Chapter 16
Grave Consequences
They made good time, driving into Maidstone just as the town clock struck ten.
Even though it was growing late, there was a bustle about the place as the wheels of the gig clattered over the cobbles.
There were still people abroad, the flickering lights of carriage lanterns as they passed by, and soon the friendly glow of lamplight shining from windows.
Though none of them had been here before, it wasn’t difficult to track down the watch house after asking a local for directions.
Leo felt a surge of relief at knowing Angel was safely out of the way.
He’d hired a private parlour for her, Milly, and the lad, and ordered them a meal.
Though she had protested his leaving them out of it, she was too tired and worn out to put up much of a fight.
She was game for anything, he’d give her that, but getting officially involved in this business would do her reputation no good whatsoever.
Added to that, he had his own problems, such as the fact she did not know who he really was.
If he was to make his accusations against Mercy and her hired thugs stick with as few questions as possible, he’d need to use his influence and his title.
The appalled way Angel had looked when Mercy had spouted her poison had given him pause, though.
He knew she fancied him—he wasn’t that dim—and he thought she liked him well enough too; they got along famously, and he made her laugh.
So, he had hoped she might look kindly upon him if he were to be so reckless as to suggest he would like to court her in earnest. Which he would.
He’d not realised that fact until he’d seen Mercy try to stab her, and his heart had lodged in his throat as Angel had scurried out of reach. But he could still see the clean tear in her skirts, knew how close it had come to her thigh, perhaps to death.
Hart had never considered himself an especially clever fellow, certainly not when it came to book learning, but he was no slow top either, and he knew a good thing when it fell into his lap.
Angelica Everdene was a good thing. She was the best thing he’d ever seen in all his life, and he wasn’t about to let her go without a fight.
But, if she was leery of him being a gentleman, he could only imagine what she would think if he admitted he was the Marquess of Hartwell.
How ironic. All these years he’d been running scared of matchmaking mamas and their daughters, intent on snagging him for his title, and the one woman he actually wanted to catch him would likely run a mile the moment she discovered it.
Ah, but life would have these little jokes at his expense.
He’d just have to figure a way around it, like making her fall so madly in love with him she wouldn’t be able to refuse his offer of marriage.
The local watchman was just leaving as Leo arrived. He surveyed Leo warily, taking in his rumpled appearance and what Leo suspected were some ripening bruises, before eyeing his trussed and bound passengers with a jaundiced expression.
“Who goes there?” he demanded, moving closer and raising his lantern to get a better look at them all.
“I’ve got a delivery for your gaol,” Hart told him, hoping the fellow would not plague him with too many questions.
“Sir?” the watchman said suspiciously, looking belligerent and very much like he wanted to go home and have his dinner. Well, it had been a long day for Hart too, and he was not in the mood to cajole the fellow into doing his duty. He glared at the man.
“Don’t just stand there, sir! I’ve had the very devil of a day, Mr—?” Hart began coldly, mimicking his father at his haughtiest, somewhere between the king and God.
“Mr Grittle,” the fellow said, swiping off his hat and standing somewhat taller. “My lord,” he added, reevaluating Hart as he took in his less than respectable appearance with uncertainty.
Hart reached into his pocket and took out a card.
“I’m Hartwell. The Marquess of Hartwell and these two felons attacked me and abducted a young boy who was in my charge.
I retrieved the boy, but they put up quite a fight as you may see.
” He gestured to his less than immaculate appearance, which spoke volumes.
“Goodness gracious,” the fellow said, staring at Mercy and Bill.
Hart congratulated himself on having silenced Mercy with the handkerchief, for he could only imagine what she might say, having overheard his real identity. Her eyes glittered with malice and rage of the sort that looked like it might burn her up from the inside out.
Hart turned back to Mr Grittle, having had his fill of the pair of them. “Take them into custody. I will make myself available to answer any questions tomorrow night, but for now, I am tired and dirty and require a rest.”
Mr Grittle, apparently somewhat overwhelmed by Hart’s illustrious title, went the way of many men of his ilk, and immediately began to genuflect.
