Barbara Metzger (7 page)

Oh, doesn’t it? he wondered, pondering the ache in his loins to think of the dark-haired beauty not two feet away from him and two lifetimes apart. “You go first.”

“I suppose I should wish for an end to the war and peace for everyone.”

“No, no. That’s being too good. Take it as a given and wish for something personal. After all, it’s your one and only Christmas wish, practically in a manger. It’s bound to come true, little bird.” He reached over and found her hand.

“Do you know what I wish, then? I wish for a place of my very own, where I am wanted and welcome and no one can send me away or make me ashamed to be there.”

He squeezed her hand, there in the dark. “I think . . . Yes, I think I wish for fewer people dependent on me, fewer responsibilities, and not having to listen to them tell me what’s right for me. Then I mightn’t feel so inclined to do the opposite.”

They were quiet for a moment, lost in their own thoughts. Then Juneclaire started to hum a Christmas carol, and Merry joined in. They went through all the old songs they knew, English and French. His fine baritone held the tune better than her uncertain soprano, but she knew more of the words. They might have done better the other way around, but the horses and the pig did not complain.

Despite Juneclaire’s determination to stay awake, her eyelids were too heavy to hold open when they ran out of songs. She had put in two long, hard days, even for a country girl used to physical exertion and fresh air. They drifted into sleep nestled in the straw, their hands entwined, the pig between them.

V
oices! It was true! Animals really could—a hand was clapped over Juneclaire’s mouth before she could sit up and exclaim over the wonder of it all. The lantern was lighted, so she could see Merry’s face inches from her own, scowling at her. He shook his head no. She nodded and he took his hand away but stayed so close, Juneclaire could feel his breath on her cheek. There were miracles and then there were—

“I tell you, Charlie, old man Blaine will have our hides for using his horses.”

“Shut up, boy. Who’s to tell him? He’ll come back tomorrow an’ be none the wiser if you bed ’em down proper. Left you in charge, didn’t he? ’Sides, it wouldn’t do to take my own cob out, now would it? I swan, you got less brains’n a duck, Ned Corbett. Riddles is back in the livery over to Bramley for all the world and his brother to see. For aught anyone knows I’m tucked up tight, and you been here watching the Blaine place all day and night just like you ought to be.”

“That last carriage was too close to here, Charlie. Magistrate’ll be here in the morning asking questions.”

“Not on Christmas Day, he won’t. Lord Cantwell likes his stuffed goose too well. And if he does, you didn’t hear nothing anyway. ’Sides, that last coach was a bonus, you might say, for a good day’s work. Who’d expect some widder lady to wear all her diamonds to midnight service? Finish up with them horses, boy. I want to divide up the take and be gone.”

“I still don’t like it. I wish you hadn’t gone and hit that groom this morning. He dies and we could hang, Charlie.”

“Stop worritin’ at it, Ned. We could already hang for highway robbery, boy. What do you think, they hang you twice?”

“And you never said nothing about pulling a gun on no swell.”

“What did you expect, boy? His nibs was going to hand over the blunt if we asked him pretty please? You’re acting like a bloody schoolmarm.”

“I never wanted to go anyways, Charlie. My ma finds out, she’ll die.”

“You’re forgetting why you agreed to help me in the first place. You needed money for medicine, ’member, else she’ll die. Sounds like she’s going to cock up her toes anyway. May as well go in style.”

“You leave my ma out of this, you makebate! She always said you’d end on the gallows, and she was right.”

Juneclaire could hear the sound of a scuffle. She moved to poke her head over the wood to see, but St. Cloud quickly held her down with his body across her chest. All she could hear was heavy breathing. No, that was hers.

“Let that be a lesson, boy. No one messes with Charlie Parrett. You just cost yourself an extra yellow boy I was going to throw in for your ma. You’ll think twice about giving me lip next time.”

“There ain’t going to be no next time, Charlie. I ain’t going out with you again.”

There came the sound of a heavy slap. “You ain’t with me, boy, then you’re against me. I’d never know when you’d give my name over to Cantwell for the reward money. O’ course, the second they take me up, I’ll shout your name so loud, your ma will hear even in heaven.”

“I wouldn’t cry rope on you, Charlie. I just don’t want to do it again.”

