Chapter 17 #2
A figure shifted near the hedge; Manners straightened from where he had been crouched, peering through a gap toward the black outline of Belair House.
Even here he managed to look as if he had dressed himself for a drawing-room, though the hem of his cloak had mud on it and his boots were plainly not meant for such work.
Manners’s gaze flicked toward the school’s dark silhouette on the cliff. “The widow is inside?”
“Yes,” Edmund replied. “With Cook and a servant girl. Blake, the injured man, is hidden.”
At the name, Renforth’s eyes narrowed in a manner so slight that an ordinary man would have missed it. Edmund had served him for too long not to see every change.
“Blake,” Renforth repeated. It was not a question; it was a note pinned in the mind.
“I sent an enquiry,” Edmund said. “I am awaiting your answer.”
“You shall have it,” Renforth said quietly. “In the meantime—” His gaze did not soften. “Tell us where the tunnel is.”
“I have not seen inside beyond the opening, but there were fresh prints on the other side of the door. I did not think it wise to explore with Mrs. Larkin,”
“Tunnels are my especiality.” Baines’ Spanish accent was light, but his eyes were not.
Fielding added in a dry tone, “You are welcome to it.”
Renforth’s mouth did not change, but Edmund knew the Colonel’s humour; it lurked like steel beneath velvet. “We will find this tunnel and explore from the outside in,” Renforth said calmly. “I suspect it empties into a cave. We may have need of it tomorrow.”
“We had already planned to approach the rendezvous from the tunnel,” Edmund said.
“Holt will watch the house, in case she decides to run away,” Fielding said in a tone of agreement.
“The tunnel appeared sealed, so hopefully they will assume she knows nothing of it.”
“And if he sees strange men about the headland,” Baines added with relish, “he will bolt like a rabbit.”
A deeper shadow detached itself from the slope above them. Stuart emerged, his quiet, practical air instantly familiar. He had been keeping watch nearer the house.
“He may bolt anyway,” Stuart said, gaze on Edmund.
Renforth turned to Edmund again. “You have already set the meeting at the fishing hut?”
“Yes,” Edmund said. “Tomorrow, at dusk. The note implies that Mrs. Larkin must retrieve the key from elsewhere, but having done so, she will then meet him.”
A stillness fell—one of those pauses in which, Edmund thought, men measured not merely the plan, but the cost of it.
Manners exhaled slowly. “Of course.”
Fielding looked toward the cliff, and his voice turned colder. “You are using her as bait?”
“No,” Edmund snapped, more harshly than he intended. He felt the heat of it rise—anger, yes, but also the more inconvenient thing behind anger: care. “We are using her message. There is a distinction.”
Baines gave a low whistle. “Ah. Chum is tender.”
Edmund glared at him. “Hold your tongue.”
Baines’s grin widened and he made as if to do so literally.
Renforth lifted a hand, and the strain shifted at once—his authority settling upon them like a lid on a cooking pot. It was not a rebuke, it was a reminder: this was not a parlour where gentlemen might spar for entertainment. This was work.
“Edmund,” Renforth said quietly, “we need clarity.”
Edmund forced himself to breathe, to uncoil his gloved hands.
“Holt has already attacked Blake. He or his men ransacked the school earlier,” he said, glad his voice was more controlled now.
“He threatened to burn the school and left a warning for Mrs. Larkin to leave the cipher for him at the gate by midnight. He will not come to the gate at midnight if he receives the note—he will go to the fishing hut tomorrow, believing she will be there. We can take him then, away from the women.”
“What of the ledger?” Stuart asked, because Stuart was always the one to pin the heart of a matter to the table.
Even to his own ears, Edmund’s voice went hard. “I assume he keeps it on his person.”
“Then we cannot let him run,” Fielding remarked the obvious.
“We will not,” Renforth agreed. “We will allow him to believe himself secure.”
Baines’s disappointment was nearly audible. “I dislike plans that involve patience.”
“You dislike plans that involve anything other than brute force,” Fielding returned, and the faintest edge of amusement cut through the cold.
Edmund’s attention returned, rather inevitably he felt, to the part of the plan that made his stomach knot.
“I object to involving Mrs. Larkin,” he said, plainly, because it was no use dressing it in politeness.
