Drake's Lair (28 page)

“What?” she murmured breathlessly, foxed by his closeness, by the taste of him, by the thud of his heart pounding against her, and the pressure of his hardness.

“That you will stay here in this house until my bankers come and I can take action to see that you come to no harm from Jim. He can’t touch you here. He isn’t fool enough to come back to Drake’s Lair now. You’ll be safe if you let me protect you—only that.”

“From
him
, yes,” she murmured pointedly.

“I told you, you have nothing to fear from me. If this isn’t restraint, then I don’t know what is. You know how I want you… you can
feel
how I want you.”

“This from a man who has already compromised me,” she scorned.

“You’re not compromised, Melly,” he said. “They all love you too much in this house to allow that, even from me. I assure you we aren’t alone. When I open this door, Griggs is going to fall right through it.”

And so he did.

Twenty

As predicted, Drake’s activities the previous night took their toll. By morning, his fever was on the rise again, he was experiencing double vision, and his blisters, burst by the friction of burgundy brocade rubbing into them, had left behind patches of raw, weeping flesh.

Melly had not accompanied Griggs and Smithers when they led Drake back to his rooms. He went without protest, but that was hardly result of his promise to behave and go quietly. He had overextended himself. Severely. And it had cost him.

Her heart sank when she looked in on him in the morning. His breathing was rapid from the fever, and his skin was dry to the touch as she smoothed on the cool, green-tinted comfrey salve.

“He’s bad again, isn’t he?” said Griggs, his brows knit in dismay.

“He’s broken the blisters. The salve will mend him, but he will have to stay bare-chested until the weeping’s done, or risk infection. Whatever possessed him?”

“I feel dreadful about last night,” the valet said meekly. “I tried to prevent him, Miss Melly. He had it in his head that you’d run off again, and there was just no holding him.”

“If I’m still here tonight, you will dose him at bedtime regardless; I’ll take responsibility for the consequences,” she decreed, “and I’ll have Zoe attend me if you please. I shan’t suffer such as that again.”

“You can’t go, Miss Melly!” the valet cried. “He… we… the doctor needs you.”

“Yes, well,
I
have needs, too. I need to get on with my life, to sort myself out. I need to find a place to stay, and collect my things from the coaching station. I told the stationmaster I would only need to store them for one day. It’s been two. For all I know, he could have sold them off by now, I only paid for the one day, and I don’t even have a place to put them yet.”

“Uh… yes you do,” Griggs said in a low voice.”

“Griggggs?” she said, wary of his guilty expression.

“H-his lordship sent Fry word last night to go ‘round to St. Kevern first thing this morning after your things, Miss Melly. They should be on their way up to your apartments right now.”

“
Ohhhhh
!” she shrilled, pounding the bed with clenched fists beside Drake sleeping soundly. “The devil take the man! I will not be held prisoner here!”

“The storm’s still on,” said the valet. “Listen to it. You can’t go traipsing off in a flaw just over standing on ceremony. You told him you’d stay ‘till the bankers come and set things to rights, and you can’t leave your things at the station. Not all folks are honest, you know.”

“Oh, how
well
I know, with treachery right under my very nose on all fronts in this house,” she sallied, slapping the bedclothes again.

“Take care, you’ll wake him, and I’ve just now put him under,” the valet pleaded. “Believe me, neither one of us is up to his ravings just now.”

“He sent the poor stabler all the way to St. Kevern in
that
after a few fripperies?” she cried, gesturing toward the shivering window slick with sheeting rain. Aside from being in a genuine taking over the impertinence of the man, she was incredulous. The colossal
nerve
of the bounder, but that shouldn’t surprise her. Hadn’t he gone from ‘
Lady Ahern’
, to
‘Demelza’
, to
‘Melly’
, addressing her, without so much as a by your leave? And, worse yet, she had
let
him.

“That he did, miss, wouldn’t close his eyes ‘till Smithers went up to the stables to give Fry his marching orders, and came back with a ‘yes, sir’ in regard to the matter. Why, you’d have thought he was still in Wellington’s army.”

She raised her hand to trounce the counterpane again, and would have, if Dr. Hale hadn’t entered. She dropped it to her side instead, then snapped the bedclothes taut around Drake’s naked torso none too gently.