“You already been on the high toby, Ned, so there’s no backing down. You don’t come with me, I’ll have to leave town and this easy-picking territory. Afore I go, naturally, I’d be sure to send a message to Cantwell, asking him where you got the ready for your ma’s doctorin’. Now stop your sniveling and take your money, you poor, tender little dewdrop. Why, you’re nothing but a whining pansy.”

So Pansy went out to investigate. She slipped past St. Cloud while he was still lying across Juneclaire. Juneclaire held him and her breath.

“What’s that?”

“What do you think it is, you looby, the lord-high sheriff hisself come to arrest you? It’s a bloody pig.”

“Farmer Blaine doesn’t keep pigs.”

The next sound Juneclaire heard was the cocking of a pistol.

 

After that, a blur. St. Cloud hurtled out of the stall with a shout, and Charlie swung the pistol around. The earl was on the bigger man before the thief could take aim. Ned jumped up, but Juneclaire hit him on the back of the neck with a bucket. The two older men fought for possession of the weapon, one hand each on the gun, St. Cloud’s other hand going for Charlie’s throat, Charlie’s trying to gouge at St. Cloud’s eyes. Juneclaire was ready to brain Charlie Parrett with her bucket when she had a clear shot. Ned started for the pitchfork near the door but tripped over Pansy and went down. Juneclaire hit him over the head again. When she looked up, his lordship and Parrett were rolling on the ground, the pistol between them.

They rolled into the upright where the lantern hung, sending the light flying. Now they struggled in the dark, with harsh panting noises and grunts the only sounds, till Juneclaire heard the crinkly rustle of loose straw catching on fire. Then Ned was rushing by her, stamping at the burgeoning flames. The horses started to kick at the walls of their stalls, and Pansy was squealing. Juneclaire found the other bucket, the one she’d washed with, and tossed the water on the fire. Then she took her cloak off and threw it over the sparks and started stomping up and down on it while Ned scraped the unlit straw away with his hands, leaving just bare dirt that could not burn. Then the pistol went off.

Juneclaire froze in place. Not Merry, she prayed, not even thinking of her own devilish situation if the enigmatic gentleman was hurt. There came the scrape of flint and a tiny glow. Whatever was keeping her knees locked upright, whether bravery, fear, or stupidity, gave out when she saw who lit another lantern. She sank to the ground on top of her wet, charred cloak and hugged Pansy so hard, the pig squealed loudly enough to wake the dead, but not Charlie Parrett.

Ned dashed for the door, to be stopped by an iron-hard clasp on his wrist. The boy made retching sounds, and St. Cloud shoved him toward one of the buckets.

“I guess I should have let him go,” he said in disgust, watching Juneclaire hand the boy a handkerchief—St. Cloud’s own. “Are you all right, Junco?”

“Yes, I think so. The fire is out. And you, my lord?”

“All in one piece, at least.” He gingerly explored a bruise on his chin, which, from its feel, would add a less-than-festive touch to his appearance by the morning. Juneclaire thought he looked more human with his hair all mussed and his face dirty. He certainly was more endearing, though she could not go toward him to wipe away the smudges or push the dark curls back off his forehead. Not with Charlie at his feet.

“Is he . . . ?”

“Quite. We’ve saved the county the price of a trial.” St. Cloud dragged the limp figure into one of the empty stalls, out of sight. He came back to poke through the pile of loot. His silver flask went into his greatcoat pocket, along with his fob, gold quizzing glass, and stickpin. He kept his pistol in easy reach and his eye on Ned while he counted out coins and bills. “Of course, this leaves us with a tad of a predicament, my dear, especially since I am sure you wish to be involved with investigations and your name to be brought out at inquests as little as I do. It could be much simpler, really. You know, a falling-out among thieves . . .”

“Merry, you wouldn’t, just to save yourself some trouble!”

“Please, my lord, my ma—”

St. Cloud gave the youngster a look that sent Ned back to the bucket. “We heard all about your mother, sirrah. How proud she’d be to see her baby now,” St. Cloud said with a sneer. “How much her health would improve to see you hang.”

“But, Merry, he’s just a boy!” Juneclaire pleaded.

“Just a boy who terrorizes the countryside, robbing and injuring innocent travelers. What about justice, Juneclaire?”

