Chapter 27 #3
He gave a bizarrely casual shrug. “Of course I will. With you and Mrs. Hodges out of the way and Harry in the wind, no one will suspect me of a thing. I’m only the ne’er-do-well son of Squire Plumtree, perfectly pleasant and perfectly harmless. I’ve been very careful. Only Harry knows who I am.”
Keep him talking.
“Not Mr. Barlowe?” she asked.
“That fool doesn’t suspect a thing,” he contemptuously replied.
“I only befriended him to keep an eye on that blasted church for any lingering problems. And he did provide me with quite a handy alibi at the party. We spent most of the evening together, you see. Wouldn’t even occur to Barlowe to think about me disappearing for half an hour or so.
” He paused, and then glanced at Harry. “Ah, I think I have it.”
His accomplice looked confused. “Have what?”
“How to get rid of them. A fire will do nicely. These old piles, you know, they catch fire all the time. We’ll just cosh the two of them over the head, move them to the great hall, and then set it alight. All that lovely old wood should do the trick.”
Under the table, Mrs. Hodges grabbed Emma’s hand with trembling fingers. Even Harry looked horrified.
“I ain’t coshing them over the head or setting a fire,” he protested.
“You will,” Guy responded in a threatening tone.
Emma cast about desperately for something to—
Yes!
“You’re wrong,” she blurted out. “There is someone who can identify you. He recognized your voice, and it’s only a matter of time until he realizes it’s you.”
Guy shot Harry a startled glance.
“Don’t look at me,” said the footman. “Haven’t a clue what she’s yammering about.”
“Then I do believe you’re bluffing, Mrs. Knightley,” said Guy.
She lifted a defiant chin. “I’m not. And there’s also Henry, my nephew.”
Her captor frowned. “What about him?”
Harry muttered a curse. “I forgot about him. He’s staying here at the abbey. But I ain’t killing no kid, either.”
“You couldn’t even if you wanted to,” Emma retorted. “When I realized we were in danger, I sent him off to the Westons to fetch help.”
“That tears it.” Harry picked up the shotgun. “Plumtree, you can do what you like, but I’m leaving.”
“Don’t be a fool,” his accomplice contemptuously replied. “If she had sent the boy to Randalls, Weston would surely be here by now.”
That, unfortunately, was true. Emma very much feared something dreadful had happened to Henry on the way to Randalls. That thought scared her more than Guy’s weapon.
“Don’t care,” snapped Harry.
“Go up to his room and see if he’s there,” Guy ordered.
“Bugger you.”
Guy shoved up out of his chair and jabbed a finger at Harry as they began to hotly debate how to proceed. In the process, Guy let the hand holding the pistol drop to his side.
Emma leaned toward Mrs. Hodges.
“Prepare to run for the stableyard,” she whispered.
The housekeeper threw her a startled glance but then squeezed her hand before letting go.
As the confrontation between the two men escalated into shouting, Emma steeled herself to do what she must. Guy had given her an idea. It was a terrible one, but it just might save their lives.
“Now,” she murmured to Mrs. Hodges.
Emma then scrambled to her feet, grabbed the lantern off the table, and hurled it directly at Guy. It just missed and smashed into the window behind him. The glass shattered and oil spewed onto the window curtains, setting them ablaze.
Emma heard Guy curse, but she and Mrs. Hodges was already halfway across the kitchen.
Mrs. Hodges suddenly veered sideways—with astonishing fleetness of foot for a woman her age—and fled up the stairs to the stableyard.
Emma ran straight for the steps back to the main house, half expecting the blast of a pistol at any second.
Her foot hit the bottom stair and she surged upward, three steps at a time.
She pushed through the swinging door but then slipped on the top step, her too-large boots tripping her up.
Recovering, she scrambled out into the corridor, running as fast as dared.
If she fell, Guy would catch her. Even now she could hear footsteps pounding behind her.
“Stop, or I’ll shoot,” he roared.
Emma would rather take her chances getting shot than getting burned up in a fire. She ran as hard as she could, turning from the service corridor into the long gallery. If she could just reach the great hall—
Boom.
