The next morning, they gathered around the table once again.
“I have thought on your words, Lady Charlotte,” Lucy said. “Are you determined on this plan?”
Charlotte’s hands worried her serviette. “Until the baron is caught, a part of me lives in constant fear. I am resolved.”
“I will join you,” Lucy said.
“I am very pleased.” Charlotte smiled with relief.
“Me too!” Thomasina said.
“I will, of course,” Rose said. “Even though I’ll be stuck here.”
“You will come to Hawthorne while we practice,” Charlotte said. “We need you to watch and coordinate us.”
“Of course I will join.” Claire laughed. “How could I pass up a fun adventure such as this?”
“I shall take part, as well,” Susannah said.
Rhys strode into the dining room. “And what are you participating in, dear sister?” He bussed Susannah’s cheek, then rounded the table to kiss Rose on the lips.
Much joking ensued. “You are doling out kisses, brother?” Claire said. “Where is mine?”
“And mine!” Charlotte said.
“I need one, too!” Thomasina joined in with a grin.
Rhys conceded defeat. “I love you all quite dearly, but I am deuced hungry.” He moved to the sideboard to make his plate.
Fortune had smiled on them. Charlotte prayed it continued.
The following days were filled with refining their plan, one that would keep all of them safe and yet trap St. Michaels. Charlotte posted her letter to the baron’s seat and mailed a second to Penrhyn Creigiog. Perhaps the monster lurked in Cornwall.
With Halafair at Hawthorne Hall restored from its abuse, Charlotte began replicating it. Never again would she allow the baron’s foul hands on her mother’s most treasured possession. She also worked on a smaller Halafair for Claire to take on her trip, and miniatures of Patrick, herself, and others she intended for Christmas gifts as the holiday was nearing.
Her work went swiftly and well, a boon, for upon her return from Cornwall her passion for painting, her desire to create, had been extinguished. But like a green seedling striving through the dirt of memory and fear, her creative urges began to trickle. Gradually, they began to flow, then stream with renewed vigor. She thanked God, Krishna, and any other deity she could think of for its return.
Today, while she painted, she imagined scenarios for setting their trap.
It took three days for their group to settle on a locale where they would meet the baron, choosing the Floating Duck from where St. Michaels’ had kidnapped her. The barkeep, unsavory and open to bribery, could work in their favor. An ideal setting.
Claire and Mama moved to Hawthorne Hall, much to Charlotte’s delight. Their group gave themselves two weeks to prepare, during which she mailed letters of longing to the baron, drilled her kalari forms, and painted like a demon, heady with her renewed joy for the work. Earlier, her large Royal Academy Summer Exhibition entry had traveled to Hawthorne, and she worked on it and her Christmas gifts, along with the replica of Halafair.
The Woodbine contingent came daily for practice, telling their men they were rehearsing a Christmas pantomime and for several days, Patrick, Rhys, and Devonshire had ridden out for some winter pheasant hunting. A godsend.
They trained, each woman practicing her specialties, while Thomasina brought Dancer, intending to work with the horse. Mercy, in and out of the great hall, overheard their plans and insisted on joining in. She would brandish her cudgel, her weapon of choice.
“He will do all that I ask and more.” Thomasina patted Dancer’s neck, his tricks refining daily. He could bow, charge, and even pirouette, and had learned the croupade, the ballotade, and the capriole when a trainer from Vienna’s Spanish Riding School had visited Woodbine to teach Thomasina the movements. An impressive sight.
Charlotte’s mother, Lucy, and Rose observed, insisting they must watch the practice sessions. Her mother, not a bad shot, worked with Susannah, while Rose gave corrections on Charlotte and Claire’s kalari forms, though neither her mother nor Rose would accompany them to the Floating Duck. Lucy stayed above the fray, but those enigmatic eyes took it all in, much as a raptor’s would.
Time flew, and they had yet to hear from the baron. Worrisome, as they would travel to the Duck in a mere five days.
They ate an early luncheon, as darkness came far too soon these days. Afterward, they observed Thomasina’s achievements with Dancer. The bay’s looks were unexceptional both in coloring and conformation, and he would draw no unwanted attention to their group when arriving at the Duck. Little did anyone know his talents.
Now, Spider, whom Charlotte had sworn to secrecy, led Dancer a good distance from the manor house.
“Are ye sure ye wants me to release ‘em?” Spider hollered.
