d be in sight. The two servants were left with the horses while they approached on foot.

When they neared the landslip, Con went forward cautiously. “I can see the chapel with someone in the window, and at least one person in a dip, watching. Why isn’t he shooting? Whoever is in the window is a clear target.”

Susan was close behind. “Gifford’s waiting for reinforcements. Or for me.”

“Then why hasn’t your brother broken out?”

“Because then they’d shoot. David will be hoping his signal is bringing help. He’ll want to get away without bloodshed. Dead Preventive men mean endless trouble, and anyway, it’s not the Dragon’s Horde way.”

“I wish we could get a message inside the chapel.”

“We can.” She pulled out the small mirror she’d brought. “I know the signals. I’ll go over behind those rocks so Gifford won’t see.”

Con gripped her arm to stop her. “Do it from here.”

“Why?”

“I want Gifford to see, wherever he is. I don’t think he’s down there. I wouldn’t be. There’s Hawk and Nicholas approaching, and I think I hear the children.”

“I don’t have to hide,” de Vere said, and stood to stroll a little way up the slope, holding his skirts against the breeze. “It is. About ten children and three women.”

“Excellent. Start signaling, Susan.”

She angled her mirror to the sunlight and began sending the code that meant
help coining.

De Vere said, “Did I get dressed up like this for nothing?”

“That would be a shame,” Con said. “Go and distract the boatmen.”

“That’s more like it.” De Vere flashed them both a wicked smile, and scrambled over the rocks to the smooth ground leading to the chapel.

As the three distractions converged, Susan had the panicked feeling that everything was sliding out of control.

Con gripped her shoulder. “Keep signaling.”

She did so, blowing out a breath. “This goes against everything I’ve been taught, you know. I feel like a rabbit saying, ‘Come and eat me.’”

“Just follow orders,” Con said, a smile in his voice.

“Yes, sir.”

He kept his hand firmly on her shoulder, and she welcomed the beloved warmth. For a moment, just a moment, she let her free hand rise to cover his.

She heard the children singing, then saw them marching in pairs, Amelia at the head, two other women at the rear, carrying baskets.

The two riders swung toward the chapel.

A voice shouted from the bushes, warning the riders off. She didn’t think it was Gifford.

Hawkinville and Delaney halted their horses neatly between the bushes and the chapel, circling as if confused.

A man in the blue and white Excise uniform rose up, waving a musket at them.

More shouting.

The children broke ranks to run down the slope to peer into the chapel. The women rushed after, calling for order. Susan almost rose to scream for them to go back. They were in danger!

The trooper yelled louder.

“Someone’s going to be killed,” she said to Con. “We have to do something.”

“Nick and Hawk will take care of them. Gifford’s coming. In fact, it’s time for you to be away from here, love.”

“Then I’m going down to be closer to the children.”

“Very well. Pursue your wanton maid.”

She rose, but hesitated. “Will you be safe?”

“Just obey orders, lad.”

She rolled her eyes at him, but then she heard hoof-beats approaching. Unable to resist, she pulled him to her for a rapid kiss, then hurried over the rocks.

Once clear of Con, she yelled in as deep a voice as she could. “Betsy, you damn whore. Get back here!”

De Vere looked behind, screeched, and hurtled toward the trooper. “Save me, sir! Save me!”

Con laughed and turned to look out at the sea as if he were merely admiring the view. When Gifford drew his horse to a rough halt beside him he turned. “Lieutenant! A pleasant day after the recent cool weather, is it not?”

“Damn your eyes, I’ll see you in court for this, earl or no earl!”

“For what?”

“For signaling to smugglers, sir!”

“In broad daylight?”

Gifford looked down on the scene below, rose in his stirrups and screamed, “Shoot them, damn you. Shoot!”

Con launched himself and dragged him off his horse, knocking him half unconscious in the process. “Shoot women and children, sir?”

Gifford lay there, deep red with fury. “I’ll see you hang.”