‘I have a proposition to put to you.’ Bartholomew spoke out of the side of his mouth and inclined his head in the direction of the window.
Why was he not surprised? The man was as slippery as an eel.
De Silva and Father Brown’s voices were nothing but a series of rumbles. Sergey stepped across the room. ‘What would that be?’
‘I think we can come to an arrangement that would be beneficial to us both. We need to speak privately.’
‘There’s nothing that can’t be said in front of Catherine. She has a right to know what is happening. You are to be married.’
At the sound of her name Catherine lifted her pale face, the desolation in her eyes chilled him. ‘We will not be married. Not now. Not ever.’
For a brief second his heart stilled—he wouldn’t have to imagine her on Waverley’s arm, in his bed, as his wife. Whatever the outcome of this night he’d die a happier man for that reason alone.
Bartholomew turned whippet quick, finger pointing. ‘Be quiet, Catherine.’ Then he rammed his outstretched finger into Sergey’s chest. ‘You seem to have forgotten a couple of things.’
‘Suppose you tell me.’ He swatted Waverley’s lily white hand aside. He’d forgotten nothing. Every detail, every piece of evidence was etched in his memory. There’d be no disappearing this time. He should have pulled the trigger while he had the opportunity. It would all be over by now and Waverley wouldn’t be trying to wheedle his way past the truth.
‘The first concerns that sister of yours and her little affliction. She’s stolen a sapphire ring that’s worth a fortune. Another pretty bauble she couldn’t keep her sticky fingers off, and she raided my desk. The desk of a well-respected businessman and member of Sydney society.’ In one well-practised movement Waverley spun the dubloon in the air, then slipped it back into his fob pocket.
‘Who happens to have spread badly forged promissory notes all over Hobart and Sydney and throughout the goldfields.’
‘I have collateral to cover those.’
Catherine turned, her eyes suddenly alight. ‘You stole from those diggers. Took their gold in exchange for forged notes. Women and children have been left starving because of what you’ve done.’
‘Listen up. I have assets. Many of them. The past is just that— the past. This country is populated by people who’ve overcome their past.’
‘As well as plenty who didn’t,’ Sergey snapped. ‘You don’t understand, do you? It’s not about money. It’s about the dishonour you brought on my family. Nikolas’s name will be cleared.’
‘It won’t stand up in court. Who is the judge going to believe? The brother of a murderer, a trick rider and his light-fingered sister.’ Bartholomew’s lip curled. ‘Or a reputable Sydney businessman innocently caught up in a forged banknote scandal?’
Sergey had lived too long with the trapped feeling, the rage, the hatred eating at him from the inside out. A red haze swarmed before his eyes.
He didn’t remember making a fist.
Blood erupted from Waverley’s nose, patterning his silver waistcoat.
For a man his age De Silva’s grip was remarkably strong. Sergey didn’t fight it, although he couldn’t resist a smirk. He’d like to beat Waverley to a pulp. ‘That was for my light-fingered sister, the next one’ll be for Nikolas.’
‘Father Brown, would you be so kind as to remain here with Bartholomew.’ De Silva gave Sergey’s arm an adept twist and propelled him to the door. ‘Catherine, open the door and come with us.’
With her eyes wide she gave Sergey one long searching look and walked from the room ahead of them, her silk dress whispering across the floor.
‘Don’t imagine you’ve won. No matter what happens I still hold a mortgage over this place. I am calling it in. Cottington Hill will be mine.’ Bartholomew’s voice faded as the door closed.
De Silva thrust Sergey into the dining room and released his arm. ‘Stay here.’
By the time he’d turned around De Silva had gone and Catherine stood with her back against the closed door, face bone-white, crumpled like a fallen angel.
He had to talk to her, explain. The look on her face when she’d seen the ring had told him everything. She had no idea who Waverley was or what he was up to. He’d failed her as much as he’d failed Nikolas. Her intentions were noble, her concern for the tenants, the property and Tilly, and he’d mistaken them for lies, so blindsided by his version of the truth.
He twirled the ring in his fingers, running the pad of his thumb over the smooth facets of the square-cut stone.
‘That was to be my betrothal ring.’