“Quite sure, sir,” Thomasina said in a calm voice.
When he freed Dancer, Thomasina raised her left arm, palm facing forward. The bay froze, eyes on Sina.
She whistled. The horse gathered himself and charged.
Charlotte near took flight, standing close enough to Claire to feel her tremble. Rose, on the other hand, appeared relaxed in the extreme. Charlotte tried to do the same, and failing, she nonetheless stood her ground.
The bay galloped toward them.
He neared, so close Charlotte could see the gelding’s rolling eyes when he performed a courbette, rearing high, all four legs leaving the ground.
Astonishing. She inhaled a shocked breath, fear squeezing her tight, as Dancer flew into the air.
Thomasina raised her right arm, palm inward.
Dust billowed as the bay landed mere inches from the women.
“Well done, Thomasina!” Claire said in a breathless voice. “I have never seen such!”
“Sina’s talents with Woodbine’s herd are even more astonishing,” Rose said.
“Ain’t never seen that! Never!” Spider collected Dancer, snapping his lead onto the halter, and led him back to the sables, their group filing into the hall to practice scenarios.
Patrick had ridden to Devonshire’s estate with Banby, allegedly to hunt. But Rhys had heard back from the Admiralty and Patrick was eager for news.
On his return trip home, he signaled Banby go ahead of him and halted beneath a wide oak. How to tell Lottie the outcome of his discussion with the men?
A glance at the sky said the rain would hold off for a while.
Patrick stared, but rather than seeing pastures and hills, he pictured the sea, the roiling waves, the blazing sunsets, the gulls that often accompanied his ship. He could almost feel the sway of the boards beneath his feet and taste the brine on his lips. The navy was all he knew.
Poof.
Though he had expected it, anticipated it, yet even so, Patrick was unprepared for the yawning black hole within, where his purpose since he had been nine once lived.
Seated in the saddle, Diablo chomping grass, the air thick with the promise of rain, he stared at…nothing. The future offered a wilderness of empty years, one after the other, scrolling before him.
With a sigh, Patrick gathered his resolve and would focus on the practical.
He cared not how Saumarez had accomplished his treachery, for it mattered little as the admiral had convinced Patrick’s superiors that he was unfit for duty at sea, on land, or anywhere else. The deed was done.
He pictured Billy Broad, a former army “lifer.” War had stolen one of his arms, yet upon release from service, he had thrived at Woodbine, a man of value and worth. Did the loss of his arm eat at Billy? Wish he were back in the army? Make him feel less?
Perhaps. Patrick oft imagined his legs as functional, fantasizing about striding across the deck. Yet his inability ground him down, though pondering his loss was a fruitless endeavor. The past was gone. Forever. Yet Billy had thrived. He must learn to do so as well.
Rhys and Devonshire would continue to hunt down the slaver frigate, Patrick pursuing the frigate’s captain. Once he learned the man’s name and rank…So far, the deeper he probed, the more rank it became.
He may no longer be an active naval captain, he could still learn the truth and bring to justice the men who had murdered those slaves.
Their housekeeper preceded Charlotte into the great hall and began throwing back the curtains.
“Will that be all, my lady?” the housekeeper said.
“Yes. You and the staff may begin your dinner, as we will be occupied here for hours.”
The housekeeper smiled. “Thank you, my lady. We shall do just that.”
After she left, Charlotte used chalk to set up a large portion of the hall to mirror the Floating Duck’s private room, marking the room’s entryway and setting table and chairs as they had been that long-ago day in Dartmouth. Outside the chalk line, they had arranged comfy chairs for Mama and Rose, who massaged her belly. They’d also piled up baled straw as tall as men to practice on, her mother’s brilliant idea.
Now, they went to work, imagining St. Michaels arriving with a crew holding guns on them. Lucy had brought her short sticks called muchaanvadi, her thala, a piece of cloth, and a small knife, the name of which Charlotte forgot. In truth, Lucy herself was the weapon.
“I wish we had real people to practice on,” Susannah said.
“As do I,” Charlotte said. “The staff knows we are up to something, but I would rather they not learn any details. The less they chatter, the better.”
Two hours later, perspiration dotted Charlotte’s brow, dampened her arms, and trickled down her back, the others equally sweaty. Earlier, Susannah had practiced her shooting outdoors, but now was working with Claire, who threw her knives with unnerving accuracy.
