Beneath a Silent Moon (43 page)

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Authors: Tracy Grant

Tags: #Romance Suspense

BOOK: Beneath a Silent Moon
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Mélanie's captor addressed the man in the armchair. "Sorry to be late, Mr. Wheaton. We've found one of the rascals." He jerked Mélanie forward. "Had a pistol on him. There was a girl with him, but she ran off before we could catch her. Wouldn't tell us where his friend is, but I fancy you can make him talk."

"So you're one of the lads who chose to defy me." Wheaton's gaze swept over Mélanie. His accent didn't sound Scottish. London, with a lingering trace of the North Country. The claret-colored coat might be old-fashioned, but the cut and fabric were expensive, as was the buff-colored satin of the waistcoat beneath. Underneath the bushy gray hair, his face was surprisingly youthful. His blue eyes were sharp and appraising but didn't seem to see beyond her disguise. Thank God for the dim light.

Wheaton leaned back in his chair. "I don't know whether to admire your pluck or pity your stupidity. Or both." He fixed her with a gaze as hard as the pistol barrel still pressed against her ribs. "Where's your friend?"

"Where you won't find him," Mélanie said in the lowest, roughest voice she could manage.

"See here, lad, I don't have time to waste dancing about the question. I don't doubt you had your reasons for what you did. I'm not much interested in them at the moment. I run a business. You and your friend interfered with that business. To such an extent that I was forced to leave the convivial comforts of London and pay a visit to this"—he glanced round, his gaze lingering on the dirt floor and the traces of damp on the walls—"place." His inflection managed to make the word "place" seem several degrees lower than a backwater. "We've lost—how much is it in the last quarter, Mr. Pryce?"

The man in the black coat flipped open the ledger and peered down at the pages. "Sixty-five pounds, eight shillings, nine pence."

"Sixty-five pounds, eight shillings, nine pence." Wheaton stared hard at her as he repeated the words, each number like an accusation of a capital crime. "I'd be a poor businessman if I didn't do what it took to stop you from interfering again. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," Mélanie muttered, and then decided that had probably been a poor word choice.

Wheaton's gaze lingered on her. She understood the hard gleam in the depths of his eyes. Not evil, which she had long since ceased to believe existed, at least in its pure form, much as she had ceased to believe in absolute good. This was something that could be just as deadly—a willingness to do whatever it took to achieve a desired objective. "So where's your friend?" he demanded.

"I don't know."

His hands closed on the arms of the chair. A piece of wood gave way with a crack. "You're not in a position to play games, boy. And your insolence grows tiresome." He jerked his head at the man with the close-set eyes, whose broad shoulders and crooked jaw indicated that he might have been a prizefighter. She had ten seconds to brace herself. This time the blow caught her in the stomach. She doubled over, gasping.

"See here, Mr. Wheaton," said a deep voice. Mélanie was bent over concentrating on not being sick, but the voice sounded like Stephen Drummond, proprietor of the Griffin & Dragon. "He's only a boy."

"When boys start interfering in men's affairs, they have to take a man's punishment."

"Who the devil is the lad?" said another Scots voice. "I've never seen him before."

"I'm from Inverurie." She didn't have to work to make her voice sound thick. "Don't know anything about the rest of it. What you're talking about."

The prizefighter grabbed her by the shoulders, jerked her upright, and struck her a blow that sent her careering back against the wall.

The door burst open. "For God's sake, have you gone mad, meeting tonight of all nights?"

It sounded like Andrew Thirle. It was Andrew, Mélanie saw, lifting her head and blinking through blurred vision. She turned her face to the shadows.

Andrew's gaze swept the room. "You could have been followed here," he said to the group in general. "Everyone's asking questions just now. If someone found you were meeting—" His gaze moved past Mélanie. Then he broke off, swung his gaze back to her, and stared. "Good God, you blithering idiots—"

He got no further. The man behind him brought a cudgel down on his head. He collapsed on the dirt floor, unconscious.

"What the hell did you do that for?" Stephen Drummond said. "It's Andrew Thirle."

"Yes, it's Mr. Thirle." The man who'd struck the blow set down his cudgel. "He's not on our side anymore, in case you'd forgotten. Now there's a chance he won't remember everyone he's seen here."

"Too risky," Bill muttered. "No telling what he might remember."

Wheaton glanced at Andrew as though he were a troublesome piece on the opponent's side of the chessboard. "Thirle always had an annoying habit of blundering into the wrong places. It doesn't look as though ten years have improved him. What's his price these days?"

"Doesn't have one," Bill said. "
Pure
as the driven snow since he took over running the estate."

"Unless his price is Mr. Fraser's daughter," Mélanie's captor suggested with a rough laugh. "Or his fiancee."

"Or his own past," Stephen muttered.

"Won't do," Bill said. "Thirle's turned into the sort of idiot who risks his neck for his principles. The only way to be sure he's silent is to throw him down a well. Make it look like he took a tumble in his cups. No one'd know the difference. Leastways, they couldn't prove it."

Jaw smarting, bile in her throat, Mélanie began to wonder if she'd made a serious miscalculation. Even if she revealed who she was, they might decide that having abused Mrs. Charles Fraser so badly, their only hope was to get rid of her. She ought to be able to fight her way out, but she couldn't do so and get Andrew out with her.

