Exile for Dreamers (20 page)

“Of course not.” The elder Chadwick harrumphed and cast a disapproving frown at the fastidious coroner. “Would've done the same myself. You're a military man. Been an officer in his majesty's service. It's only natural you would've thought you could settle accounts with a handful of misbegotten thugs.”

“Miss Aubreyson.” Young Mr. Chadwick slipped into the conversation when his father took a breath. “Miss Fitzwilliam mentioned yesterday that as soon as you saw the first man come riding out of the trees, you immediately told her to run back to the house, to safety?” The question sounded casual enough, and yet I sensed he put more stock in its relevance than he let on.

I nodded and did my best to pretend I was shy.

“Why did you not run with her?”

This I could answer without hesitation. “It was the way he looked at her. I guessed he was after her, not me. And then the others came out of the woods. Obviously, we wouldn't have been able to outrun men on horseback. I hoped I might be able to block their path. Or at least slow them down so that Miss Fitzwilliam would have time to escape.”

The justice of the peace slapped his palms together. “Brave girl! Well done.” He magnanimously congratulated all of us. “You are all to be commended.”

Sera smiled politely but kept a keen watch on his shrewd son.

“As you say, Miss Aubreyson put herself in harm's way to protect her friend.” Although Lord Ravencross spoke to the room at large, he gazed steadily at me. “There is no greater love than that.”

And Gabriel had done the same for me.

I turned color. I know I did, because I felt heat scald my cheeks.

Mr. Chadwick spoiled it all with another question. “Why do you think they chased after Miss Fitzwilliam and not you?”

“Who can say why a man picks one woman over another?” I shrugged.

“Hmm.” He was not pleased with my answer. “I was told you became aware of the men in the trees before they showed themselves. Is that so?”

I couldn't tell them about being overcome by a daydream or a vision, not unless I wanted to be hauled off to a madhouse. Miss Stranje says when one must conceal facts it always best to stick to as much truth as possible. My own philosophy is that it is much better to run away rather than to talk. Right then I would've preferred to do exactly that,
run.
But I couldn't. So I settled on something close to the truth.

“I realized something must be wrong, because the insects and birds were too quiet.”

“Remarkable observation.” His father slapped his thigh emphasizing the point. “Astonishing. Not many gels would've noticed so subtle a clue.”

What could I say to that? “I daresay, you would've noticed, too, sir, as you must be familiar with the woods here about.” I hoped flattery would divert them from their questions.

The justice of the peace preened a bit and then waved the compliment aside. “Yes, of course. But one doesn't expect a young lady to pay attention to such things.” He was like a great tame bull, used to being king of his little pasture. I smiled. The Chadwicks were a good lot. I would not like to see Napoleon's soldiers force them to kneel in submission.
But for just a minute that very image flashed before my eyes in all of its ugly truth. The father refusing to comply. The mother running for her hunting musket. And the son …

No!
I closed my eyes to it.

No visions of death. Not now. Not here.

“Miss Aubreyson?” Young Chadwick was snapping his fingers in front of my face. “Miss Aubreyson, are you all right?”

Lord Ravencross sprang up and shoved him out of the way. “She's not well. Leave her be.”

“No, I'm quite all right.” But my voice sounded shakier than I would've liked. “Truly, I am.” I held up my hands blocking their attentions. “I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. For a moment, I—”

“It's the trauma,” droned the coroner, straightening the lace at the cuffs of his green silk coat. “Oversets the ladies every time.”

Young Mr. Chadwick scooted his chair closer to mine but well out of Lord Ravencross's reach. “Did you remember something just now? Something about the men who seized you?”

“No,” I blurted.

Miss Stranje called them to order. “Gentlemen, I beg you to proceed gently. Miss Aubreyson received a severe blow to the head. Is it any wonder she doesn't recall the incident?”

I studied my hands in my lap. “I'm sorry. Most of that dreadful morning seems to be completely blotted out.” I tossed up my fingers as if they were the ashes of my memory. “I simply can't remember much of anything.”

