Chapter 9
Clara all but leapt down the stairs. She hit the ground floor and ran to the parlor. This time, Desmond didn’t bother to disguise the sound of his footsteps, nor did Gideon, and from somewhere in the house, Liam emerged, big hands already readying to swing.
All four of them reached the parlor, just in time to see Cyrus looming over Edward Ballantine, who lay sprawled on the ground.
Mary Ballantine crouched beside her husband, glaring up at the highwayman.
Cyrus’s hands were balled into fists, and he glowered at the older couple, his fair cheeks stained with outrage.
“What happened?” Clara rushed in to help Mr. Ballantine sit up.
Everyone began yelling at the same time, their voices mingling together raucously.
“This aristo told me to fetch his fucking tea,” Cyrus growled.
“I’ve never met a more impertinent footman,” Mr. Ballantine barked. He eyed the pistols in Cyrus’s baldric. “Or one so well-armed.”
“The most appalling language and manners,” his wife cried. “Pushing Edward down like a common ruffian.” She rounded on Clara. “What kind of household are you running here? Arthur would never have approved of this…this…anarchy.”
“I’m not a sodding footman,” Cyrus snarled. “We’re not goddamn servants.”
“Then who are you?” Leaning heavily on Clara and Mrs. Ballantine, Mr. Ballantine lurched to his feet. He glared at the other men, taking time to look Gideon up and down.
Gideon cocked a defiant eyebrow.
“Who are any of you?” Mr. Ballantine barked.
Clara spoke before anyone else could. “They’re here to hunt highwaymen.”
Mrs. Ballantine’s eyes widened. “Highwaymen?”
“A gang of them have been spotted in the area,” Clara went on. Once she’d seated Mr. Ballantine on a chair, she went on, “I’m actually quite relieved they didn’t set upon your carriage on your way here. They’ve held up two private coaches in the past week.”
“Gracious.” Mrs. Ballantine paled.
“What on earth is this world coming to,” Mr. Ballantine raged, “that we should fear traveling through Gloucestershire?”
“These gentlemen,” Clara continued, gesturing in turn to Desmond, Gideon, Liam, and Cyrus, “have been tasked with apprehending the gang to ensure travelers’ safety.”
Wearing matching expressions of shock, the Ballantines turned their attention to the four men. Desmond looked back at them with an air of authority. Gideon did the same, while Liam appeared slightly mortified. Cyrus continued to glower.
Mrs. Ballantine’s brows rose. “They don’t look like the law. A rather unruly lot.”
“We have different tactics than most members of the law.” Gideon gestured to the pistols tucked into Cyrus’s baldric, and the knife in his own belt. “So, it stands to reason that our appearance reflects our unusual methodology.”
“Indeed, so it does,” Mr. Ballantine said with a commanding air. He narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing at this house?”
Again, before Desmond or anyone else could speak, Clara said, “My home is serving as their base of operations.”
“Here?” Mrs. Ballantine looked around, as if assessing the viability of using a manor house to function as headquarters for a group of thief-hunting men.
“We have enough beds for them,” Clara explained. “And the stables can accommodate their horses.”
Gideon said, “Mrs. Ballantine, that is, this Mrs. Ballantine,” glancing at Clara, “is an excellent hostess, and has ensured that my men and I have everything we need to track down the villains terrorizing the area. She’s doing her community and the law a tremendous service.”
Mrs. Ballantine shot a glance at Clara, who fought to keep her shoulders back beneath that dubious look. “That comes as rather a surprise.”
“It shouldn’t,” Desmond said flatly. “Before we arrived, the highwaymen attempted to commandeer her home for themselves, and Mrs. Ballantine admirably defended herself against them. Chased them off with a hunting musket.”
Clara did her best not to stare. What Desmond suggested was, after all, preposterous. No one, least of all her in-laws, would ever believe that she could be capable of such daring.
A fact which was exceptionally plain by the skeptical expressions on the Ballantines’ faces.
Yet when they turned their patent disbelief toward her, she only tipped up her chin in response.
Perhaps she hadn’t chased off a gang of highwaymen, but she had been holding her own against them, even facing down their rather terrifying leader and taking charge of an injured thief’s health.
The way she’d directed Desmond, without hesitation, and remained in some degree of control over her own fear…
she could take a measure of pride in that.
Several moments passed, and then Mrs. Ballantine nodded, albeit warily. “Very well. I suppose we ought to feel safer during our stay here, knowing that these, ah, gentlemen are staying under the same roof. Though they will have to mind their conduct. Shoving is absolutely forbidden.”
“You cannot stay here,” Clara said at once.
“Whyever not?” Mr. Ballantine demanded. “We came a long way, gel.”
Mortification burned Clara. Having her in-laws speak to her so disrespectfully was never an easy burden to bear, but now Desmond, Gideon, and even Liam and Cyrus witnessed her humiliation.
It shouldn’t matter what a gang of highwaymen thought of her, or if they believed her a milquetoast who could be effortlessly trod upon. Yet…
Since last night, she’d faced down five highwaymen. Met them head on. And that Clara, and the one she’d been with her in-laws…weren’t the same person.
She saw herself through the highwaymen’s eyes.
Saw who she was, who she had become. She’d once tended patients with her father fearlessly, never turning squeamish, keeping a steady head during some of the grisliest treatments, including setting compound fractures and assisting in surgeries.
