Barbara Metzger (22 page)

Since they had to wait until dark to use the road, neither having enough confidence to attempt byways and deer tracks, they unpacked. It might have been wiser to get on their way, put as much distance as possible between themselves and the scene of the crime, but if they were wiser, Sailor mightn’t smell of horse dung and Handy mightn’t look like an underage pimp. If they were wiser still, they might have stolen some food to put in their stomachs, beneath the potent whiskey in the decanters. Then again, if wishes were horses, these two would likely wish for theirs well done.

Handy emptied one of the sacks of stolen goods out onto the bare dirt floor. If any of the rare Sevres or Dynasty ware had survived, they were potsherds now, tossed aside for some future Lord Elgin to weep over.

The ornately embellished egg didn’t make the journey, either. Handy took a few minutes to scrape the gold filigree and seed pearls off the shell, which had taken some poor, underpaid artisan a month to decorate. Disappointed, Handy tipped the other bag open. The silver and gold had taken a few nicks and dents, that was all. It was still sellable, still worth more money than either of the thieves had ever seen. They were on easy street, as soon as they could find it.

A few candies and brandies later, Sailor wanted to open the urn. “Why lug that ugly thing around if the good stuff is inside?” he asked.

Handy wanted to wait, to bring the whole package to Fred the Fence.

“Then you gots to carry it,” his brother ordered, which was the deciding vote. Handy used one of the pearl-handled knives to slice through the wax that sealed on the lid, then pried the top off with a small gold pickle fork. He tipped the urn over, right there onto the dirt floor of the abandoned cottage.

Sailor stuck a finger in the gritty pile, licked it, shook his head, and sneezed. “Ashes.”

Handy poked through the dark mound of finely ground rubble with the pickle fork. “Must be somethin’ in here that needed special packing, like a diamond mine.”

“No, you clunch, it’s ashes.”

“Why the hell give a jar of ashes for a weddin’ present?” Handy wanted to know, as if his brother were a font of information.

Sailor shrugged and sneezed again. “Rich folks is different, that’s all.” Still, he kept sifting through the ashes, letting the stuff trickle through his thick fingers, until something didn’t trickle. Something that looked a whole lot like a finger. Sailor jumped up, which scattered more of the ashes. “It’s him!” he screamed. The bloke what died! The one in the barrel. Now they got him in a flowerpot!”

Handy was halfway out the door. “Oh Lord, he’s come back to haunt us. We’re never goin’ to be shut of the blighter!”

“Why’s he after us? We wasn’t the ones what had a thing against coffins. We would’ve got Jake a nice one, if the dibs was in tune.”

“He’s mad at us, is all. Maybe he wanted to stay in that icehouse, like a clause in his will or somethin’, and we disturbed him. Spirits like their rest, they do.” Handy looked around, saw the ashes all over the place. “He’s going to be a whole lot madder now.”

“Quick, get him back in the jar!”

So they scrabbled around trying to sweep up the ashes without a broom. They used the broken pottery shards to gather the piles together, and unavoidably gathered a lot of dirt from the cottage floor, too. And slivers of glass, chips of porcelain, crumbs from the broken eggshell, and a few chicken bones from their last meal here.

“What if we ain’t got all of him? He’ll come back to haunt us like one of them phantoms. You know, with a cape where his head was s’posed to be and only red gleams from what was eyes.”

Handy’s manly lip was trembling, fake mustache and all. “How’re we going to get more of him? You went and sneezed on the poor bastard, scattered him from one corner of the place to t’other.”

The drink was talking now in Sailor, and it was scared, too: “What if…what if it was his ballocks or somethin’ that we lost? He’d be so mad, he’d come get ours.”

“No way!”

“I swear he would. Wouldn’t you, some fool tips your rocks on the ground?”

Handy was already feeling the cold hand of doom squeezing at his privates. So he ran outside and found two round stones, almost of a size and shape. “Here, maybe he won’t notice.” He stuffed some fish bones down the urn’s mouth, too, in case the ghoul lost a toe or something. Sailor sacrificed his lucky marble, in case it was an eye he sneezed into the next county. Handy threw in those little seed pearls for teeth, unaware the baron’s had been just as false. “There, good as new.”