A bust of a Knightley ancestor exploded. She flinched when a shard of stone struck the side of her head, and she went down hard on one knee. Gasping for breath, she pushed herself up, only to freeze when she felt the pistol barrel press against her shoulder.
“I have you, Mrs. Knightley. There’s no point in trying to escape.”
Guy’s voice chilled her to the very marrow. Still, she had no intention of cowering on the floor, waiting to be murdered.
Then a thought darted into her head. He couldn’t shoot her, could he? He’d already fired the pistol.
She sucked in a calming breath. “May I at least stand?”
For several seconds, as long as eternity, she heard only his breathing.
Then he withdrew the barrel from her shoulder.
“Please do stand, Mrs. Knightley. I should hate for you to be made uncomfortable,” he calmly said.
Lunatic.
She took her time getting up, darting a quick look around for a possible weapon to use. There was that hideous bust of Julius Caesar on the pedestal just over there. Perhaps—
“Turn around, please,” said Guy, as she heard a thump.
When she turned, her heart plummeted right down to the cellar. The villain had discarded the spent pistol, tossing it to the floor. Now he held a lethal-looking knife in his hand.
Even in the shadows of the long gallery, she could see the gleam in his eyes.
“Just so, ma’am,” he said. “I am still armed. And I assure you that you won’t be able to outrun me.”
Surely he could not be that stupid.
“Surely you cannot be that stupid,” she said, ignoring the manic thud of her heart.
He shrugged with an eerie nonchalance. “I will do what I must.”
“Mr. Plumtree, if you’re as clever as you say you are, I suggest you be on your way. Help will arrive—”
Were those voices drifting up from the kitchen?
Yes!
She mustered a smile. “Ah. It seems help has finally arrived.”
The sound of distant shouts echoed along the corridor, confirming that hope.
Guy muttered a quite foul curse. “You would appear to be correct, ma’am.”
“You might want to flee,” she helpfully said. “Might I suggest the front door? You have my word I won’t try to stop you.”
Not while he was holding her at knifepoint, at any rate.
“Oh, I’m going,” he snarled. “And you’re coming with me.”
“What?” She started to back away, almost tripping over her dratted boots.
“I have no intention of getting caught, and you will certainly prove useful as a hostage.”
He advanced on her, but she continued to scramble backward.
“Stop that,” he snapped, grabbing for her.
From behind him, a tall figure quietly loomed from the dark, then lunged and smashed something into the back of Guy’s skull.
The wretch crumpled to the floor at Emma’s feet.
Stunned, she stood there for a moment, gaping down at him. Then she looked up. The tall, great-coated figure resolved into Mr. Weston, pointing a shotgun at Guy.
“Is that what you hit him with?” she asked.
“Yes, the butt of my gun. The blasted villain’s lucky I didn’t shoot him, but I was afraid to take the risk of some of the shot hitting you.” He stepped forward. “Are you all right, dear?”
She sank into a conveniently situated armchair. “Yes, he … he didn’t hurt me.”
“Thank God. Forgive me, Emma. I should have been here sooner.”
“You arrived just in time.” She glanced down at the unconscious Guy. “I don’t think you need to keep your gun on him, though. It sounded like you split his head open.”
Mr. Weston scowled. “Better for everyone if I did. Gave me the shock of my life when Mrs. Hodges told me Guy Plumtree was pursuing you through the house like a blasted madman.”
“Is Mrs. Hodges all right?”
When he nodded, Emma sagged with relief.
“She and my footmen are putting out the fire,” he said. “Ah, he’s my fellow now. Everything all right, Sam?”
The man who joined them was Randalls’s senior footman. “Yes, sir. The fire is out. It was just the curtains. We got them down in quick order, and Mrs. Hodges is giving them a good soak.”
“Thank heavens.” Emma managed a smile. “I was worried I would burn the place down, but I couldn’t think what else to do.”
“Brilliant thinking on your part, my dear,” replied Mr. Weston. He handed his shotgun to Sam. “Keep an eye on this villain in case he wakes up. I’ll send one of the other men up with a rope to secure him until Constable Sharpe arrives.”
Even though Emma felt ridiculously unsteady, she forced herself to stand. Mr. Weston hurried over to help her.
“Take my arm.” He frowned as he finally registered what she was wearing. “That’s quite the odd rig. Best be careful with those boots, Emma. They’re much too big on you.”
