Chapter Thirteen

An abandoned tenant hut, Stonebridge Park…

Midnight…

Stonebridge and Alaistair MacLeod arrived at the abandoned tenant's hut by horseback a few strokes after midnight. The place would have looked convincingly abandoned were it not for the telltale sign of smoke drifting up through the chimney.

The front door was there, but held in place by crude wooden bars stretching across the width of the door frame, the hinges having been removed long ago. The duke guessed the bars were improvised by MacLeod to keep their prisoner secured within. As they approached, he couldn't resist looking over at the Scot, his brow raised in question at the makeshift lock.

"Och, weel what else was I ta do?" Stonebridge chuckled at that.

MacLeod lifted the bars away and hefted the door out of the opening—setting it neatly against the wall to his left. That Scot was a big man. Two more bars remained on the inside of the opening, in place to keep the loose door from falling into the room when closed.

He laughed some more and regarded his friend.

"I'll juist wait oot here an keep an eye oot," said MacLeod as he dusted off his hands without looking at Ambrose.

"Right."

He walked into the ramshackle hut, not quite sure what to expect. The place was clearly in decay, most of the furniture broken or long gone. The inside was dark, dusty, and cold despite the fire blazing in the hearth. The blaze made the air smoky and smelly as the chimney was clearly in need of repair, and the meager warmth from its flames battled valiantly but futilely against the cold air drafting in through cracks in the walls and gaping holes in the moldy, thatched roof.

He took in the remaining furniture: two wooden rocking chairs. One was occupied by their reluctant guest.

Despite prior words to the contrary, he imagined a strong and wily brute of a man— one who clearly looked like he might have had a chance of taking down the mighty Duke of Stonebridge.

What he saw was an old man, bent and gaunt, with stringy, unkempt white hair, but with a keen look about the eyes and the firm line of his lips. It was difficult to match the sight before him with the image in his mind's eye of the man who might have murdered his father. Yet, those eyes undoubtedly held secrets. Yes, this man could have done it, despite his current physical frailty.

"Aye, it is ye. Ain't it? Ye have yer faither's look about ye," grumbled the old man. His voice held strength despite his weak physical form.

Stonebridge took a moment more to take in the appearance of this man who might know the truth about his father's death—who might have been the man to do the deed. The flickering light from the fire danced across the side of the assassin's face, making his scar appear to writhe on his cheek. The duke suppressed a shudder.

"Yes, I am Stonebridge."

"I know ye want ta know about yer faither's murder. Who can blame ye, aye? Well, I can tell ye that the two events, yer faither's accident, which weren't an accident, and the attempt on yer prime minister were related—the same men were behind it."

"Go on."

"Have ye any knowledge of a man named Mr. John Radclyffe? Oh, aye, I see that ye do."

The man was peculiarly sharp, to be able to determine that in the low light.

"Yes, I know, but I don't believe he would have worked alone, if you are indeed implying his involvement. Something like this would have required men with money, men with power. You must know more."

"Oh aye, I know more, a lot more. But I'm needing reassurances, aren't I?"

"What do you want?"

"Don't play games with me, boy. Ye be knowing what it is I am wanting. I've made that plain from the beginning—I want passage to America, money to start a life there and reassurances that I won't have the law breathin' down me neck every time I take a piss. What I want is yer word that ye'll make it happen, or I'll take me bleeding secrets to me grave."

"Let me ask you something, Murphy. Do you have proof—hard evidence—that what you tell me is the truth?"

"I might at that."

Abruptly, Murphy tossed something at the duke's head. The duke caught the object, reflexively, and looked down to behold a silver stamp, old and grand. The duke, who was still standing just inside the doorway, walked over to the fire and leaned in to get a better look. The seal was used for stamping an insignia in wax when sealing or witnessing documents. The insignia, worn but clearly visible, was that of a swirled P and an E making up the branches of an English Oak. Chills chased up his spine. He jerked his gaze to the old man watching him.

"I'm listening."

"Aye, I thought that might get yer attention. Now, have ye ever heard of the Secret Society for the Purification of England?"

Oxford, High Street…

2 days later…

Grace could barely contain her excitement as she and Dansbury made their way to her father's shop on High Street. The current tenants had moved in a month after she left for West Sussex last year. Their occupancy was temporary. They would run the book store on her behalf until she reached her majority, with the assistance of her solicitors and Uncle Beckett, of course, at which time, she could decide how she would like to proceed moving forward. As such, she was anxiously anticipating seeing her father's legacy in continued action.

After checking into the main hotel in Oxford yesterday, she had wanted to walk over to the shop straight away, but Dansbury and Aunt Harriett had talked her out of it. Both had suggested she rest and clean up so as to arrive fresh on the morrow. She hadn't wanted to agree, but she had been admittedly tired, so after a little debate, she relented.