“What the devil have you done to him?” the doctor barked, facing them arms-akimbo. “I left a man, whose fever had broken, sleeping like a baby, on the way to mending, and what do I find not eight hours after? We’re right back where we started, if not worse than we were when we started. What happened?”

“He got up out of bed,” Griggs offered. “We couldn’t do one thing with him.”

“I left three grown adults in charge here!” the doctor railed.

“How was I going to prevent him?” Griggs defended, exhibiting his bandaged hands.

“That was what Smithers was for, he doesn’t have two lame paws,” the doctor sallied. “I know he’s a lack-wit compared to yourself, but I did think the pair of you could manage one comatose invalid.”

“Begging your pardon, but I told you, you ought to have dosed him,” the valet said hotly. “I will now, when I deem fitting, whether you say or no.”

“You do that, ‘Dr.’ Griggs. Dose him up good and proper. It’ll spare me the use of restraints, when I cart him off to the asylum. I knew it would eventually come to this five years ago.”

*

The storm lingered over the coast for two more days, before finally dissipating as it moved farther northward, leaving in its wake a string of uprooted trees, fallen branches, and wounded outbuildings. Standing water on the flooded lanes and highways slowly started to recede, though coaches were hard-pressed to negotiate axel-deep rivers of mud, all of which made matters difficult for James Ellery, crouching weary and damp, somewhat sheltered from the wind inside the ragged, roofless shell of an abandoned barn just south of the village.

His time was up. He had been able to glean no news of Demelza, and little of Drake’s Lair, come to that, except that Drake was still alive though there were
on-dits
circulating regarding his sanity. That was his one ray of hope, until the morning the storm subsided, allowing the sun to struggle through the cloud cover.

He had sought Demelza amongst the Tinkers, but he was too late, they had already gone deep into the wood to escape the flaw when he reached their campground in the clearing. Had she gone with them, or was she at the Lair? Dr. Hale would know, but he dared not approach him. He would also know that there had been a confrontation between himself and Drake, and what was behind it. Like it or not, he was an outcast, and now, a scorched outcast. He’d been dodging the innkeeper at the Black Stag for nearly two days, hence the dilapidated barn, surviving by fighting off cats and dogs for scraps in the trash heaps of St. Kevern.

How had it come to this? Just a sennight ago, he had access to all the blunt he needed for a comfortable existence. Now, he was scrapping with animals for provender slated for livestock and compost piles, since it was unfit for sale at the markets, and for scraps of uneaten food tossed out behind the tea room, Maud Endean’s boarding house, and the local café.

Drake probably hadn’t changed his will yet, but there was no hope to get to him before he did. He couldn’t go back to Drake’s Lair. He needed Demelza—not only her money, he wanted her. Totally. It wasn’t fair. He’d seen her first. He’d put a year’s worth of his valuable time into winning her. He wasn’t about to just bow out and let Drake have her. This wasn’t the old days. This was now, and his time had come. Drake should never have come back. Everything would have worked out to his advantage, if only Drake had gotten his wish for a noble death on the Peninsula.

Those thoughts, however, were counterproductive. There was no use fondling regrets. He needed a course of action. Quickly. He didn’t have a farthing. If he could only lay his hands on some blunt to gamble with, he could double it at the tables. He knew it. His luck was due for a change. Once he’d made a killing, he could offer for Demelza. He would be a man of substance again. He would bowl her over—sweep her off her feet—spirit her away to London where she belonged, where
he
belonged.

Drake was no threat now, even if she was at the Lair. There was actually talk of shutting him up in the madhouse. He’d been responsible for much of it. That was inspired. He’d had no idea what he was doing when he heaped fuel on that on-dit. How full of surprises was providence. People actually
believed
him. And, why wouldn’t they? He had lived in that house with the man, hadn’t he?

Yes, all this was well and good, but he needed blunt now—right now. He couldn’t go back to the Black Stag for his things. He’d fled by the back stairs just as the publican pounded on his door to evict him, leaving everything behind in his haste. The man could go to the devil. There was nothing of value in his portmanteau; Drake had seen to that. The only thing he possessed that could be turned into substantial cash was the swayback mare. So be it. With his winnings, he would buy a new horse at Tattersall’s—a decent horse befitting a man of substance and stature.