“Yes, I know,” she dryly replied. “I take it my terribly brave nephew arrived at Randalls in good order.”
“Mostly,” he said. “Poor lad thought to take a shortcut across our back lawn and had a bit of a fall.”
Emma jerked to a halt. “Is he all right? Please tell me that he’s all right!”
She’d never forgive herself if Henry were injured.
Mr. Weston patted her hand. “He’s fine. Twisted his ankle, but he managed to keep going.”
She breathed out a shaky sigh. “I suppose that’s why it took so long for you to arrive.”
“Yes, and it took Henry a bit of time to get the story out, too. Poor lad was all wound up by the time he reached Randalls. Then I had to get the men up and organized.”
“But you’re sure Henry’s all right?”
He started her back down the corridor. “It’s just a little sprain, Emma. My wife was bustling him right upstairs into a hot bath by the time we were heading out. He’s a brave lad. You should be proud of him.”
Her eyes stung with tears of relief and pride in her nephew’s courage and fortitude.
“Thank goodness,” she said. “Isabella would murder me if anything had happened to Henry.”
“Let’s not have any more talk of murder. We’ve had quite enough of that around here.”
Emma couldn’t agree more.
They pushed through the service door and started down the stairs. The odor of smoke assaulted her nose, making her sneeze.
Mr. Weston eyed her with vague alarm. “I hope you’re not catching a chill. Your father would be very displeased.”
She had to swallow a hysterical impulse to laugh. A possible chill would be the least of her father’s worries. Emma couldn’t even begin to think how she would explain the evening’s events to him.
“I’m fine. It’s just the smoke.” She eyed the kitchen. “This poor room is not fine, however.”
The kitchen was a rather a disaster. There were scorch marks all around the window frame and on the brick wall, and the curtains were a sodden heap on the wet floor. Still, it could have been much worse.
After all, Guy had threatened to burn the abbey down, with her and Mrs. Hodges in it.
The housekeeper came hurrying in from the stableyard a moment later.
“Mrs. Knightley, thank God,” she exclaimed, rushing up to her. “I was so afraid!”
Emma grimaced at the housekeeper’s dirty face and sootsmudged cloak. “Oh dear. Are you all right?”
“It’s just a little dirt and smoke, ma’am. Did you get the villain, Mr. Weston?”
He nodded. “Plumtree won’t be giving us any more trouble. What about the grooms and your coachmen? Have they come to harm?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” the housekeeper replied. “But they’re still out cold. Apparently, Harry put plenty of laudanum in their ale.”
“Unbelievable,” Emma said, disgusted. “I should have guessed it was Harry much sooner than I did.”
Mrs. Hodges sighed. “I blame myself. He fair pulled the wool over my eyes.”
“He pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes,” Mr. Weston dryly commented. “Quite the clever fellow.”
“Where is Harry?” asked Emma.
Mrs. Hodges held up her hands. “Disappeared. He all but knocked me over in his haste to be gone. It seems he had no intention of getting caught.”
Emma shrugged. “Or of murdering us, so at least that’s one point in his favor.”
“I take it he murdered that poor girl, though,” said Mr. Weston.
“No, that was Guy,” Emma replied.
Mr. Weston looked astonished. “I cannot believe it. Although I suppose I must, seeing he was holding you at knifepoint.”
“He fooled all of us,” she said. “I only hope his father isn’t involved in any of this.”
Mr. Weston shook his head. “Not Squire Plumtree. The man’s as good as they come. This will ruin him, though, poor fellow. I say, Emma, perhaps—”
He was interrupted when Constable Sharpe barreled in from the stableyard.
“What’s all this I hear about smugglers?” he barked.
Then his jaw dropped as he took in the mess around them.
“Good evening, Constable Sharpe,” Emma politely said. “Or is it good morning? I hardly know. But how kind of you to join us. Better late than never, I suppose.”
Mr. Weston started to laugh but covered it up with a cough.
Constable Sharpe stared at her and then shook his head, looking—if she didn’t miss her guess—more than a trifle annoyed.
“Mrs. Knightley,” he pronounced in a dour tone. “Why am I not surprised you’re in the middle of this?”