Chapter 27
I knew it.
Harry had been involved in the wretched scheme all along. Now as she looked back, it made perfect sense. He’d been at Donwell long enough to be above suspicion, and he had played the part of dolt so well that no one would have suspected he had the wit to oversee a smuggling operation.
And then there was Prudence …
Stealthily, she beat a retreat back around the corner and out of sight of the men.
If her instincts were correct, and it was hard to fault them given this new development, it would be reasonable to assume that hapless Harry was both a smuggler and a ruthless killer.
And now they were trapped in the house with him.
She could attempt to sneak over to the stables to secure help from the grooms, but it was likely that Harry had somehow managed to put the men out of commission.
At the thought that he might have permanently put them out of commission, Emma’s stomach pitched sideways and she had to lean against the wall to catch her breath.
Then she heard the quiet murmur of voices and the creak of the cart, and she knew she had little time to waste.
Harry would either depart with the smugglers or return to the house.
Either way, she and Mrs. Hodges needed to be ready.
Help would eventually arrive from Randalls.
Until it did, they needed to keep Harry under control and then—God willing—hand him off to Mr. Weston and his men.
Emma hastened toward the kitchen. As she tightened her grip on the shotgun, she sent up a prayer of thanks that her husband had taught her how to use the weapon.
George would be aghast to see her right now, but his lesson—initially intended to hoist her on her own petard—just might save Mrs. Hodges’s life and hers.
As she came around the end of the wing, a pale light filtered into the yard from the kitchen windows.
Emma grimaced. It would not be good for Harry or the smugglers to see that.
George would have undoubtedly counseled her to take Mrs. Hodges and hide upstairs until help arrived.
It was certainly the sensible thing to do under the circumstances.
A moment later, she discarded that option.
Their best chance of getting a confession out of Harry would be through the element of surprise, both by catching him in the act and by holding him at the working end of a shotgun.
Otherwise, he might come up with an excuse for his actions, claiming he’d been forced into helping the smugglers, just like Harriet’s farmer friend and others had been forced into helping these criminals.
Harry needed to be caught off guard so he would stumble his way into a confession that she hoped would exonerate Larkins.
Glancing up at the still-dark stable apartments one more time, Emma slipped through the kitchen door and closed it quietly behind her.
A tense Mrs. Hodges was at the bottom of the steps, holding a formidable looking rolling pin.
Her expression boded ill for any miscreant who dared step foot in her kitchen.
The housekeeper expelled a sigh of relief and lowered her makeshift weapon. “Thank God, Mrs. Knightley. I was beginning to worry you’d fallen afoul of those villains. I was just about to come after you.”
“You’d best not put your weapon away just yet.”
Emma hurried over to the kitchen table, blowing out her candle and shuttering the lamp.
It plunged the kitchen into almost total darkness, but her eyes quickly adjusted and she could still make out the housekeeper’s form.
She took Mrs. Hodges by the arm and drew her over to stand in the entrance of the pantry.
“Harry is involved in this,” Emma said. “He was there with the smugglers. They were bringing up casks from the derelict cellar at the far end of the wing and loading them onto a cart.”
“What?” the housekeeper exclaimed.
“Hush,” Emma hissed. “He could return any moment.”
“Sorry,” Mrs. Hodges whispered. “But, Harry? The man’s a nincompoop if I ever met one. And I’ve never seen anything to suggest he’s involved in such doings.”
Emma thought back to the night when her nephew had first spotted suspicious lights in the garden.
When they’d gone to investigate, whom had they found in the kitchen, ostensibly raiding the pantry?
That would be Harry, who had a knack for being on the scene when any sort of trouble had occurred.
She’d been a blind fool not to see it before now.
“He’s not as hapless as he wanted us to believe,” Emma replied. “In fact, he seemed to be directing the operation.”
Mrs. Hodges sucked in a startled breath. “Lord. Mrs. Knightley, what do you intend to do?”
“If he returns to the kitchen, I intend to confront him and get a confession out of him.”
“But you already saw him with the smugglers. What sort of— ” The housekeeper broke off, as hideous enlightenment dawned. “He … Prudence? Do you think he could have killed her?”
“It’s the only reasonable explanation.”
Mrs. Hodges breathed out a quiet moan, but then seemed to gather herself. “Don’t you think it would be best if we waited for Mr. Weston? What if Harry is armed?”
