Hearts of Gold (16 page)

They were in a shadowy part of the dock. In fact, his guide kept to the shadows like a sewer rat, and they were heading towards Covent Garden. Be fecked if he was going to trust his life to this lot. As for the cause – he couldn’t give a fiddler’s fart about it.

A thin fog was beginning to diffuse the street lights, and it shrouded the distant buildings.

The man took a sharp left into an alley and began to descend a flight of stairs. Flynn placed the small suitcase he carried next to the wall, then silently picked up speed. Halfway down was a doorway set into a dark porch. Wrapping an arm around the man’s neck, he pulled him into the alley, slid the knife between his ribs and whispered, ‘Is that cowardly enough for you?’

At the bottom of the steps there was a manhole cover. He took a step back as he withdrew the knife, avoiding the initial gush of blood as the man dropped on to a pile of rotting rubbish. He stooped and went through his victim’s pockets. Flynn was rewarded by a couple of pounds and a florin.

‘Thanks.’ Dragging the body by the feet, he lifted the manhole, lowered the body into the dark hole and let go. There was a meaty thump.

A few minutes later Flynn picked up his suitcase and walked back up the steps. Not long afterwards, he rolled a drunken gentleman coming out of a brothel, not far from Covent Garden. He earned himself a bankroll and a silver watch, but left the man alive. He’d get away with killing a navvy Irishman, but a dead toff would warrant a more thorough investigation.

The opera house was coming alive. Tightly corseted ladies in evening gowns and glistening jewels paraded on the arms of gentlemen in black suits, bow ties and cloaks. Hackney cabs and carriages were lined up, the horses stamping forelegs, whinnying and dropping steaming crap underfoot. There were several flower sellers holding up posies.

He knew the city quite well, he’d spent two years here working for a hire coach company, and was tempted to stay.

‘Stay or go?’ He had an English cousin working on the quay in Poole, who might take him in. Perhaps he should head for the coast and go to ground? Taking the silver shilling from his pocket he spun it in the air, smiling as it came down heads. As much as he liked London, Flynn didn’t really want to put himself in the position of being recognized by lingering here. He would head south. A lawyer who’d risk his reputation and living to put a price on his head, would be dishonest himself. Nobody would expect Flynn to be living in the lion’s mouth. With Magnus Kern gone the reward would no longer be available, and the matter of revenge would go to the grave with him. He’d then pick up a berth on a ship from Poole or Bridport, and make his way to America.

‘Dorset it is.’ Whistling softly, he headed towards the railway station named after Waterloo Bridge, his glance darting furtively from one fogbound shadow to the other as he walked.

He’d find a boarding house and lie low until morning, then take the first train out.

Flynn had been a fugitive who lived on his wits for as long has he could remember. He wasn’t about to become a victim.

Magnus had been invited to Mrs Carradine’s house for Christmas dinner. The widow was not wealthy, but had three daughters she was eager to see married off. Their ages ranged from sixteen to twenty-six. All were pleasant creatures with pretty blue eyes, dimples and brown glossy hair. The younger pair resembled dolls as they fluttered their eyelashes at him, giggled behind their hands, and sighed on cue. The elder sister was called Alice. She was quiet and intelligent, and resigned to spinsterhood.

They were nice girls. Magnus liked Alice a lot, and had considered her carefully, since as far as he could tell she possessed everything he desired in a woman. But there was no spark between them, and he couldn’t see himself married to Alice. In fact, he still couldn’t see himself married to anyone.

He had a sudden urge to be at Fierce Eagles for Christmas, and he still hadn’t cleared his business up with Isabelle yet. She’d been absent when he’d called in on her just before he was about to depart for London.

‘The mistress had gone to Italy a few days ago, and that’s all I’m at liberty to say,’ the maid had told him with a smirk. He’d been annoyed that Isabelle had gone off without a word, but had come to the conclusion that she’d sensed that all was over between them. It was not as though he’d met anyone to replace her, but he hadn’t been to see her for several weeks, and she was no fool. Magnus liked his life to be tidy and without loose ends – a fault he’d long recognized in himself.

He wrote to Mrs Carradine, thanking her for her hospitality and expressing his regret at not being able to be there to celebrate Christmas with them. He offered family commitments as an excuse and invited them to Fierce Eagles for New Year festivities, if they happened to be in the district. The next morning his valet had his bags packed and he checked out of his club.

It was mid-afternoon before the train reached Dorchester. The weather had turned and the October sky was filled with churning clouds. The air smelled of rain. He stepped into his office to let his partner know he was back.

Clive Farrington’s languid facade hid a brilliant mind. He offered Magnus a smile. ‘I thought you’d be staying until after Christmas.’

‘So did I, but I got a yearning for home. Has anything happened I should know about?’

‘I’ve been rushed off my feet, so I’m glad you’re back. Routine stuff, though. A couple of your pro bono publico clients are in trouble again, and won’t have anyone but you represent them – though it would be more to the public good, and purse, if some of them were locked up.’

Magnus laughed. ‘You’ve got to admit that they’re not all villains, Clive. For those who are in genuine need we have the victim’s fund. It’s the women and children who suffer when their men are imprisoned.’

‘You should harden your heart.’

‘It’s hard enough when the occasion warrants.’

‘There’s a package on your desk, too. It was brought in by someone called Lady Carsurina. She said I was to give it to you as soon as you came home.’

Magnus extracted the note from the package. He could smell Isabelle’s perfume. She advised him that she’d married a count, was about to depart for Venice and hoped that the next time they met it would be as friends at some social occasion.

His heart thumped against his ribs. With child . . . whose child?

Magnus smiled. Trust Isabelle to rub it in. He wished her only happiness.

‘Good news, Magnus?’ Clive said.

