Anne Barbour (26 page)

“Wickedness is a relative term, don’t you agree? One does what is necessary.”

“But, this is treason! Surely, you would not…” But Clea had already turned back to Crawshay, and it was as though Tally had ceased to exist.

“You see,” continued Crawshay, “Mendoza feels it would be better if we take our little conspirator” — he nodded at Tally, “away with us, so there will be no chance of her raising an alarm. That is why I brought her to this room on the ground floor. As you will observe…” He moved to draw aside a curtain. “There is a door here, which leads directly outside to a side street, where I have a coach waiting.”

He glanced around expansively, as though expecting applause for the cleverness of his arrangements.

Suddenly cold, Tally glanced fearfully first at Clea, then at Miles. “What do you mean, take me away? Where are you going? And why must I go with you?”

Almost simultaneously, Clea spoke in a rasping, tone. “But I do not wish her to accompany us! Whoever heard of taking a chaperon on an elopement?”

“Elopement!” gasped Tally.

By now, a somewhat harassed expression had settled on Miles’s features. He moved to a nearby table, evidently a refugee from the school room, for it was covered with old slates and chalk. Brushing these aside, he set the documents down and lifted his hands in a placating gesture to both women.

“If I could have a moment, ladies.”

He turned to Tally. “It’s very simple, my dear—that is, Lady Talitha,” he hastily corrected himself at the sound of a hissing intake of breath from Clea. “Lady Bellewood and I have decided to elope to the Continent.”

Clea preened, while Tally simply gaped at the pair.

“You see,” he continued, an edge creeping into his voice, “it has become obvious that my, er, covert activities have come to the attention of the authorities. Now, with the appearance of your clever little sketch in that clever little book, I fear the connection between myself and my partner, a certain Senor Mendoza, has been discovered. Mendoza feels that our operation is now in such jeopardy that it must be discontinued.

“Meanwhile, the love of my life”—he indicated Clea with an ironic gesture—“has decided that England no longer holds any charm for her. It does, however, contain an increasingly vocal set of creditors. Thus, our decision to take up life abroad. In a few moments, we shall depart for Dover, where Mendoza will meet us aboard one of his boats. We shall then all three sail for Calais.”

Tally’s heart dropped to the toes of her silver slippers at these words. She assumed an expression of petulant dismay. “But what has all this got to do with me?” she whined.

“Yes, I think I’d like to hear about that, too,” Clea chimed in, her blue eyes blazing incongruously in their painted Oriental delineation.

“Mendoza feels that Lady Talitha is a threat; that she must not be allowed to go free until we are well away. I do apologize, my dear.” Crawshay bent a bland gaze on Tally. “The plan is to bring you along to our rendezvous point. We will leave you on the remote stretch of beach from which we shall embark.”

Tally listened to this recital in growing horror. The picture was growing more disastrous by the moment. Once more she tried to collect her whirling thoughts into a coherent strategy.

“Surely you don’t believe you can get away with this?” she gasped.

She was startled by the sound of Clea’s silvery laugh.

“But, of course we will. We are going to sail away on Carlos Mendoza’s lovely yacht, and when we get to Calais, we will be met by a coach and four.”

She turned to Miles and favored him with a winsome smile.

“And with the money we get for the documents, Miles is going to buy us a chateau, aren’t you, darling?”

Miles bowed. “Where we will live happily ever after, my princess, in a castle filled with servants and silk settees — and trinkets to replace the ones you were forced to sell.”

Tally stared, appalled. “How can you talk of castles and chateaux,” she cried. “You have both betrayed your country!”

There was an uncomfortable silence, as Clea’s gaze fell to her embroidered silk slippers, and Miles shrugged awkwardly. He straightened then, and scooped up the papers once more.

“We have wasted enough time,” he growled. He reached once again for Tally and drew from his waistcoat a small, silver pistol.

“My apologies once again, little Mouse, but you must see that at this point I can take no chances. Please be assured,” he continued with murderous softness, “that if you so much as open your enchanting little mouth before we reach the carriage, I shall not hesitate to use this.”

He gestured with the pistol and drew her toward the door leading to the outside. He ushered Clea outside and then turned to push Tally ahead of him.