All at once another inspiration struck—Drake’s townhouse in London. There would be money there, and he knew where to find it. There hadn’t been time for news to travel to Town. Of course, why hadn’t he thought of that before?
Nodcock
. One would think he was the one who’d been hit on the head. None of the servants at the townhouse in Mayfair would think anything untoward was afoot if he put his head in and visited the place. He’d done it dozens of times—
hundreds
of times over the years. He would go to the livery straightaway and arrange the sale of the nag. It didn’t matter how much she brought. All he needed, after all, was the price of coach fare into London.

Stepping out from under the bare roof beams of the barn he turned down his soggy collar, and straightened his superfine coat. If it weren’t for the drenching, he would be quite presentable. But that hardly mattered anymore. There would be clothes at the townhouse as well—armoires full of them. Drake was a little taller, a little sleeker, but he would make due. His Hessians would cover a multitude of sins if the pantaloons were a tad too long.

With a spring in his gait, he strode along the lane to the village. The stage had just let off passengers when he reached the coaching station, and he pulled up short at sight of Bradshaw and Mills standing on the platform awaiting their luggage to be loaded onto Drake’s brougham waiting alongside.

He darted behind the corner of the building. A surge of adrenaline crippled him momentarily. Fry was in the driver’s seat. Had the deuced stabler seen him? He hoped not. He was getting more nervous by the second, wanting to get on with the sale and board that stage before it departed without him. Haste was crucial now that the deuced bankers had come. What were they waiting for? Their bags had been loaded. Drake’s tiger was already positioned on the dickey in back. Would they never be off? But wait. They weren’t alone. Had they brought a Bow Street Runner? Yes. He recognized the man’s plain dress the minute he stepped out of the stationmaster’s office—the black frock coat, stuff breeches with dark stockings, and those ridiculous buckled shoes. It was nothing short of a uniform. The blighter may as well have worn a sign around his neck.

So Drake had turned him in after all. He hadn’t wasted much time, so much for his “running start”. This was serious. They must have sent word ahead of their arrival time. How else would Fry have known to come to the village with the brougham? Yes, this was serious, indeed.

Stepping farther back, in the shadow of the sign attached to the building, he watched the Runner climb into Drake’s brougham with the bankers. This changed everything. He would still go to London, but not on the stage. If he were to carry out his mission before that Runner had a chance to send word up to alert Mayfair, he would have to go on horseback now. But not on the swayback nag. His mind was racing, his heart thumping a ragged rhythm that echoed in his dry throat and pounded wildly in his ears.

Finally, Fry cracked the whip, and the brougham pulled away from the platform headed for Drake’s Lair. Once they were out of sight, Ellery entered the stables, but he didn’t saddle the mare. Instead, he saddled one of Drake’s Andalusians, under the pretext of riding it out to the estate at Drake’s request. The simpleminded groom didn’t question him. Heading off in that general direction, he held the horse at a leisurely trot until the coaching station disappeared behind the bend in the road, then turned sharply and drove the animal north by northeast hard at a gallop, straight for London.

*

Drake received the bankers and the Runner in his sitting room adjoining the master bedchamber. That was as far from his bed as the doctor would allow. Though he had been improving steadily, Hale had thus far refused to grant him absolution from possible incarceration in asylum—even if only temporarily. Drake knew his moods swings were responsible for that. He and Melly were scarcely speaking, since he’d overstepped his bounds and had her things brought to the house, and he certainly wasn’t about to bare his soul to the crusty old doctor to be laughed at or put under scrutiny. He was in love, dammit, not addled. The crotchety old butcher never loved anything in his life save his instruments of pain. He’d make him the laughingstock of the Cornish coast, and still be convinced he was mad, considering all that had gone before.

Mercifully, the good doctor was absent that afternoon. Bradshaw had brought the few intact ledgers that remained up from the valuables chest that now stood in the library, along with several that had only been partially burned. They all sat perusing them around a cherry wood gaming table set before the hearth that Smithers had lit to chase the dampness—Drake, Bradshaw, Mills, and one Jasper Q. Redmond, of Bow Street, London.