Chapter 18 #2
Elise’s pulse quickened as they walked. She lifted the small latch hidden behind the shelves and swung the panel aside. Cold air breathed out from the darkness, smelling of damp stone and time.
Mr. Leigh took the lantern, shielding it with his coat. “Ready?”
Elise did not hesitate. She stepped down into the narrow passage, gathering her skirts about her, her shoulders brushing the old stone.
Mr. Leigh followed close behind, closely enough that she could hear his breathing, as ever steady and controlled.
The darkness pressed in around them, and Elise felt the old, peculiar sensation of walking through something secret and alive.
“You said you would not let me go into it blindly,” she whispered.
“I will not,” he replied, his voice low and comforting. “I follow,” he said, “because I would rather be lost with you than safe without you.”
The words landed upon her without warning, and Elise nearly stumbled. She caught herself with a gloved hand against the wall, her heart thumping.
Mr. Leigh’s hand rested on her elbow and the comfort in the small gesture made her breath catch.
“Careful,” he murmured.
Elise forced herself to keep moving, because if she stopped she might turn and look at him and see something in his eyes that would be more dangerous than the threat Holt posed.
The tunnel twisted, dipped and then widened slightly. At last, a faint grey seeped through cracks in the concealed exit. Mr. Leigh extinguished the lantern with a deft twist. “No light now,” he said. “We do not announce ourselves.”
Elise nodded, her pulse now hammering. She bent down and pushed the small grate that concealed the tunnel outward and squeezed herself through into the chill morning.
They emerged into a tangle of scrub and low trees not far from the wharf, where the sound of ropes creaking and waves slapping against wood carried clearly on the damp air.
The sky was pale and heavy, clouds moving slowly like weary ships.
Winter lingered in every breath. How had she never known this was here? It was hidden in plain sight.
Mr. Leigh scanned the area. Elise followed his gaze and saw—only if she looked hard—the faintest motion in shadowed nooks: men positioned where fishermen would not stand, too still and too watchful. They were near enough to protect, yet far enough away to remain unseen.
His assurance had not been empty.
Elise felt a mixture of gratitude and dread. Whoever these men were, they had come because of what had begun long ago—because of Charles, because of Singleton, and because of that cursed ledger that had refused to stay buried.
“We wait now,” Mr. Leigh murmured.
Elise drew her cloak close, taking a position with her confidant where they could see the approach to the hut and the stretch of wharf beyond.
She kept her face turned slightly down, as if she were merely a woman up early to fetch provisions rather than a woman who had placed herself deliberately in the path of a predator.
Minutes crawled by. The village began to stir. A fisherman crossed the lane with a net over his shoulder. A boy ran past with a bucket, yawning. A gull screamed overhead. Then Elise saw him.
Holt walked as if he owned not only the wharf but the air above it. He wore a heavy coat with a hat pulled low, and he moved with that lazy confidence of a man who believed himself untouchable. Two men lingered at a distance—watchers, not companions.
Holt stopped near the hut, surveying the area as if testing whether the world had arranged itself properly for his convenience.
Elise forced her feet to move.
Mr. Leigh’s voice came low at her shoulder. “Remember,” he murmured, “remain calm. You give him nothing of your fear. Try to keep him outside, but there is someone inside to help you if you cannot prevent it.”
Elise did not look at him.
His breath warmed the air near her ear. “I will be right behind you.”
Elise stepped into view.
Holt’s gaze snapped to her at once, and his mouth curved in satisfaction. “There you are,” he called softly, as if greeting a friend rather than a victim. “Mrs. Larkin.” He bowed.
Elise stopped at a measured distance. “You threatened my house,” she said, her voice carrying across the damp boards. “If you hoped to inspire friendliness, you chose a poor method.”
Holt laughed. “No. I want only one thing.”
“I do not have it,” Elise replied.
His eyes gleamed. “And yet you came.”
Indeed she had—because she had no choice; because Charles had taught her that sometimes the only way out was through sailing onward. Elise kept her face composed. “I came to tell you to stop threatening me.”
Holt’s gaze flicked behind her, clearly searching. “You have come alone?”
“As you wished,” Elise said, and hated the lie even as she spoke it.
Holt stepped nearer, his boots thudding on the stone. He smelled of damp wool and stale spirits. “Then where is it?”
Elise lifted her chin. “You have killed the one person who knew it.”
“I do not believe you. Larkin was too proud of his work not to have left a record of it,” he argued.