"What does Thirle know about the current operation?" Wheaton asked.

"Nothing," Stephen said. "He hasn't had anything to do with it since he went off to Edinburgh. The lads knew to keep him out of it when he came back to Dunmykel."

"That's to say, we knew enough to
try
to keep him out of it." Bill rubbed his jaw. "Someone helped the wounded lad last night. He ran into the passage but we never found hide nor hair of him. The lodge opens onto the passage. Couldn't help but wonder—"

Wheaton swung his gaze to Mélanie. "Did Thirle help your friend last night? Is that how he knew about our meeting tonight?"

"No!" Mélanie's voice squeaked without any effort on her part. "Why would Mr. Thirle help me?"

"A tender heart, perhaps? This sense of fair play we've been hearing about? Atoning for the sins of his own past?"

Mélanie shifted her tack. "You think I've been smuggling. Me and this friend you keep talking about. Interfering with your trade."

"You know damn well you have. Making your own trips to the south, bringing back goods, selling them at a lower rate."

"A clever plan. But not mine. Look, it's bad enough with the laird's lady being found dead this morning—"

Another blow caught her across the mouth. She tasted blood. "What do you know about the girl's death?" Wheaton asked.

"Nothing." The words came out thick, thanks to the cut to her lip. "Save that it's no time to be making trouble."

"Which is why you should tell us the truth."

"I would if—"

As she sought for words to cover her appalling lack of invention, the door thudded open yet again. Through eyes glazed with pain, Mélanie saw her husband stride into the cottage, followed by Gisèle and Tommy Belmont. She would have let out a gasp of relief, save that deep breathing of any sort hurt too much.

Charles's gaze settled on her for the briefest instant, then swept the company. "Sorry to interrupt. Just in case you're thinking of overpowering us, Mr. Belmont and I are both armed. Hullo, Stephen. I didn't expect to see you again so quickly."

"Charles." Stephen Drummond flushed, but did not avoid Charles's gaze.

"Quite a gathering of old friends. But I don't believe I know you, sir." Charles turned to Wheaton. "I'm Charles Fraser. My sister, Gisèle, and the Honorable Thomas Belmont."

Gisèle gave a cry and dropped down beside Andrew. "Murderers! What have you done to him?"

Wheaton bowed in the manner of a banker to a lady of fashion who has been shown into his office. "I assure you, Miss Fraser, the poor gentleman is merely stunned."

Gisèle smoothed Andrew's hair back from his forehead. "How?"

"An unfortunate accident. I'm afraid Mr. Thirle suffered a fall in the road and hit his head. One too many pints in the village, perhaps. A couple of the men carried him in here to recover." He looked at Charles and Tommy, who were standing on either side of the door, pistols drawn. "There seems to be some misunderstanding about our purpose here this evening. My name is Wheaton. I'm up from London on a fishing trip and looked up some cousins I'd never met before. They were kind enough to arrange a little party. We were just debating the best way of getting Mr. Thirle home.
He's a friend of yours? Perhaps you could see him to his house?"

"It's a bit more complicated, I'm afraid," Charles said. His gaze drifted over the crowd and fastened on Mélanie. "You'll have to permit me to see my wife home as well. My dear, what sort of deception have you been practicing on these gentlemen?"

Mélanie straightened her shoulders and lifted her head as though she wore a trained court gown and a diamond tiara. "Really, darling, I was about to tell them when you burst in so unceremoniously. There was no need to bring guns into it."

Chapter Twenty-eight

 

Mélanie crossed the uneven floor to her Husband. She was quite proud of her ability to keep her gait steady, but as she moved into the light, Charles's gaze went to her jaw, where a bruise must be rising.

"A misunderstanding," she said.

"Quite." He put out a hand, turned her face toward him, and brushed his fingers against her cheek. His eyes turned the color of a frozen stream. "Who did this?"

"Charles," Mélanie said, "in fairness, they thought I was—"

"A boy." He undid the twine that bound her hands. She felt his gaze linger on her chafed wrists. She'd rubbed them raw loosening the twine. He clenched the twine in his fist and looked at the company of men. "Do you enjoy beating up children?"

"He didn't look like a boy," her former captor muttered. "He—"

"Shut up." One of his friends kicked him.

The full realization of what they had done settled over the company. They had tied up, beaten, and held at gunpoint the wife of the heir to Dunmykel. The disbelief, shock, and horror sinking into their eyes might have been darkly comic if she hadn't still been nauseated.

"My God," Stephen Drummond said. "It was bad enough when we thought—"

"My profoundest apologies, Mrs. Fraser." Wheaton had gone pale beneath his ruddy complexion, but his gaze was steady as he turned to Mélanie. "I need hardly say—"

Charles spun round, pushed Wheaton into his chair, and pressed his pistol into the buff-colored satin of Wheaton's waistcoat. "Do you imagine an apology can settle this?"

The prizefighter took a step toward his employer.

"I wouldn't if I were you," Tommy said, pistol drawn. "Fraser's a crack shot and he has an inconvenient temper."

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