“Of course, my lord. Quite understandable, and might I say how deeply I regret that these dreadful villains have subjected you to such indignities. I assure you, things like this do not happen often in our quiet town. I am only thankful that you are unharmed, my lord.”
Hart held his tongue, for in his experience any town in England could produce its fair share of villains if one knew where to look for them, and one so close to Penenden Heath must see its fair share of excitement, but he nodded his appreciation for the sentiment.
“One of their confederates is still at large, however,” he informed Mr Grittle.
“Another?” The watchman gazed at him in dismay.
Hart, who had run out of patience, hurried on.
“He goes by the name of Stan, a large fellow, over six feet tall, with sandy hair and a broken nose—” Hart decided he wouldn’t bother mentioning the fact that he’d broken it.
“He’s drinking in The Bull as we speak, waiting for someone, I believe.
The fellow is equally dangerous and was in on the attack.
He held the young lad at knifepoint, and ought to be taken up too. ”
Mr Grittle stood very tall and for a moment Hart wondered if he would salute him.
“You may put your confidence in me, my lord. I shall see the devil in chains before this very night is out. Now, if I might impose upon you to allow me the use of the cart, we’ll deliver these two to the gaolhouse, and I shall see to the rest.”
Hart nodded and gestured for him to climb up beside him. “You may. By the by, they may tell you some tarradiddle about pirate treasure. It’s all a hum, they sought to abduct me and hold me for ransom but only got the boy. I hope you’ll disregard any nonsense they spout to the contrary.”
“Pirate treasure indeed!” Mr Grittle chortled, most diverted by this explanation. “Well, well. I’ve heard a few tales in my time, but that’s a corker.”
“Indeed,” Hart said with a thin smile, and gave the pony leave to walk on.
Mr Grittle was as good as his word, and a mere twenty minutes later, Hart was driving back through the still busy town to the neat little inn where he had left his small party to rest and recover.
He strode into the taproom and ordered a pint of ale, which the landlord duly provided. Standing at the bar, Hart downed it with brisk efficiency.
“Thirsty, was you, sir?” asked the landlord, who clearly considered himself a wit.
“Aye. Give me another,” Hart said, before asking the fellow to show him to the parlour where his ‘sister and her companion’ awaited him.
They all looked up as he walked into the room, the evidence of their meal still littering the table.
“Well?” Angel exclaimed, surging to her feet. For a moment, it looked as if she would run to him, but she checked herself at the last moment, remaining behind the table.
Yes, he had his work cut out for him there, he thought ruefully.
“All sorted. Mercy and Bill are tucked up nice and snug in the gaolhouse and men have been sent to retrieve Stan and complete their convivial party. I’ve promised to return tomorrow to explain everything in detail, but for now, they ought to be out of the way.”
Angel let out a breath of relief. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, looking at him and then quickly away again. “I shall never be able to repay you, Mr Cleaver.”
Oh, and they were back to Mr Cleaver. It was worse than he’d realised. Hart considered making a jocular comment in reply to her question, but feared she might take it amiss, so he just shrugged. “You owe me nothing.”
Angel looked as if she might argue but sat down without a word. Hart turned his attention to Toby, who looked like he was falling asleep where he sat. “All right, young shaver. None the worse for your adventures?”
Toby shook his head. “I’m grand, sir. Right as ninepence,” he said, though he rather spoiled the effect by giving a prodigious yawn and rubbing his bleary eyes.
“That’s the spirit, lad,” Hart said.
He leaned over the table and picked up a knife, cutting himself a large slice of the cold meat pie that had been part of their meal.
Taking it in hand, he devoured it in several large bites before cutting another slice, aware of them all watching him.
Standing with the second, even larger slice in his hand, he regarded them with amusement.
“Well, then, are you ready to dig up that treasure, or do you all need a lie down in a dark room?”
“Oh, Leo!” Angel said, springing to her feet once more. “I was afraid you might want to wait—after—well, after everything.”
He laughed. “Are you quite mad? I’m champing at the bit to know just what it is your wicked grandfather has left you. Though I’m afraid Toby here might need a bit of rest after his ordeal.”
“Oh, no!” the boy exclaimed, appalled that he might miss out.