Except for the horrific bits.

And everything in between.

“A pity.” Young Chadwick was not easily deterred. “I can understand your memories being affected
after
such a blow. But before that, when the men first emerged from the woods, did you happen to overhear them speaking?”

I maintained a studied look of ignorance on my face. “I may have. It's all so very fuzzy.”

The coroner sighed. “I warned you, gentlemen. This is a waste of our time. Young women are never useful as witnesses.”

Sera broke her silence to protest. “That can't be true.”

Young Chadwick held up his finger, calling for more forbearance on the coroner's part.

“What about before you threw the knife at the man coming to assault you? Do you think perhaps they might've been speaking French?”

“French?” I blinked, lowering my lashes, trying my best to look innocent and probably failing miserably.

Must have, because the nosy squirrel did not tumble to my ploy. Mr. Chadwick sat back and squinted at me. “Excellent throw, by the way. We have determined you saved Miss Fitzwilliam from a most unpleasant ordeal. But I'm curious as to why you would carry a knife with you on a morning walk. I daresay, it isn't a common practice among the young ladies of my acquaintance.”

More vexatious than ten squirrels.

I tried to bite my tongue. Truly, I did, but I couldn't stop myself. “And are you acquainted with a great many young ladies, Mr. Chadwick?”

A laugh burst from Sera.

His father joined in with a hearty guffaw. “A bit of an elbow to the ribs there, eh, Quinton, m' boy.”

Poor Mr. Chadwick, his skin flushed to a vibrant shade of rose, and he turned a sideways glance at Sera. She brushed the smile from her lips.

I took mercy on him. Besides, I'd finally figured out how I might answer. “It is my habit to carry a knife with me always. I was raised in the north, sir. The forests there are far more treacherous than these tame woods you have along the coast. And before you ask, yes, I was trained to throw the knife as well.”

In a booming voice, his father congratulated me. “Thank providence! For it may have saved your life, young lady. Or from a fate worse than death.”

Chadwick ignored this and yanked me back to his questions. “You're certain you didn't hear them speaking a foreign language of any kind?”

I lowered my eyes, not wanting to hold back the truth. “I may have overheard a word or two. As I said, it is all so hazy.”

His father scooted to the edge of his chair, leaning in to the conversation. “My son is only asking because we've determined two of the killers were Frenchmen. Their clothing caused us to suspect such might be the case. Upon closer inspection of the … er … the remains—” He ran a finger around his collar and looked apologetically at Miss Stranje. “Pardon my indelicacy, ladies. Mr. Griswold found that the dead men bore identifying marks. Both men had tattoos from a French prison.”

“Oh, dear,” I said, feigning alarm but not doing a very good job of it. “What do you make of that?”

I'll wager they couldn't possibly guess those were Lady Daneska's henchmen, hired by Napoleon's Order of the Iron Crown.

The justice of the peace, a large man, obviously unaccustomed to sitting in one place for longer than three or four minutes, sprang up and paced to the center of the room. “We don't know what to think, yet. Suspicious doings. No question about it. Trouble is, we can't assume that just because they bore the prison marks they were French. Could've been English fellows locked up for a time in a French prison. Now, if you'd heard them speaking French, it would be a different matter.”

I tried again to appease them. “There
may
have been an accent or a word here and there. If only I could remember.” Then, with the intention of distracting them, and nursing the wild hope that they might offer some support after I left Stranje House, I stepped cautiously into new waters. “Your honor,” I pleaded, “what if those awful men return? I'm terribly frightened they might come back.”

Miss Stranje cleared her throat, as a warning to me that I'd gone too far.

“You needn't worry, miss.” The justice of the peace strode to the fireplace and placed an arm on the mantel. “We've no reason to think they will return. The coroner believes it was a random act. Don't you Mr. Griswold? A handful of criminals in search of a young woman they might sell into, er…” He stopped, nervous about how to phrase his indelicate assumption.

Mr. Griswold nodded sagely. “Just so.”