What were a few more hours' delay? Besides, she might be there awhile, looking through her father's papers, and would work more efficiently if well rested.

Today, she was glad she had waited, albeit impatiently, as she now felt restored and ready. To help matters, the morning weather was unusually fine—bright and sunny, whereas yesterday it had been damp and clouded over. Now, with only one more bend in the road before they reached their destination, she was nigh giddy with excitement on Dansbury's arm. Her eagerness must have been obvious because every so often, he would look down at her and just smile.

Well, what did he expect? It had been over a year since she had last stepped foot in her father's shop, and she was anxious to reacquaint herself with the place. Would it be the same as she remembered? Would the purple primrose still be alive in its pot on the counter? She was flooded with memories reminding her of the sights and comforting smells inside—the scent of paper, coffee we are out of time," came a disembodied voice, raised in anger, from the back of the building.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we have everything out from upstairs now. I just completed one last walk-through and was leaving," came a softer, slightly nervous voice.

Grace followed Dansbury through the emptied doorway leading to the back rooms. Anger replaced shock and grief like a veil. Her tears continued, but they were of a different source now. She held her head up, refusing to acknowledge the tears, her gaze direct and fierce.

"Good morning. I am Clifford Ross, 7th Marquess of Dansbury." Cliff, who preceded Grace into the back rooms, squeezed Grace's hand in warning, reminding her to hold her tongue, as she followed behind through the narrow entryway.

A short and rather round gentleman with thick, gray hair and sideburns, spun around at the newcomers' arrival. He was dressed in quality clothing although he was unkempt. His cravat was mussed and stained, and his buttons and boots were not polished. He had been standing with his back to the door talking, or more like yelling, to a kindly looking gentleman of about forty years of age, clutching his hat in dismay.

"My lord, Mr. Edward Banks, Esquire at your service," spoke the rotund man, a solicitor, who mopped his wide forehead with a kerchief before stuffing it in his pocket and proceeding toward Dansbury, his hand outstretched in greeting and a wide, greedy smile on his face. His expression turned solemn as he waddled his way across the room, hand still outstretched. His somberness did not reach his eyes, which still held the fires of greed.

"I am the solicitor representing the owners of this property, and I truly regret to inform you that the premises are closed to prospective buyers until the auction on Friday next."

The solicitor tried to look surreptitiously at Grace around Dansbury's shoulder as he spoke (for she had not been introduced), infernal hand still outstretched, but neither she nor Dansbury acknowledged nor soothed his curiosity.

Dansbury, who was generally considered an affable man by one and all, looked down his nose at the solicitor's hand before ignoring it, and brushed past to face the unacknowledged gentleman with the crumpled hat, his brow raised in question. Clearly, Dansbury knew how to issue the cut direct—quite convincingly.

The other man, clearly a gentleman though a little rough around the edges, smiled in return. He had dark-brown hair peppered with gray and kindly, brown eyes—a father's eyes. He was dressed in a plain, brown jacket, a dark green waistcoat and brown trousers. The buttons were brass and one might detect a little fraying at the edges of his cuffs; nevertheless he appeared tidier than the solicitor. He seemed respectable, if a little haggard today. In light of what they had overheard before entering the room, it was understandable.

"My lord, Mr. Marcus Smythe at your service," he answered at the implied question, most respectfully.

"I'm pleased to make your acquaintance," answered Dansbury in turn. "I understand you were managing the bookstore before it closed." At the gentleman's nod, Dansbury continued, "Did I correctly overhear that you were previously living in the rooms above until recently?"

"Yes, my lord, for the past year until we received notice last week that the owners were not renewing our lease. We were given a few days to remove our belongings and no time to notify our customers of the shop's impending closure," Mr. Smythe added with an angry look over Dansbury's shoulder in the solicitor's direction.

"Now, see here. The renewal of the lease was never a guarantee, as you are well aware," blurted out the solicitor. He looked worried and afraid. He had to be aware that he risked angering a high-ranking member of the peerage with his behavior. Not to mention that both Grace and Dansbury were well aware of who the solicitor worked for.

Dansbury looked over his shoulder at the solicitor's interjection. "You're still here?"

The solicitor paled before gathering his courage—or stupidity. "My lord, I appreciate that you might see this situation as highly irregular, but I assure you that our actions are completely necessary and in accord with the owners' consent. As such, I must insist that I remain present until I can be assured that Mr. Smythe has indeed vacated the premises and has left no other possessions behind; my client expects no less."

"All is clear save for this key we found under a rug as the men came to clear away the last of the furnishings this morning. It is not ours," replied Mr. Smythe, his voice fretful again. Mr. Banks glared at him as if he were a thief attempting some crime. Mr. Smythe pulled out a small key from his waistcoat pocket and handed it over to the solicitor.