Again, Tally knew a moment of panic. There seemed to be no hope now of alerting Jonathan or Richard or any of the agents who were lurking about in all the wrong places. Her mind raced in ever narrowing circles as she considered her options. There was to be no miracle; no Jonathan rushing to her rescue; no government agents bursting onto the scene. England was about to lose a critical phase in the war with Napoleon, and there seemed to be nothing she could do.

She peered into the gloom ahead of her, where Clea was making her way to the street. Crawshay’s fingers bit deep into the flesh of her arm.

Tally arranged her features in an expression of abject submission. She caught at his sleeve, causing some of the chalk pieces on the schoolroom table to fall to the floor.

“Please, Miles!” she sobbed. “I did everything you asked, and you know I wish only to keep my secret safe. I am not a threat to you. Please!”

She shuffled her feet in agitation, leaving a small pile of crumbled chalk where she stood. In a swift motion, she slipped her little pearl ring from her finger and dropped it to the floor, where it lay gleaming atop the soft white particles.

Miles chuckled. There, there, sweetheart. Despite your tribulations, you can take comfort in the knowledge that when you do return to London, your reputation as a proper young lady will be untarnished, for soon I shall be out of gossip range. No one will ever know of your scandalous artistic endeavors.”

He pushed her unceremoniously into the street. Ahead, Clea uttered a contemptuous sniff.

“We shall see about her reputation when she comes limping home tomorrow in a torn masquerade costume on the back of a drover’s cart. Not that there can be much left of her supposed virtue after weeks of traipsing through the back alleys of London, dressed in filthy rags, plying her disgraceful trade!”

Crawshay snickered again and bent to whisper moistly in Tally’s ear. “She has a point, love; perhaps you should come to Calais with us. A
ménage a trois
might have its possibilities, don’t you think?”

Instantly, Clea was upon them. She whirled on Crawshay and caught his sleeve in fingers that curled like rakes. “Leave her alone, Miles!” she screeched. “I have not bartered my soul and endangered my neck to share you with this scrawny little drab!”

Crawshay smiled insultingly.

“It rankles, does it, pet? The possibility of having two men stolen out from under your lovely nose in the space of a fortnight by the same little charmer? No, no, my dear.” He waved the packet of documents admonishingly. “You have treated us to enough of your temper for one evening.”

Clea stood for a moment in wordless fury before turning abruptly.

Crawshay’s lips curved in a thin smile as, still with those appallingly critical papers tucked casually under his arm, he brushed Tally’s cheek with the barrel of the pistol and drew her through the door.

The carriage stood waiting in the lamplight, and the coachman had already taken his place, with reins in hand. With a murmured word of instruction to make haste, Miles bundled Tally inside the coach. In the next instant, the vehicle sprang into motion, and with a clatter of harness and a snap of the whip, they were underway.

Upstairs, Jonathan prowled the dance floor in growing uneasiness. It had been a good five minutes since he had seen Tally, and now he searched in vain for her gauzes and shining filet. His glance flicked across the room to a dark, glistening figure, deep in conversation with a sprightly Columbine.

A moment later, he spied Richard entering the ballroom from an ornate doorway that led to the upper corridors of the house. In answer to his signal, Richard approached quickly.

“What is it?” he asked anxiously. “Where’s Tally?”

“That’s exactly what I was going to ask you. She danced off with some fellow in a green domino, and I lost sight of her. Now, I can’t find her.”

“Is Crawshay…?”

“He’s still here. He’s over there flitting about like a diamond-studded bat, so there’s—” Jonathan stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute!”

He strode across the floor, a puzzled Richard in his wake. Upon reaching the gentleman in the spangled cloak, Jonathan spun him around, causing the man’s hood to fall to his shoulders. He stood thus revealed as a dark-haired stranger.

Gripping his arm, Jonathan wrenched the man into one of the many alcoves lining the ballroom. “Where is Crawshay?” he growled.

The make-believe wizard studied the pair with a carefully blank expression. “Who?” he inquired politely.

“Miles Crawshay,” repeated Jonathan, his stance acquiring a menacing aspect. Tell me where he is, you bastard, or....”