“But it was Charlie who hit your groom. And Ned said he wasn’t going to do it again, and he did help put out the fire. And we can give the money back now. What’s the justice in hanging a boy who looks after his mother the best way he can? Someone should have been helping them before, the parish or landlord. Then this wouldn’t have happened.”

St. Cloud had a dark inkling who was the title holder for these miles around St. Cloud Priory, in the vicinity of Bramley. It was only an inkling, mind, so he thought he’d keep it to himself while Miss Juneclaire waxed eloquent. Ned must have appreciated her defensive oratory as well, for he looked up and said, “Thank you, ma’am. It’s Miss Beaumont, from Stanton Hall, ain’t it? My aunt keeps house for the vicar at Strasmere, and we visited once before Ma took sick. She mentioned a Miss Juneclaire Beaumont, who decorated the church and taught Sunday school to the children.”

So much for squeaking through this coil without trumpeting their identities to the countryside, the earl thought, angrily stuffing what he determined his share of the thieves’ haul into his wallet. He checked to make sure his pistol was loaded.

“No!” Juneclaire screeched, rushing to put her hand on his sleeve, having correctly interpreted the earl’s aggravation if not his intent. “He won’t tell anyone I was here. Will you, Ned?”

“No, ma’am. Never. I’ll do anything you say, my lord.”

St. Cloud patted her hand, taking a moment to think. “Very well, Junco, you’ve won your case. Ned, you’ll take Farmer Blaine’s horses out again, with a lantern and your friend Charlie. You’ll ride to Lord Cantwell’s house to head him off from coming here. Tell him you were asleep . . . where? The loft over the cow barn? Fine. You heard a shot, went to investigate, and found this suspicious character dead in the stable, the horses in a lather, a sack of jewels and gold next to him. You don’t know anything else, did not see anyone run off, but suspect it was as we mentioned, an argument over the split. The other chap must have shabbed off when the shot woke the house. You had no pistol, so you couldn’t give chase.

“That should keep Cantwell happy, with the money returned.” The earl fixed Ned with a penetrating stare. “And be assured, bantling, I know exactly how much is left in that sack to be returned to the victims.”

“You don’t have to worry, my lord. I wouldn’t touch a groat. Not now.”

“Very well, I believe you. How long should that take?”

“No time at all. Bramley’s right over the next rise, around the bend.”

St. Cloud called curses down on the vagaries of fate while he searched in his pockets for a pad and pencil. “When you are finished with the magistrate, you will have to ride back to the Fighting Cock. I am sure you can get there and back before morning riding cross-country, even in the dark.”

Ned nodded, while St. Cloud tore a page from his book. “The note is for my groom. You needn’t see him, just give it to the innkeeper and redeem my signet with the purse I will give you. If you are back here with my ring, say, an hour past dawn, we can forget the whole bumblebroth. If not, young Ned, I will go straight to Lord Cantwell. And you can bet your bootstraps that Uncle Hebert will take my word over yours.”

Ned was nodding, swearing on his mother’s head that he’d do everything his lordship ordered, as fast as the horses could fly. He’d try to hold back dawn for an hour, too, if his lordship wanted.

“But what
about
his mother?” Juneclaire wanted to know. “They’ll be in the same mess.”

“I’ll see that the mother is taken care of,” St. Cloud promised, “if I see the son in the morning.”

Juneclaire was satisfied. Her knight’s armor wasn’t tarnished.

“Oh, by the by, Ned, there is no need to mention me or the lady in any context whatsoever. If, however, someone is looking for her by name, you may inform him or her that Miss Beaumont’s fiancé was escorting her to his family home for the holidays when there was a carriage accident.”

Juneclaire’s contentment shattered into rubble. Her knight’s armor must have been made of cheesecloth instead of chain mail, that he received such a grievous blow to the head to addle his wits.

Ned knew there had been no female in the curricle that morning, but he also knew he was lucky to get out of the barn with his skin on. This devil could best Charlie, who was bigger and a dirtier fighter, and he had a look that could freeze a fellow’s blood right in his veins. If the swell wanted him to swear, Ned would say his lordship was marrying the pig!

The earl helped the boy take the body out and tie it to one of the horses. Juneclaire tried not to look. She draped her cloak across one of the partitions in hopes it would be dry by morning. Then she started shivering.