Meanwhile, the younger Mr. Chadwick frowned at the carpet and muttered, “I'm not so sure.”

His father paid no heed. “Searching for a young lady they might sell into trade. Yes, that's it. Take my word for it, those cads won't be back. Have no fear. You and Miss Stranje put paid to that.” He slammed his fist into his palm. “Well done, ladies. And, by the bye, that was a fine piece of shooting.”

Miss Stranje inclined her head, accepting his compliment.

I massaged my forehead and said, “I'm beginning to recall little snippets here and there. Perhaps in a day or two, when my head feels better, I might remember more.”

“We can only hope.” Mr. Chadwick nodded thoughtfully. “The fellow you dispatched, Miss Aubreyson, had tattoos and a gold earring.”

“Which proves he was a sailor.” Mr. Griswold sat forward and smoothed his shiny green lapel. “Gold earring is an old tradition, worn by sailors to cover burial costs. As for his tattoos, they were from countries known for French trade.” He preened, smoothing back his thin hair and adjusting his brocade waistcoat. “I've made an extensive study of tattoos. It comes in handy when the odd body floats ashore, which happens more often than one might think.”

Instead of being appalled at this impolite topic of conversation, Miss Stranje praised Mr. Griswold on being so thorough and committed to his esteemed profession.

Thus with his feathers fluffed up, the coroner treated us to a history of how these ink markings came into being, complete with a narrative of the coroner's visit to London to meet firsthand Captain Cook's famed tattooed Tahitian warrior, Omai.

Young Chadwick lost patience with this lecture and drew the conversation back to his interrogation. “We have additional evidence. My lord, the knife we found in the blood—
begging your pardon, ladies
—where you engaged in a struggle for your life, is of French craftsmanship.”

Lord Ravencross forgot his dislike of young Chadwick for a moment. “How in heaven's name could you tell where the knife came from?”

“Ah.” Sera perked up, keenly interested in this new evidence. “You found the knife maker's mark, didn't you?”

“Exactly.” Quinton Chadwick beamed at her. “How did you guess?”

“I didn't
guess.
” Sera was offended at first, then she lowered her eyes, suddenly shy but still not willing to let him think she had merely guessed. “A knife of any consequence bears the stamp of its maker. A small mark near the base of the handle that can be traced to its origin.”

“Just so.” The justice of the peace's son should've been impressed with Sera's knowledge. Instead, I watched his eager expression turn from solving one puzzle to intense curiosity about another. She'd said too much. Our Sera, who is normally so shy that one must coax her to speak, had given him too intriguing a glimpse into the workings of her mind. And that would lead to more curiosity about her and in turn about Miss Stranje's school.

This interview needed to end before he cracked open too many of our secrets.

 

Fifteen

PROMISES

I sighed loudly. “My apologies, gentlemen. But unfortunately my head is throbbing abominably. I'm far too tired to discuss this dreadful subject any further. I pray you will excuse me.”

All of the gentlemen stood. Mr. Chadwick bowed with precision. “Yes miss, of course. We can come back in a few days when you're feeling more the thing.”

No!
I screamed in my head.
Don't come back ever.

I calmly tilted my head. “I'm afraid that won't be possible. You see, I will be leaving Stranje House—”

The stricken look on Miss Stranje's face made me stop midsentence.

“Then you've decided,” she said, as if I'd stabbed her.

What choice did I have?

“I'm afraid it's a matter of necessity,” I answered weakly, wondering why she should have thought anything else.

Lord Ravencross strode behind my chair and placed a hand on my shoulder. “What Miss Aubreyson is trying to say, gentlemen, is that she has, this very day, agreed to a betrothal.”

Betrothal?

“To me,” he announced grandly.

My mouth dropped open, but words failed me.

He's gone mad.

I finally stumbled upon something to say. “I did no such thing!”

“She's just being modest.” He patted my shoulder as if I was a child of twelve. “She did.”

I sprang up from the chair and turned, astounded that Gabriel would say such a thing. My mouth gaped open, and I floundered with unintelligible utterances.