“No,” Elise said evenly. “If I had had it, you would not have had to threaten me. You would already have taken it during your search.”
Holt scowled. “Do not be clever with me.”
“It is all I have left,” Elise replied.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You have the key. You have always had the key. Your husband trusted you—poor fool. He thought he could keep you safe by teaching you what he knew.”
Elise felt the old rage rise, swift and hot. She barely managed not to growl. “My husband is dead, because of you and your comrades.”
“Aye,” Holt said with a smile that made Elise’s stomach turn, “and I enjoyed watching his ship sink.”
Her breath caught. She forced herself not to show it. “Then you are proud of murder.”
“Larkin was an arrogant fool,” Holt corrected lazily. “No matter, I know enough.” He patted his coat pocket with a kind of intimate satisfaction. “This is worth more than you can imagine, Widow. Names, routes, payments—little truths that will make great men tremble.”
Once again, Elise’s pulse hammered. The ledger—so close; so real.
“And yet incomplete,” she said, pitching her voice louder, as Mr. Leigh had instructed—louder so that those hidden would hear.
Holt’s gaze narrowed. “You know more than you admit.”
Elise lifted her hands slightly, palms outward—an empty gesture that still conveyed intent. “Forget me and my school.”
Holt’s smile taunted. “Why should I?” His eyes flicked again—to her left, to her right—as if he sensed the shape of something unseen. Then he moved—fast and cruelly decisive.
He lunged toward Elise, his hand shooting out to seize her arm, to drag her back against him, to use her exactly as he had planned: as a shield and hostage.
Elise reacted on instinct—she twisted, trying to wrench free, but Holt’s grip was iron.
The world shrunk to pain in her arm and the harsh press of his coat against her shoulder.
Then her gaze caught on Mr. Leigh in the shadows.
Mr. Leigh had not meant to step into view. Elise saw it in the minute straightening of his posture, the quick calculation in his eyes. However, the moment Holt recognized him, concealment ceased to matter.
“Well,” he drawled, his voice carrying like oil over water, “ain’t this charming?” Holt spoke slow and ugly.
Elise’s blood ran cold. She turned her head slightly, just enough to see Mr. Leigh step closer with controlled ease.
Holt’s eyes glittered. “Keeping it all in the family, are we?”
Mr. Leigh’s face went still—too still.
Holt tilted his head. “One brother sells arms to enemies… and the other tries to tidy up the mess. One brother sinks Captain Larkin’s ship… and the other escorts his widow like a gallant saint.” He gave a soft laugh. “Tell me… Cholmely… does it ease your conscience, or only harden it?”
Elise’s mind stumbled over the words: brother; one brother; the other—could that be Singleton?
The name struck her thoughts like a bell. Singleton, whose treason had shadowed Charles’s last months; Singleton, who had been hunted; Singleton, who had died.
Mr. Leigh—had been at school with him. He had said it. She had heard it and put it away as a detail. Elise stared at Mr. Leigh, shock flaring so brightly it nearly blinded her.
The moment, however, did not allow comprehension. Danger did not pause for revelations. Mr. Leigh’s voice was low, controlled. “Let her go, Holt.”
Holt’s grin widened. “Let her go? I ain’t even taken her yet.”
Then Mr. Leigh moved. It was not the movement of a man in a drawing room. It was not even the movement of a soldier marching. It was the movement of violence, precise and practised.
He struck Holt’s wrist with a sharp blow that made Holt’s fingers loosen. Elise tore herself free, stumbling back as Holt snarled in response.
For one moment Elise saw Mr. Leigh’s face—no softness, no humour, only a cold concentration that made him look like a man carved for battle.
Holt swung his other arm as if to grab her again, but Mr. Leigh stepped forward to meet him, blocking her with his own body.
A shout rang out—another voice, commanding—and suddenly the shadows around the wharf erupted into motion. Men came from behind barrels, from behind the corner of the hut, from the lee of a fishing boat. They moved with purpose, not panic. They surrounded Holt as water surrounds a sinking thing.
Holt’s eyes widened with fury. “Ambush!” he roared.
Mr. Leigh’s voice remained low. “Surrender.”
Holt laughed wildly. “To whom? To you, the traitor’s brother?” His gaze flicked past Mr. Leigh to Elise. “Do you know who he is, Widow? Did you invite him into your house? Into your bed of secrets?”
Elise flinched, not because of shame—she had nothing to be ashamed of—but because the words struck at the precise place her mind could not afford to examine.
“Enough.” Mr. Leigh growled.