Even now she provided the same medical care for the villagers.
She ran this house entirely on her own, and answered to no one but herself.
Clara had mutely accepted the humiliation that her late husband’s parents inflicted upon her. Damn it if that didn’t send acidic fury pouring through her body and cast a film of fire over her vision.
“I am a widow, sir, and no gel.” The words jumped from Clara before she could stop them.
Mr. Ballantine scowled. “That hardly signifies. What matters is that we have journeyed a goodly distance, and it is our right to stay beneath our son’s roof.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Clara said, more firmly, “but Arthur left the house to me. The roof, and everything beneath it, belongs to myself alone.”
Her in-laws gaped at her.
Desmond gave her a small nod.
“All the bedchambers in the house are accounted for,” she went on.
“Every one of them?” demanded Mrs. Ballantine.
“Every last one,” Clara said. “There is nowhere for you to sleep.”
“I count four men here,” Mr. Ballantine noted. “There are seven bedchambers.”
“One of the rooms is occupied by an injured man,” Clara said.
“That leaves two bedchambers,” Mrs. Ballantine clipped.
“One is mine,” Clara continued. “And I need not account for every room in this house. If I say you cannot sleep here, you shall not do so.”
Both Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine stared at her.
“Of course,” Clara went on, “if you are determined to remain in the area, you are welcome to take rooms at the Pear Tree.”
“That tumbledown inn in the village?” Mrs. Ballantine looked horrified.
“It is a pity if it doesn’t meet your standards, but it’s the best I can do.” Clara walked to the door of the parlor. “There’s always Cheltenham for finer accommodations. The spas are quite exceptional there.”
“That’s twenty miles away!” Mr. Ballantine exclaimed.
“Your carriage is still outside, along with your luggage. I believe that if you leave now, you could reach Cheltenham in time for the evening musicales. The highwaymen usually only strike at night, so you ought to make haste to depart.”
Her in-laws continued to stare at her, and she stared back. Mrs. Ballantine opened her mouth, closed it, opened it once more, and closed it again.
Finally, Mrs. Ballantine got to her feet. Her husband heaved himself to standing.
“Very well,” her mother-in-law said tightly. “We shall proceed onward, to Cheltenham. Taking some restorative waters should set me to rights after this appalling voyage.”
Clara didn’t allow herself an exhalation of relief. She folded her hands at her waist and gave a nod.
“But before we go,” Mr. Ballantine muttered, “we would like the pair of silver epergnes.”
“As you don’t entertain,” his wife added loftily, “you have no need for them. We host dinner guests often and lavishly in London, as befitting our position in society, and so, we shall take the French epergnes that are currently residing in the dining room.”
Clara’s feet began to move of their own accord, heading toward the dining room, but she forcibly stopped them. “No.”
“Our footman has a special crate that we have brought along—” Mr. Ballantine stopped abruptly. “No?”
“No,” Clara answered with greater force. “You have taken a considerable number of things from this house, but you won’t take the epergnes.”
“Who sees them?” Mrs. Ballantine demanded. “Who makes use of them? No one.”
“I see them. They belong to me, and I will keep them here. In my house.”
“But…but…” The idea that Clara could refuse them, when she never had in the past, clearly hadn’t occurred to Mr. Ballantine. Or his wife.
They looked dumbfounded.
“Have a pleasant journey,” Clara said brightly, gesturing toward the front door.
As if stupefied by this unusual turn of events, the Ballantines walked together out of the parlor and down the corridor towards the front door. Clara trailed after them, much the way one might escort a wayward insect outside.
Their carriage was indeed still out front. The footman had their trunk down, but had yet to take it into the house.
“Get that back on the carriage,” Mr. Ballantine bit. He snapped his fingers at the coachman. “Don’t stop until we reach Cheltenham.”
“Yes, sir,” the mystified coachman answered.
“Help us in, damn you!” Mr. Ballantine growled.
There was much harumphing and to-doing as the Ballantines clambered back into their vehicle, assisted by their footman. With supremely sour faces, they glared out the window while their luggage was then secured.
“This was most ungracious of you, Clara,” Mr. Ballantine said tartly. “Most ungracious, indeed. Arthur would have been exceptionally displeased. And mortified.”
“As he is dead, sir, he cannot feel anything.”
Mr. Ballantine glowered at her.
“We shall not be calling upon you in the near future,” Mrs. Ballantine snapped.
“I hope you don’t run afoul of the highwaymen,” Clara answered. Then, before her in-laws could voice their concerns, called up to the coachman, “Drive on.”
The coachman snapped the ribbons, and the carriage lurched into motion. It jounced slightly on the untended path but continued to roll away. Clara waited until the vehicle disappeared at the end of the drive before turning back to her house.
Yet she couldn’t go inside just yet. Instead, heart pounding, breath coming quickly, she veered around the manor. The air was fresh in her lungs and brushed coolly against her flushed cheeks. She heard every bird in every tree, saw every leaf on every branch.
She took the side path that led to the glasshouse. Her sanctuary was ahead. She would pick something from one of the fruit trees, and savor it as a celebratory meal in the wake of banishing the Ballantines.
Pulling open the door, she stepped into the close damp warmth.
Desmond followed right behind her. He closed the door after them.