Dansbury was silent as he watched all this. He no longer seemed to care about the fact that the solicitor hadn't left. He watched Mr. Smythe hand over the key.

Then he spoke. "Well, Mr. Smythe, it has been a pleasure to meet you. What is your direction should I need to contact you in future?" His affable fa?ade returned.

"My lord, we will be staying with my sister and her family for a few days until we find new accommodation, #4 St. Clement's Street, Oxford. It would be our pleasure to speak with you again."

"Excellent. I'll be in touch."

Dansbury turned to the solicitor. "Mr. Banks, forgive me for not shaking your hand earlier; I apologize for the misunderstanding." He held out his hand and clapped the solicitor on the shoulder as if they were men of the world, bosom friends, who knew a thing or two about life. Grace seethed, but said nothing.

"Perfectly understandable, my lord. I understand this was unexpected," replied the solicitor promptly and with no small amount of relief.

Dansbury turned to offer his arm to Grace, yet he looked over at Mr. Smythe one last time. Mr. Smythe smiled knowingly before nodding at Dansbury and quitting the room.

Dansbury winked in return.

"Let us be off, Miss Radclyffe," he added for the solicitor's benefit.

To the solicitor, who stood out of sight behind them, he added, "We'll be in touch."

As soon as Grace stepped out into the brilliant sunshine, she whirled on Dansbury, ready to give him a piece of her mind, but he forestalled her tirade with a lift of one finger.

"Grace, we're outside. Wait until we're in private."

"But we didn't even go upstairs."

"Trust me; there's nothing left, darling."

"But…"

"Grace, trust me. I have something better. Now, let's go."

He led her back to her room at a dizzying pace—quite a contrast to their stroll earlier that morning.

Grace wound her way through the lobby of their hotel, headed in the direction of Aunt Harriett, who was seated on a sofa near the fire, but Dansbury redirected her to the stairs and on to her room. Once inside, he shut the door and locked it. Grace whirled around to tell him exactly what she thought about his behavior at the bookstore, but forgot her point at the sight of him standing there holding out a small brass key.

"Is that the key Mr. Smythe gave to Mr. Banks?"

"It might be."

"But, why?"

"Think about it, Grace. The key obviously didn't belong to Mr. Smythe, or he wouldn't have tried to pass it onto the solicitor. It clearly isn't a key to the property or anything in the bookstore, or he would have known what it was for and said so. I strongly suspect this key belonged to your father, and I have a pretty good idea what it goes to." She crossed her arms across her chest as she waited for him to continue. "I believe it belongs to a safety deposit box—in a bank—in London." She paced the floor, her thoughts awhirl.

"I see, and how do you know this?"

"The engravings on the key. The letters identify the bank and the numbers identify the box number. I have one like it myself."

"How did you do it? Take the key, that is. Especially without him knowing about it? And won't he notice and realize you took it?"

"Grace, I answer can't your first question, and honestly, it was quite easy. My summation of the solicitor's character is such that by the time he notices, he'll think he lost it—if he even remembers."

"But why would you do this? Effectively steal, for me?"

"Grace, I suspect whatever is in the box this key goes to is important, and I suspect that had I allowed the solicitor to pass it on to the earl, you would never know what secrets it holds."

She stopped pacing and plopped onto the bed, too emotionally drained to stand any longer as a whirlwind of feelings spun around in her mind: grief over her father's emptied shop; all his possessions gone. Despair over the possible loss of the shop and her future prospects. Anger over the machinations of her uncle. Frustration at her inability to stop events that seemed so completely out of her control. Fear over all the secrecy and implications about her father, the old duke, the earl…She looked up at Dansbury in a silent plea, the weight of it all almost unbearable.

He knelt at her feet and took both her hands in his.

"Grace, try not to worry, darling, though I know it's difficult."

She nodded in silence, conceding his point. Meanwhile, her tears were back and sliding down her reddened cheeks.

"Listen to me. Here's what I want to do. I want you to stay with Aunt Harriett. Travel with her to London tomorrow as we planned. And no matter what happens, I want you to stay with her. Do not go to your uncle, even if summoned by him. Do you understand? This is important."

"I understand. What are you going to do?"

"I'm leaving for London. Now. I think we need to see what's inside that box, and with your permission, I would like to go ahead of you. I can get there faster on horseback and retrieve the box on your behalf. I think it's safe to say that time is of the essence."

She nodded her agreement. "What about the auction? Friday is only a few days away."

"I'll do my best, Grace. You'll have to trust me."

"I seem to be doing an awful lot of that today," she added with a chuckle at the end. She wiped at her eyes, her nerves calmed with a plan.

"You'll be all right, Miss Grace Radclyffe."

She nodded. "I know. And, thank you."

She reached out to hug Dansbury, who was still on his knees before her, but as she pulled back, he had a strange look about him. And before she knew it, he kissed her.