Chapter 25

Even though Devorlane Hawley had given Lord Koorecroft his word he'd stay away and give the "widow" Armstrong no more trouble, his fine, chestnut mount hadn't. Mephisto had ambled up the shallow incline close to Barwych of his own accord after a short canter across the downs. Of course he'd done nothing to stop the gelding. Mephisto had a mind of his own.
Of course he glanced down onto the wooded plain below. Why not see what her thief-ship was up to?
Giving his word was paying lip service. He'd other plans. Little irons in hotly burning flames. He'd written to Colonel Caruthers. It wasn't exactly an acceptance of the spying invitation. No. More an outlining of one concerning a certain person.
Reining Mephisto, he stopped among the trees where he remembered picnicking as a boy, on the rustling carpet of leaves. Surprisingly no smoke rose from any of the chimney pots at Barwych, despite the sharp tang of frost in the air.
Desertion was something he hadn't considered. Why should she run now that Lord Koorecroft ate out of her nabbing hand?
He skirted his gaze to the left. Although he couldn't see properly for the trees, she was there. At least someone was.
"I'm tellin' yer, soddin' hell, I'm tellin' yer, yer can't. Yer ... "
"Just take his feet. Do it will you?"
His feet? Devorlane clicked his tongue in the hope of nudging Mephisto closer. The beast was finicky. The last thing he wanted was being caught where Lord Koorecroft had told him not to be. Although, when he considered it, Lord Koorecroft's specifics had been shrubberies. Shrubbery? He wasn't even on her damned property, was he?
Whose feet and why, was what he had the burning urge to discover.
Of course, he could be mistaken about that. Maybe it wasn't feet at all? Maybe it wasn't anything?
"Pearl. The spade ... "
The instruction was faint but, no, he didn't mistake it. A spade. A spade and feet. A spade and feet meant one thing. He'd seen enough death to know.
He dismounted and crept one or two steps down the incline through the faint mist coiling around his boots. The dew soaked them with each mushy step. If this baggage was down there with a spade, he must be careful.
For that matter it might be his feet she was instructing Pearl and Ruby to get. Look at the things she'd managed to turn around on him so far. From sticking the Wentworth emeralds in the pocket of his best breeches, to bleating to Lord Koorecroft about the big bad Chessington wolf being in her shrubbery.
He turned and clapped Mephisto's neck. It was better if he sent the animal back to Chessington.
Keeping low, Devorlane tiptoed to the tree at the foot of the incline. The vantage point was not so good from there. Thank Christ for being able to bring the burning throb in his thigh under control though.
"Oh!" that other serving girl, Pearl, wailed. "What's that noise? What's that noise, Rube? Listen. Do you hear it?"
He froze to the tree bark. The possibility existed they could just be gardening. It was the time of year for that, wasn't it? Hell on earth, he'd been so long away from a garden of any sort he couldn't remember.
"Only sound I don't hear is the soddin' sound of yer bleedin' diggin'. Put yer back inter it, yer lazy trout. Bleedin' hole won't dig itself."
A hole? There was only one kind. He'd thought of it when he'd edged down the hill. But now he'd done so his mouth dried. Shock, that he must squash if he was still to have the element of surprise and turn this to his advantage, clutched his gut. Not who. Why? That was the thing he needed the answer to. Then he could go to Lord Koorecroft. It would be the end of her. There would be no passing off a corpse in her garden as a servant of the realm.
"But, Rube, I only got a trowel."
"I don't care if you've only got a spoon. Do what Ruby says. Now. Or I mean it. I'll swing for you myself."
Her voice. He'd wondered, hadn't he, that night, about what particular level of gutter-snipe she was. What hole she'd crawled from, for all the brilliant mantle of her entirely faked refinement never slipped for a second. Those words, that husky, rough undertone, said maybe not a center of the earth one, but certainly one deeper than that grave they were obviously digging.
"But, Cass. Cass, listen. I swear I'm not imagining it. I can hear it. What if it's-"
"Are you stupid? Devorlane Hawley's nowhere about. He can't be. I assured it with Lord Koorecroft."
"I wasn't thinking Lord Hawley. What if it's Gil?"
"Oh, how the bleedin' hell can it be Gil? Jeesus-sake. Ain't that Gil. Ain't that only Gil there? Dead as the soddin' dodo."
"Ruby's right, the dead don't walk."
Oh, didn't they? Devorlane crept forward. He didn't believe these words he'd just heard, but now was the time to get through the border of bramble and bracken, to sidle with the broken wall beneath his fingertips, and to peer, with a clawed breath, at the coronet of women, laboring in the cold of the early winter sunlight, digging, with a kind of desperation. At least she was.
A kind of something else too. His eyes unfortunately roamed the nicely rounded curve of her buttocks clearly outlined by the clinging gown. The soft, velvet gown.
When the throbbing ache in his thigh was under control for the first time today, why give himself another? Especially when her husband's days of peace and tranquility had ended sooner than any of them anticipated by the looks of this. What the hell was that seeping through the barrier of the sheet? Blood? Had she assisted with his demise?
The thought determined him. Here was his chance. He was soldier enough to know there was dissent in the ranks. And man enough not to fear three women. He stepped forward.
After all, what the hell could they do to him?
"Good afternoon, ladies. It's a fine one, don't you think, for holding a burial service out of doors?"