“She is not one of us, she did not swear our oaths. She did not choose this. She should not be made to stand before a man like Holt.”
Manners’s eyes softened a fraction—despite the slightness, it was almost startling in its rarity. “Chum,” he said quietly, “none of us choose all of it either.”
“That is not the same,” Edmund bit out defensively.
Renforth’s voice remained calm. “It is not—and it is precisely why we must ensure this matter ends here.”
Stuart stepped nearer, his tone gentler—not indulgent, but firm in the way of a man who had lost enough to speak without theatrics.
“If Holt believes she will deliver, he will come close. If we try to apprehend him before he sees her, we may lose him—and the ledger. He will throw it into the sea, or hand it to another man.”
Baines grunted. “Or burn it.”
“Or worse,” Fielding added, “he will vanish and continue bleeding information until the Crown begins cutting throats to stop the scandal. We cannot permit that.”
Edmund curled his hands into fists behind him. He heard himself say it, though he knew it was foolish, “Then apprehend him tonight—take him in the village. We have enough men.”
Renforth’s gaze did not waver. “And if the ledger is not on him tonight? He could have hidden it. He may think to arrange a second meeting elsewhere as insurance.”
Edmund could not answer, because every possibility Renforth named was not imagination but experience. Holt was the sort of man who survived by never wagering everything on one hand.
Manners spoke thoughtfully. “I suspect the ledger never leaves his body—and men like him sleep with one eye open.”
Stuart’s brows drew together. “Then tomorrow is our best chance.”
Renforth inclined his head. “Yes.”
Edmund forced himself to follow the reasoning, as if reason alone could soothe the anger he felt on Elise’s behalf. “If we take him at the boat-house,” he said slowly, “we must prevent him using her as cover.”
Baines’s grin returned. “Then we do not let him touch her.”
Fielding’s voice sharpened. “We position men inside the boat-house before he arrives.”
“Sir, the term hut would be more fitting.”
Manners lifted a hand. “Behind the door then?”
Renforth nodded once. “We place two men where they can seize his arms the moment he reaches for her, another to search him and a fourth to secure the watchers.”
“There are at least two others,” Edmund confirmed.
Stuart added, “There should be one to watch the water. If he throws it, we might lose it.”
Baines made a sound of disgust. “If he throws it, I will throw him after it.”
Edmund listened, his mind moving over the plan as it took shape: the placement, the timing, the need for Holt to feel unthreatened. It was not the first time someone he cared for had been the centre of their operations. He felt himself sicken inside.
Renforth stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Edmund could hear. “You have become attached.” It was a statement.
Edmund shook his head. “Not in the way you think, but neither do I want her to share Singleton’s fate.”
Renforth’s eyes held his. “You are no longer indifferent, however.”
“She is in danger,” Edmund defended.
“She is,” Renforth agreed quietly, “and that is why we end this tomorrow. With speed and discipline. With every advantage we can take.”
Fielding glanced toward the cliff. “Has anyone come to the gate?”
“Not yet,” Baines said. “We have been watching. No midnight visitor, no torch; no foolishness.”
“Then Holt has received the note,” Renforth said, “or he is waiting to strike in a different way.”
Edmund stared at the dark outline of Belair House.
He pictured Elise inside, perhaps sitting rigidly at a Blake’s side, listening to every creak of the rafters as if it might be a boot-step.
He knew, with a bitterness that tasted of regret, that he had given her this plan because it was the only plan that kept the girls safe—and because he could not bear to watch her be threatened again without acting.
Renforth spoke again, his voice quiet and decisive. “You will return to the house.”
Edmund turned briskly. “Now?”
“Yes,” Renforth said. “You will reassure her. You will tell her only what she must know: that she will not be alone tomorrow.”
Edmund drew a slow breath. “And if she insists on knowing more?”
Renforth’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “Then you will tell her what you can to ensure her cooperation without betraying the Crown’s secrets.”
Manners murmured, “She knows many herself.”
Renforth cast him a look of exasperation. “Go.”
Edmund did not hesitate again. He moved away through the gap in the hedge and down the lane, keeping to the shadows—carrying not only a plan in his head, but the uncomfortable truth which settled deeper with every step:
He had come to Plymouth to find the ledger and observe a widow, but now he would do anything to protect her.