‘It is.’ He knew how damaging the letter could be to Isabelle now. He fed it into the coals glowing in the little black fireplace, watched the paper blacken, then burst into flames. The relief he felt was like a breeze blowing over him, though it wasn’t without a modicum of guilt and regret. He’d treated Isabelle badly. But she’d been a married woman when he’d met her, and she’d made herself available. He was a man like any other where love was concerned, led by his balls, but he preferred not to frequent prostitutes for relief. Perhaps he’d never meet a woman he’d wish to share his life and children with.

He slid the package into his coat pocket. He’d keep the jewellery for little Sarette when she grew up. He was pleased she’d been trusted to his safe keeping. She was a gift, and an obligation that would keep him on the straight and narrow. Suddenly he was eager to see the child, and he didn’t intend to arrive empty-handed.

Magnus visited the nearest toy shop. In the window was a black horse on wooden rockers. It was a splendid mount for a child, with flaring nostrils, a flowing tail and mane and a red leather saddle and reins. Just the thing, he thought, and went inside. The toy cost him a small fortune.

His valet had hired a cab while he’d been talking to Clive. They found room in it for the horse and set off for Fierce Eagles, the carriage rocking in the wind.

Sarette was in the hallway gazing at the picture of John Kern’s wife and child. He’d said she’d reminded him of Margaret, and she gazed at them often trying to see the resemblance. Except for the clear green eyes, she could see none.

‘I wish you could speak,’ she said, though if they’d both lived John Kern wouldn’t have left the memory of them behind, and he wouldn’t have gone to the goldfields and found her. Thus, she wouldn’t be here now, enjoying this lovely house. He’d probably still be alive, and she’d be dead, which was a frightening thought, so it would be better if she stopped thinking.

She heard a carriage stop outside and went to peer through the glass in the door panel. A man descended and her heart gave such a jolt she thought it might fly through the top of her head. This must be Magnus Kern. He was tall and had his back towards her, but even that was so much like Mr John to look at that she almost took fright. She backed away when he slowly turned to gaze at the door, as if he sensed her there. She had a quick glimpse of a young, grave face devoid of whiskers and topped by unruly dark curls. His eyes shone like black coals. She retreated to the back of the hall, where she tried to make herself invisible in the shadows at the side of the staircase.

The handle turned, then the door was snatched from his hand by the wind and crashed open. He struggled through the opening with a black rocking horse in his arms and set it down on the floor. Behind him came a man with a travelling bag in either hand, who disappeared up the stairway like he knew where he was going.

He closed the door, picked up the rocking horse again and headed towards the stairs. His eyes met hers, moved on then came back. He halted in his stride, stared at her again, then up at the portrait. His eyes came back to her, and this time they impaled her.

‘Who the devil are you? Come out of there.’

Magnus Kern was larger than life, and twice as menacing.

Sarette began to tremble as she sidled across the hall to where he stood, drawn there by the invisible thread of his dark, steady gaze.

He wasn’t quite as in command as he had first appeared to be, for there was the beginnings of bewilderment in his eyes as he said harshly, ‘Are you the governess I hired? I thought you’d be older.’

She sucked in a trembling breath, whispered, ‘I think you know that I am not, sir.’

‘Then who—’

Sarette managed only a shaky squeak before her voice dried up.

Branston came in. ‘Sir, the young lady’s name is—’

‘Enough, Mr Branston. She can answer for herself. Speak up, girl.’

Sarette’s ears began to glow and her hands went to her hips. How dare he speak like this to her? Her annoyance gave her some courage and she found her voice. ‘My name is Sarette Maitland. In future I’d be obliged if you didn’t try and . . .
intimidate
me.’ Pushing past him she started up the stairs.

Obviously taken aback, he said, ‘Come back down. I haven’t dismissed you yet.’

She went back down a few steps, where she was at eye level with him. Her voice was wobbly with nerves when she said, ‘But I’ve dismissed you, Magnus Kern. I know this is your home, but I wasn’t given to believe that you would be so ill-mannered towards a guest.’

He put a hand on her wrist when she was about to turn away. ‘You’re right. Will you accept my apology? For a moment I thought I was confronted by a ghost.’

She shook her head and a tear trickled down her cheeks. ‘I’m too upset. Release my wrist, please.’

He dismissed Branston with, ‘Go and tell cook I’ll be home for dinner,’ then he took a handkerchief from his pocket and dried her tears. ‘I’m sorry, Sarette . . . Miss Maitland. I’d expected . . . was led to expect. Damn Gerald, I’ll wring his scrawny neck when I next see him.’

She gave a watery laugh. ‘I do hope not, when he’s such pleasant company.’

A frown appeared between his eyebrows. ‘Gerald Grimble has been keeping you company?’

‘He’s been a regular visitor with his father to Mrs Lawrence’s home, where I’ve been living over the past year. And he called in for breakfast two weeks ago, as your staff will tell you if you interrogate them.’

‘Interrogate them? What the devil do you mean by that?’

‘Nothing. You have me rattled.’ She tugged at her hand. ‘May I go now, please?’

He released her wrist. ‘I’m sorry I detained you. We’ll talk later when I’ve thought things through.’ This time it was him who walked past her.

‘You’ve left your horse in the hall, Mr Kern,’ she reminded him.

He turned, a dark eyebrow raised and a reluctant smile cracking his lips. ‘It’s your horse. I bought it for you so you’d feel welcome in my home.’

‘It’s a handsome beast. Your uncle had a horse just like him. His name was Hercules and he had a contrary nature. Sometimes Hercules refused to move until we sang hymns to him.’

Now he looked frankly disbelieving. ‘My uncle sang hymns to a horse called Hercules?’

‘He had a loud, deep voice, too. The horse belonged to a reverend before Mr John bought him, that’s why he liked hymns. You resemble him.’