The imposter yawned and studied his fingertips. “Don’t know any Miles Crawshay, and I — aagh!”

This last came as Jonathan grappled the stranger around the neck and twisted his arm.

It would give me a great deal of pleasure to break your neck,” panted Jonathan softly.

“I think I’d take him seriously if I were you,” added Richard meditatively. “Fellow has a deuce of temper. Better tell him what he wants to know.”

One more upward thrust on his arm convinced the imposter of the benefits of cooperation.

“I d-don’t know anything,” he choked. “I’ve done odd jobs for Crawshay before—nothing anyone could take exception to, of course—and this time I was told just to weasel into the house, meet up with Crawshay at eleven-thirty, and exchange my green domino for his mask and cloak and hood.”

“But what’s he up to?” grated Jonathan, increasing the pressure on the man’s arm.

As Crawshay’s confederate increased the volume of his protest, Richard laid an admonishing hand on Jonathan’s arm.

“Leave be, Chelmsford. He can tell us nothing more, and we’re wasting time.

At this, Jonathan released the man’s arm with a suddenness that caused that gentleman to lose his balance. They left him sprawled on the floor of the little alcove, gasping and massaging the offended appendage.

“I last saw Tally over there,” said Jonathan urgently. “Over there by that door. She and—oh, God, if I’d only known–-she and Crawshay were dancing, and as I watched, another couple moved into my line of sight. When I looked again, they were both gone.”

They had by now reached the door pointed out by Jonathan. Opening it, they found nothing beyond but darkness. Wrenching a candle from a nearby wall sconce, Jonathan led the way into the corridor.

“Look!” he gasped, pointing.

There, on the floor, lay a mask, made all of silver satin and encrusted with brilliants.

There must have been a struggle,” said Richard quietly.

Jonathan did not respond, but picked up the mask and simply stared at it, as though it might speak.

“But, why?” continued Richard. “Why would Crawshay go to all this trouble to abduct Tally from the dance floor, when he was due to meet her in half an hour?”

“Because,” whispered Jonathan through stiff lips, “he possesses a great deal more cunning than any of us gave him any credit for. Come.” He darted down the corridor. Pray God we’re not too late. If he’s taken her away…”

Richard started and plunged after him. “Wait! Chelmsford, wait! There’s something I must tell you. Something you must know!”

Chapter Twenty-two

For several minutes after the coach lurched into action, Tally remained motionless, crouched in the corner where she had been flung by Miles. She could not seem to think beyond the cloud of despair that surrounded her. She had failed in preventing Miles from leaving Crewell House with the papers, and now he was on his way to the Continent with them.

Her glance flicked to Clea, sitting motionless, her eyes closed and her head resting against the squabs of the carriage. She looked as perfect as a marble sculpture, and, thought Tally, she was surely as coldhearted. There would be no help from that quarter.

The speed at which the carriage raced through the darkened streets did not make for a comfortable ride, and Tally’s head throbbed with the beginning of a motion-induced headache. To divert her mind, she thought back to the little ring she had left on the pile of chalk rubble and smiled bitterly. What had made her think that anyone seeing it—assuming anyone was liable to find it at all—would be reminded of the chalk cliffs of Dover? She shrugged her shoulders wearily. It had been an idea born of desperation, and was no doubt, as most such inspirations must be, doomed to failure.

The coach, having clattered across London Bridge, was already passing through the outskirts of Southwark. In a few minutes more, they had reached open country. Their speed increased, and Tally watched dismally as moon-silvered fields flashed past her view from the window.

She turned her head and cast a surreptitious glance at Crawshay. He had apparently fallen into a light doze, his head rocking to the motion of the speeding coach. In his lap lay the packet of papers, and the silver pistol drooped from his fingers.

Hope surged in Tally’s breast, and she lifted her hand toward the little pistol. Crawshay did not turn his head, but his grip on the gun tightened, and his voice sounded in a lazy chuckle. “Not a good idea, Mouse. As I told you before, you will have to content yourself with the thought that soon you will be returning to your home in London, your anonymity intact.”

Clea suddenly jerked to life, and she uttered a burst of high, shrill laughter. “I think not, my lady!”