They crammed the top back on the urn as though that would keep the demon inside. But it wasn’t going to work. The dead man’s ghost already had them in its clutches and was giving them a good shake.

“We got to bring him back,” Handy said, his voice even more high-pitched than ever.

“I ain’t touchin’ him.” Sailor’s hands were shaking so violently, they couldn’t have touched his own poker to make sure it was still there.

“Well, I ain’t.”

“You took him.”

“You sneezed on him.”

“Maybe we could just put him in the ground with Jake?”

Handy gave the matter his full consideration, from across the room. “No, he must want to be with his loving fambly. They wouldn’t’ve put him in the center of the table that way otherwise. We got to get him back. You’re bigger. You can—”

“Not me. I ain’t—”

* * *

Ohlman still had tears in his eyes halfway through the wedding reception at the Manor. He cleared his throat to catch Daphne’s attention while she was organizing her cousins and some of the local children into teams for races on the lawn. Their elders sat on chairs under the canopies erected to shield delicate complexions from the sun, or they strolled around the gardens, relaxing after the lavishly abundant wedding breakfast, which, of course, did not start until after noon. It was a magnificent sight, Daphne thought, like a painting. All the ladies’ pastel gowns dotted the landscape like flowers—except for Lady Seline’s silver tulle, of course. And the men’s more somber garb added contrast—except for Graydon’s scarlet uniform, which made him the focal point of the composition wherever he happened to wander. Of course, he would have captured the imagination anyway, being so tall and athletically built and devastatingly handsome.

He was capturing Daphne’s attention a lot more than she wished that afternoon as, almost against her will, she kept darting glances in his direction to see if he was worshiping at the Temple of the Moon like half the other men present. More often than not, he was circulating among the guests, greeting old friends, introducing the London visitors to the locals, playing host, making everyone comfortable and welcome. Ah, but she never denied he had charm.

Right now he was at Ohlman’s side, waiting for her to finish with the children. Ohlman was weepy, and Graydon looked grim as he took her arm and led her a distance away from any of the clusters of guests.

“Trouble,” he said, “but try to smile.”

Ohlman was wringing his hands. “Nothing like this has ever happened in all my years of butling. And today of all days, when Lady Whilton, Lady Hollister, that is, put such faith in me.”

Daphne had no problem smiling. “Are you still in a fidge over that? I’ve had nothing but compliments over the ceremony, and Mama is so happy.” She looked around to find her mother in a circle of her bosom bows, laughing and giggling like a debutante.

“She won’t be happy when she finds half her wedding gifts have been stolen!” It was a good thing Graydon had his arm under hers to catch her when she tripped.

“Ohlman?”

“I’m afraid so, Miss Daphne. While we were at the church, it seems. Mrs. Binder is beside herself, because two of the servants are missing also, the last two she hired as temporary help. They didn’t go into the village with the rest.”

“No, they stayed and robbed us blind!”

“Not quite, miss. Mrs. Binder is in the parlor right now, comparing the remaining gifts with the lists you’ve been keeping for the acknowledgments. I took the liberty of locking the door behind her, so no one wanders in and notices their present is not on display.”

“Clever man. What would we do without you? Do you think most of the gifts are still there?”

“All of the important ones, from what I recall, Miss Daphne, and the written ones. Most of what seems to be missing are small knickknacks, tableware, candlesticks, and the like.”

“Then there is nothing to worry about. Mama didn’t need any of those things anyway, so she won’t notice that stuff gone. We won’t have to tell her and ruin her wonderful day. We can thank the givers and they never need to know their silver jam jar or china creamer has done a flit either. See? Now, relax and tell Mrs. Binder she is not to blame. We can all make character misjudgments.” She turned to Graydon, smiling. “Can’t we?”

He didn’t laugh at her teasing. “It gets worse.”

“Worse? What could be worse than thieves stealing the presents on the day of the wedding with all these people in the house?”

“They stole the urn.”

“The urn?
That
urn?”

*

Miles wasn’t concerned with the theft of the gifts. He was more concerned that Mr. Foggarty was making headway with Lady Bowles whilst he was dragged aside by Daphne. “You should have posted a guard,” was all he told her, his eyes on the widow.

“I did post a footman, and he made sure no one entered the house. One of the thieves was already inside, though. We think they were a brother and sister; at least that’s what they told Mrs. Binder when she hired them. He was tall and dark, she was small and blond.”