Sina stood beside Mama, while Lucy flanked Rose, observing, though every so often, Lucy would call out corrections.
Charlotte staggered to a halt, panting, and took a few calming breaths. “Since we have practiced with the baron’s ruffians entering first, let us vary it to where St. Michaels leads the charge.”
“A good idea,” Claire said.
“Move to your positions.” Charlotte took the seat designated for her to greet the monster, the one where he had sat when she entered the inn’s parlor.
“Wot’s that?” Mercy lowered her cudgel.
“Did you hear something?” Susannah said.
Charlotte peered out a French door. Twilight was upon them, the world darkening to opaque shadows.
Which was when Charlotte heard wheels cross the stone floor.
Heavens above, Patrick!
Glass tinkled at the hall’s far end, wood splitting, a crash.
The women turned as one, goggle-eyed.
Men poured inside, half a dozen bristling with guns to form a semi-circle, their weapons aimed at Charlotte and her family.
Charlotte knew two from Cornwall—St. Michaels’ ruffians.
The baron stepped through the broken door, pistol in hand, kicking glass and wood aside as he took his place before his men. “I have come for you, my Charlotte!”
The man smiled, a child eager to regain his toy, though his face bore a haggard cast, his skin, pasty.
The world slowed.
Someone gasped.
Lucy stepped forward, her stick on her back in its sheath.
“Do not move!” the baron barked, aiming his pistol at her.
Everyone froze, Charlotte glancing over her shoulder to see Rose drawing Thomasina and her mother further into the shadows.
Again, she heard those wheels. Did no one else? Terror choked her. Patrick was here and unarmed, helpless before these foul men.
How had the baron gotten onto Hawthorne land and breached the house? Had they killed the manor’s guards? Her anger grew.
That he dared to invade her home…
The baron’s hand beckoned her. Charlotte could decline, or she could get close to the man and throw him with a kalari move.
A foolish idea that could get someone killed.
Oddly, Charlotte felt little fear. Rather, a calm fury bubbled within for this addlebrain who had stolen three weeks of her life. Had terrorized her. Had made her feel small.
“Why are you here?” she said.
“Your letters, my dear,” St. Michaels said. “Of course I would come.”
“I proposed we meet at the Floating Duck. You have invaded my home!”
He bowed. “Forgive me, my love, but I suspected a trap.”
“I see.” She waved her arms. “So you break in with these ruffians?”
Susannah held her pistol behind her back, but Mercy’s cudgel had fallen when the men entered the room. Claire’s knife lay on the floor, as well. A good thing she had three more secreted about her person.
If needs be, Charlotte would accompany the monster. She had survived him once and could do so again, for no one must be hurt.
She stepped toward St. Michaels.
“Stop!” Patrick boomed.
Charlotte did, for her husband having wheeled into the room, aimed a pistol at St. Michaels’ heart.
St. Michaels’ men cocked their triggers.
Patrick wheeled closer to the baron, all attention focused on the two men holding guns on each other.
Gods above, St. Michaels’ men would shoot him.
A thunk on the stone floor.
The room exploded.
Lucy raised her stick to take out St. Michaels.
“He is mine, Lucy!” Patrick shouted, who charged.
Lucy’s stick whirled through the air, knocking the gun from St. Michaels’ hand.
The ruffians attacked the women.
“Do not fire!” screamed St. Michaels.
Susannah shot a ruffian in the shoulder.
Claire’s knife dove into another’s neck.
Another shot rang, and Claire staggered, her face gone white, while red bloomed on her arm.
Charlotte leapt in front of Claire, ducking low to clutch the man who had shot her sister, tossing him over her shoulder.
Lucy took out two ruffians simultaneously, her moves blindingly fast, while Mama headed for Claire, who clutched her upper arm, whirling, knife in hand.
St. Michaels drew his sword to swing at Patrick who leaned forward, the baron’s blade missing by inches. He punched St. Michaels in the gut.
The man pitched onto the floor.
“Halt!” Patrick hollered, both hands pointing pistols at their enemies.
The room became motionless and quiet, St. Michaels staggering to his feet, pistol aimed at Charlotte.
One other ruffian remained standing, but where…
Charlotte bit her cheek so as not to scream, her heart exploding with fear.
The remaining ruffian hovered beside Rose, his pistol’s barrel pressed to her pregnant belly.