“I saw no evidence that he was. He did, however, appear to be garbed for travel.”
Harry had been booted, wearing both a greatcoat and a hat. Was he simply accompanying his men on a run, or did he have something else planned? His escape, perhaps? But why would he feel the need …
She shook her head. Of course he was planning his escape. After all, he’d obviously done something to the grooms and Donwell’s coachman to render them helpless. There’d be no chance of talking his way out of that.
The clock on the kitchen mantle chimed out the hour, startling them both. Mr. Weston should be arriving with reinforcements soon, because Henry would have made it to Randalls by now. Still, it would take some time to rouse the household, get prepared, and then set off to Donwell.
Emma wavered. She and Mrs. Hodges could hold off, retreating back to her rooms and hoping for the best.
“Mrs. Knightley, I think I hear him,” Mrs. Hodges said in a panicked whisper.
As Emma glanced toward the high kitchen windows, she caught the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path. A shadow passed in front the windows, darker against dark.
Time had run out, and the decision had been made for her. “Mrs. Hodges, I want you to stay behind me.”
The housekeeper muttered under her breath but moved into the pantry.
Emma positioned herself in the doorway, shotgun up and aimed at the steps leading down from the yard.
She was rather amazed at how calm she felt, the gun steady in her grip.
Perhaps she was in some sort of shock. If so, she hoped it lasted a little longer.
The door from the yard creaked open and Harry descended the stairs, carrying a lantern. Emma had to resist the impulse to shrink back into the pantry, but thankfully he never looked their way.
After placing the lantern on the mantle, he bent to retrieve logs from the basket and arranged them in the fireplace.
Using a spill lit from the lantern’s flame, he soon got a fire crackling in the grate.
Then he straightened and shrugged out of his greatcoat.
As he turned to throw the garment onto a chair, Emma stepped forward, her shotgun aimed squarely at his chest.
Harry froze, coat in hand, his gaze widening with shock.
“Drop it on the floor,” Emma ordered in her sternest voice.
If he did have a weapon, it was likely stowed in his coat.
Harry’s gaze locked on hers, growing as sharp as a blade, and it sent a chill skating across the back of Emma’s neck. Even in the flickering, uneven light, his expression looked positively murderous.
Then he blinked and everything changed. Suddenly he was again the befuddled footman she’d always known.
“Lord, Mrs. Knightley! You scared me right out of my brainbox. Begging your pardon, ma’am, but you shouldn’t be sneaking up on a poor fellow in the dead of night. I was like to have a heart attack.” Then he frowned. “Why are you pointing a shotgun at me?”
Mrs. Hodges leaned out from behind Emma. “Because you’re a lying, smuggling varlet, that’s why. For half a shilling, I’d shoot you myself.”
His eyes popped even wider. “Smuggling! Me, smuggling? Mrs. H, why ever would you think such a daft thing?”
“Give over, Harry,” Emma snapped. “I just saw you out there with those men, unloading casks from the cellar. Now, do what I say and drop your coat on the floor.”
He paused for a long moment before grimacing. “I … well … I’m sorry, Mrs. Knightley. Truly I am. But they made me do it. Honest. They said they’d beat me within an inch of my life if I didn’t help them.”
She scoffed. “Is that so? And how did they get access to Donwell’s cellars in the first place?”
“It was Mr. Larkins, ma’am. I swear it. I didn’t know anything about it until those fellows showed up and said I had to help, now that Mr. Larkins was in the pogey.”
“If that was the case, why didn’t you tell me or Mr. Knightley?”
“I … I was afraid I’d lose my job … or get arrested by that Sharpe fellow. The smugglers said Mr. Knightley would think it was all me. He would never believe it was Mr. Larkins.”
“Because Larkins isn’t the smuggler,” Emma retorted. “You are.”
Mrs. Hodges made a disgusted noise. “It’s been you all along. Playing the hapless idiot to fool us all.”
“But I am an idiot, Mrs. H!”
One who was still holding his coat, and he appeared to be inching a hand toward a pocket.
“Harry,” Emma said, “if you do not drop the coat, I will shoot you. I’m a very good shot, and I will happily put a hole in your shoulder off for all the trouble you’ve caused.”
She breathed a sigh of relief when he took her threat to heart and finally dropped the coat on the floor.
He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Please, just let me explain, ma’am. I never saw them fellows until a few weeks ago. That was when they showed up, making all their threats.”