Miles wasn’t listening. Foggarty was kissing Lady Seline’s fingers, the lecher.

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“I’d plant him a facer if I thought it would—Oh, about the robbery? Nothing I can do now. The culprits are long gone. What, did you think they were going to sit around waiting to be arrested? Your cracksmen are too smart for that, if they planned this robbery so far in advance to get hired on as servants. They’re halfway to London by now to sell the goods. You can give me a list of the stolen properties tomorrow and I’ll send it on to Bow Street, who’ll keep an eye on the known fences.”

“That’s all? You’re not even going to look for clues or call out dogs to follow their trail?”

“Now?” he squawked in agony as Foggarty led the widow off toward the maze. When they were out of sight he recalled himself enough to say, “Uh, that is, you were the one who didn’t want to disturb your mother’s wedding.” Miles looked over his shoulders to make sure no one overheard. “Your uncle and all.”

“They took him, too.”

Miles looked so pitiful then, thinking of what a fool he’d appear in front of the dashing widow, chasing after the remains of a man not officially dead, that Daphne almost forgave him for his wavering affections. Almost. Miles Pomeroy was supposed to be waiting—anxiously—for her answer to his proposal. He was supposed to act like he cared. He was also supposed to put duty above pleasure and go searching for Uncle Albert. Was there no such thing as a man with a constant heart?

Chapter Twenty-Three

It was the finest wedding the county had seen in years, so everyone agreed after the bridal couple left for Scotland amid shouts and cheers, ribald jokes, and rose petals. Then most of the local guests departed, the vicar to go rest his voice on Daphne’s urging, because she was going to need his services in the not too distant future, she hoped. The vicar hoped she meant another wedding, to young Howell after all and not that fickle Pomeroy, who was busy making sheep eyes at a woman no better than she ought to be. He didn’t say anything, of course; his voice was too weak.

The house guests were having their carriages brought round, too, in order to make London by nightfall, or the first stage of their journeys to some other country residence or fashionable retreat. The earl’s sister was one of those leaving, setting off on a tour of the New World, now that her brother finally had someone to look after him.

Daphne and Graydon stood side by side at Woodhill’s front door, accepting congratulations and wishing Godspeed as Ohlman and his minions handed over canes and hats and oversaw the loading of baggage. Pomeroy and Foggarty were among the last to leave, each trying to outstay the other. Daphne finally had to hint Miles away, saying, “I am sure you must be yearning to be on your way. Earning our regard with your devotion to duty. We’ll be interested in learning the results of your investigation tomorrow.”

Reluctantly Miles left to go beat the bushes in a halfhearted manner. The other half of his heart belonged to the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, who unfortunately was not the woman whom he’d asked to wed. Pomeroy was a troubled man, so troubled that he never noticed the wheelbarrow by the icehouse or the tracks leading into the woods. He found nothing but a guilty conscience.

Foggarty took his leave with a wink and a leer—for Graydon. “Two beauties, eh? Lucky dog.”

Then Daphne turned to Lady Bowles, who’d parked herself in the hallway as though she were family. “Should I have one of the grooms send for your carriage, my lady?”

Seline brushed aside the hint. “Oh, I sent my coach back when I arrived, sure that dear Graydon would escort me home. But don’t worry, my dear, I won’t rush off on you in your hour of need.”

“Need? What need is that?” Daphne’s tone was sour, as she was sure that Graydon had taken the widow into his confidence again.

“Your need for a chaperone, of course. Graydon’s aunt is gone, and it would be highly improper for you two to be alone in the house.”

“My cousin Harriet is here as my companion. I assure you there is no need to put off your own plans. And if Gray has to accompany you…” She’d murder him, that’s what.

Seline waved one graceful hand in the air. “But your cousin took to her rooms hours ago. Too much champagne, I believe. No, you need me to lend countenance, even though you are almost brother and sister now.”

Daphne fumed but Graydon choked. A man didn’t want to carry his sister upstairs and make mad, passionate love to her. Perhaps they needed a chaperone after all. But Seline Bowles playing propriety? When pigs grew wings. “Your new respect for the conventions mightn’t have anything to do with a certain nabob, would it?”