not my bailiwick. I would rather approach a man directly, accuse him of wrongdoing justifiably and without recourse to secrecy, and hear him defend himself with mine own ears than sit like an Eastern despot upon his throne who waits for his henchmen to perform Despicable Deeds in his name. My methods must remain pristine so that my victory is too.
I have not recalled my agent from the countryside; his troubles are sufficiently noisome to inhibit his progress without my intervention. But when he is again mobile I will inform him of my desire to quit this project. For now. For when this Falcon Club member returns to London, I will confront him and he will be obliged to answer to you, the People of Britain, for his criminal excess.
—Lady Justice
My dearest lady,
I breathe a sigh of profound relief. Quit your pursuit of my fellow club member, indeed. But know this: I am already in London. I entreat you, pursue me instead. If you should find me, I promise you a most satisfying Interrogation.
In eager anticipation,
Peregrine
Secretary, The Falcon Club
Chapter 17
Wyn did not recover that night, nor the following night, nor the day after that. Diantha’s fortnight came to a quiet close as she rolled dough in the fading light of evening for yet another batch of Mrs. Polley’s ingenious oat biscuits. She glanced at Owen pumping away at the old butter churn they’d found in the chicken shed. Somehow he had managed to milk the cow, lugging in a bucket of milk that tasted like sheer heaven. Her mouth watered anticipating butter. She thought of Glenhaven Hall and Cook’s seed biscuits and roast goose with drippings and lemonade and pork jelly and crumbly cheese with crisp apples and shepherd’s pie, and then, of course, the man abovestairs.
“The tarts I could make with a dozen apples, if I had them,” Mrs. Polley mumbled as though reading her mind.
“There’s apples, ma’am.” Owen’s narrow shoulders leaned into his work. “In the grove a ways past the stile.”
“Well, why didn’t you say that before, boy?”
Diantha could nearly taste them. “Tomorrow I will see what I can collect.”
The following morning she had excellent reason to escape the house and seek out the grove. Entering the kitchen for breakfast she discovered Wyn and Mrs. Polley at the table and her heart flew into her throat. Without a coat, in shirt and waistcoat, breeches and boots, he looked better. No fever darkened his cheeks, and the glimmer in his eyes as he turned to her was familiar.
“You are better!”
“To a degree.”
She expected him to smile. He did not. He stood up.
She thrust out a palm to stay him. “No! You’ve been so ill. You mustn’t stand merely because I have entered the room.”
“In fact I must.” He offered her a modest bow. “But I also happen to be leaving.”
Already? “Oh.”
Silence filled the kitchen. Mrs. Polley muttered beneath her breath and took up the dishes.
Diantha fought to recover her tongue. “To where?”
He paused, then said, “To the drawing room.”
It was too awkward. Nothing had ever been awkward between them before, not even those moments outside the inn in Knighton. Then he had been determined to do the right thing by her. Now he seemed cautious.
“Well, then.” She moved toward the table and around him as though passing him by so closely did not cause every one of her joints to turn to jelly. “I’m very glad you are feeling well enough to be up and about. We have worried.” She flicked a glance at him. “And, naturally, we are anxious to be on our way.”
Mrs. Polley harrumphed.
“We shall be soon.” A peculiar note in his voice turned her around.
“Not too soon,” she said hastily. “Not until you are ready.” Her heart beat ridiculously fast.
“Thank you.” He left.
She stared at the door. After a minute she could no longer bear the discomfort in her belly and the disapproving silence of her companion.
She set off along the canal toward the stile, carrying only a bucket and her confused thoughts. Her shoes sank deep into the sodden moss along the bank. The abbey was not so different from Glenhaven Hall where she busied herself with small tasks and spent the days with her young sister and servants. Her stepfather was a recluse, his scholarly books claiming most of his attention. When it came to his children, he cared most for his true daughters, Serena and Viola and little Faith. As a stepdaughter, Diantha had long understood that. But the people of Glen Village were always kind, and her weekly visits to Savege Park when Alex and Serena were in residence were happy occasions.
London would be different, she knew. There were museums and historical sites and shops in the hundreds. There would also be grand ladies like those she had sometimes encountered at Savege Park, but in much greater number. Grand, elegant, proper ladies. Slender, with porcelain complexions. Beautiful, like his friend Lady Constance Read.
What he must think of her, in her wrinkled frock and soggy slippers, her hair a mess of unkempt curls and her manners a mess of overfamiliarity. No wonder he wished to keep her at a distance.
She released a long breath, looking up from her toes to see the grove just ahead. Heaps upon heaps of apples lay on the ground, some still hanging on branches, red and green and thoroughly neglected and bursting to be picked. She plucked one off a low branch.
Firm, sweet, juicy. Heaven. She ate another, leaning back against a lichen-mottled old trunk and watching the clouds parting above.
Perhaps her stepfather would not banish her to Devon forever after all. Perhaps she would go to town as planned, and Serena would dress her up like a lady, and she would attend balls and use the dance steps she’d barely had occasion to practice in Devon. The only occasion she really remembered was when she had danced with a handsome Welshman on the terrace at Savege Park.
She wandered through the grove, searching out the choicest apples. When the bucket was three quarters full she hefted the handle over her elbow, picked an apple to eat during the walk, and started out of the grove. And she saw the man.
Her heartbeat stalled. With broad strides he approached from across the slope toward the road above.
Then her heart simply halted.
As before at the mill, Mr. Eads looked enormous. She was too far away to see his face, but she knew him well enough by his size and shape.
The pistol! She must get to Wyn—tell him—warn him. Flinging down the bucket, she ran. But the stile was distant. She lost a slipper and her foot sank into the soft earth. Her lungs pounded, damp skirts tangled about her calves. She threw back a glance. He was running too and had closed the distance between them by half.
She flew, pressing away terror, her footfalls silent on the moss. She threw herself upon the stile, scrabbled for a handhold, then a foothold, and another, dragging her damp garments up, up. Another step—
He grabbed her cloak. She yanked back, hands slippery on the rock, and flailed. She fell. He caught her, banding both arms about her and hauling her against his massive chest. It was hopeless, but she fought, grunting and pounding his arms with her fists until he trapped them too.
“Yer a mettle lass.” He sounded unperturbed. “But A’m no wishing ta harm ye, so ye can cease yer
