Jo Leigh - Confessions Bundle

And wouldn’t Mercy be surprised to see what Grace had brought home! Usually it was Mercy who collected strays and wounded animals, her tender heart making her particularly susceptible to such creatures. She would finally be able to make sport of Grace for an even more outrageously generous impulse.

Well, there was no help for it, and once Grace made a decision, it generally stayed made. She would just have to endure, and so she was going to have to drag him. With a determined frown, Grace tucked up the hem of her skirt into her belt to keep it out of the mud as much as possible-for at least there was no one here to see her immodesty-put the handle of her basket as far up her arm as she could, and taking hold of his shoulders again, she turned him around and began the slow process of dragging him home.

Bob Boffin took a long pull on his mug of ale, then wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand and surveyed his comrades as they sat together in the dimmest corner of The Three Crowns. “I say we stay another couple o’ days,” he growled.

A tall, thin man with a narrow scar on his cheek glanced around at the few other patrons who were enjoying an evening’s repast. “What for?” Treeg muttered. “He’s long gone by now. Probably in London. And your money with him!”

Boffin’s gaze took in the other two men seated at the battered table, one young, one old, before coming to rest on Treeg. “He didn’t get to Lincoln. Nor Stamford, neither. He couldn’t ’a traveled that fast, not on that nag.”

“That’s true,” confirmed young Skurch, whose face was ruined by smallpox scars.

“He could’a gone another route,” Treeg said. “Or took the train.”

“Or he could be dead,” Boffin replied. “But I don’t think either one’s true. He’s around here somewheres.”

The old man, who looked as if he had spent several years at Her Majesty’s pleasure, which was indeed the case, raised his eyes to Boffin. “It’s only a matter o’ ten pound,” Wickham said in a low, hoarse voice. “I say, why hang about lookin’ suspicious?” He nodded at the other people in the tavern. “They knows we ain’t no sheep men.”

“Aye!” Skurch said. “And there’s no women worth lookin’ at, neither.”

“‘Ceptin’ that one we seen, eh?” Boffin said with a jovial gleam in his eye that made Skurch smile, until Boffin reached out to grab him by his thin throat. “You’re goin’ to get yourself in trouble agin if you don’t keep it in your trousers,” Boffin snarled. “I don’t want nobody doin’ nothin’ that’d make folks more suspicious than they are.”

He let go of Skurch, who coughed and rubbed his throat, while Boffin’s eyes narrowed and he leaned toward the old man. “I’d be careful ’bout usin’ the word hang if I was you, Jack Wickham. Might give people ideas.”

Wickham’s hand tightened on his mug, and his other went toward his belt, where a knife’s handle was barely visible. “I ain’t gettin’ hanged for no ten pound,” he whispered forcefully. “Not on your say-

so!”

“Quiet!” Boffin admonished. He looked around to make sure no one was paying more attention to them. “Listen to me, then, Jack, and I’ll come straight wi’ you. We’re lookin’ at considerable more than my ten pound.”

“What d’you mean?” asked Treeg, leaning in to hear. Young Skurch also moved closer.

“Do you mind me asayin’ how that bloke looked familiar, but I couldn’t place ’im?”

“Aye,” Wickham acknowledged. The others nodded.

“It come to me yesterday, when we was on the road, where I seen ’im before.”

“How come you didn’t say nothin’ then?” Wickham demanded in a harsh whisper.

“’Cause I thought you was all with me, that’s why,” Boffin replied. “I knows who he is, I tell ya.”

“So what?” Wickham said scornfully.

“So he’s rich-leastways his family is. And they’ll pay plenty for knowin’ where he’s at. Or he’ll pay plenty for us to keep it quiet,” Boffin finished triumphantly.

“Who is he then?” Treeg demanded.

“He’s Lord Elliot Fitzwalter, that’s who. Missin’ these five years. When he up and did a bunk, his brother, the Duke of Barroughby, offered to pay a handsome price for news o’ his brother.”

The men’s eyes widened, then Wickham scowled. “Thinkin’ you’ll put the black on ’im? That was five years ago. Maybe the duke’s changed his mind.”

“Maybe he hasn’t,” Boffin countered.

“P’rhaps they’ve patched up their quarrel,” Skurch offered.

Boffin gave the lad a sarcastic look. “You must be off your chump. If they was friends, why’d he come back lookin’ like he hadn’t but two pennies to his name? Why did he tell us he was David Fitzgibbons? Why did he cheat me out o’ ten pound? I tell you, he’s hidin’.”

“So how’s he goin’ to pay for us to keep our gobs shut, if that’s what he wants?”

“He’s got to have friends. How else could a man disappear the way he did?”

“If he’s gone to ground again,” Wickham said, “then how d’ya expect us to find him when his own rich brother couldn’t? Take out an advert in The Times?”

“No!” Treeg said excitedly. “If Boffin’s right, and he’s still around here, we’ll find out soon enough. A good-lookin’ toff like that’s bound to stand out, and Lincolnshire’s not exactly a popular spot with the aristocracy, now, is it?”

“With good cause,” Wickham muttered.

“Exactly!” Boffin said, ignoring the ex-convict. “Now you’re understandin’ me. He’s hidin,’ all right, but probably some place ’round about here.”

“Now hold on,” Wickham demanded. “How come you know a lord? Been to his club, have you? Gone to a few society balls and made his acquaintance?”

“This particular lord liked things ’sides gentlemen’s clubs and assembly balls,” Boffin said significantly. “I’ve seen ’em, and that’s a fact. I say we start with the gentry ’round here.”

“What, walk up to the front door and say, ‘Scuse me, have you seen Lord Elliot Fitzwalter ’round about?” Wickham proposed with a cynical sneer.

“Yeah, right, that’s exactly what I thought!” Boffin replied with an equally cynical sneer. “We’ll keep an eye out on the fine houses nearby. And the village, too, and anybody else looks like they might have company.” He smiled at the young man. “A good-lookin’ bloke like him, I bet he’s holed up with some woman. You can see about that.

“Either way, we’ll find my fine lord.”

With a relieved sigh, Grace opened the garden gate and tugged the man through. She would be a happy woman when this was over. She hadn’t been this out of breath since the pig had gotten into the garden two summers ago.

She glanced down at her burden. The man’s trousers were going to be in a terrible state, but she thought that a small enough price to pay for preventing illness and possibly death-if she didn’t fall ill and die from the effort herself.

She closed the gate and began to pull him toward the cow shed, finally managing to get him inside. Brushing a damp, dangling lock of hair out of her eyes, she smiled at Daisy, who was placidly chewing and regarding her with large, bland brown eyes. Then, to Grace’s considerable surprise and chagrin, she noticed a fine black stallion comfortably lodged in the stable she had intended to use as temporary accommodation for the stranger.

Only one man in the county had a stallion like that, and that was Donald Franklin.

What was Sir Donald Franklin doing here? Had he come to inform them of the rent increase personally?

Grace stifled a groan. She had hoped to keep that particular difficulty from Mercy, at least until she had thought of a solution to their problem. How was Mercy coping with Sir Donald’s unwelcome presence and, more importantly, was she managing to act a little polite? Now would hardly be the time to offend their landlord.