‘Valentina stole it. From Bartholomew’s house.’
Her lovely eyes put the sapphire to shame as she gazed up at him. ‘Valentina truly stole this from Bartholomew’s house in Sydney?’
She may as well have the truth, the whole ugly truth. Bartholomew was right—who would they believe?
He owed her honesty now. He should have told her the truth right from the moment she’d returned from Bathurst, not jumped to conclusions based on his own warped view of the world. He was so enmeshed in the tangled web of lies Waverley had woven to protect his own life that he hadn’t thought clearly.
‘My sister is a thief and my brother hung for murder.’
‘And you?’ She arched an eyebrow at him.
‘I am not worthy of your consideration.’
‘Let me be the judge of that.’
‘Not until you know the truth, all of it.’
Something flickered behind her eyes, a shadow of doubt still hovered despite her words.
‘For the last five years, my need to hunt down the man responsible for Nikolas’s death has consumed me. I’d lost sight of all that is good, all that is honourable.’
‘You are the most honourable man I have ever known.’
She didn’t know, couldn’t understand what he’d believed of her. He’d acted as judge and jury, everything he despised, and she was innocent, as innocent as Nikolas. ‘I thought you deliberately inveigled your way into the circus, that Waverley put you up to it because he knew I was onto him.’
Her mouth dropped. ‘You thought I was working with Bartholomew, that I’d lied about Cottington and my marriage, my inheritance. Is that why Rudi sent Tilly and me away?
‘That’s about the sum of it.’
‘I did lie to you.’
A stone lodged in his stomach. ‘You lied to me.’
‘Yes. Not about Bartholomew. I knew nothing of his past or his plans, and I’m certain Pa didn’t either. I lied to you about Tilly’s promissory notes. Mr Noakes refused to honour them. Told me they were forgeries. I couldn’t bear to see Tilly and the children suffer. I thought if she had money then Rudi would let her stay with the circus camp.’
‘So where did the money come from?’
‘I cashed them myself.’
‘Where are they?’
‘I still have them. Archie insisted I take some money with me when I left here to join you and the circus. He sewed it into the lining of my velvet riding jacket. I didn’t want Tilly to feel indebted, that she was taking charity.’
Sergey groaned. ‘I presumed you were involved with Waverley, that you’d met him in Bathurst and got those forged notes cashed to keep us off his trail.’
‘You didn’t give me the opportunity to explain.’
‘Because I accused and sentenced you without thinking to discover the truth. I’m no better than the judge that sentenced Nikolas. No better than Waverley.’
Somewhere in the past five years his pain at Nikolas’s death had diseased his soul and not once had he tried to find a cure other than revenge. It was time to change, for Catherine’s sake and for his own. ‘Can you forgive me?’
‘There is nothing to forgive. You’ve saved me, and all the people who call Cottington Hill home.’ Except that he hadn’t because hanging over her head was the reason she’d finally agreed to marry Bartholomew.
Cottington Hill will be mine. Bartholomew’s last words rang in her ears.
She lifted her head from Sergey’s shoulder. ‘It will break my heart to leave here.’ She couldn’t imagine a life without Cottington any more than she could bear the thought of losing Sergey.
‘There must be a way.’ He drew her into his arms, his familiar aroma surrounding her. The solid familiarity of his body made her want to bury her head in his broad chest and cry. A hicuppy sob sneaked between her lips.
How long she stayed clasped in his arms she had no idea, the sun sank below the horizon and a pale twilight lit the room with a pink glow.
Only when Archie’s grinning face appeared around the door did they pull apart. ‘They’ve carted Bartholomew off, Father Brown’s gone too. Magistrate Le Grice will want to talk to you. For the time being the bugger’s under lock and key where he belongs.’
‘That’s good, Archie. Thank you.’
‘Come on. What’s the matter with you, girl? Before long you’ll be twenty-one. The property’s safe. All yours and all tied up. No need to marry that bumptious fool.’
Archie had been right so often but not this time. ‘It doesn’t solve the problem of Cottington. Whether Bartholomew’s guilty or not he still holds a mortgage over the place. A mortgage we can’t pay. I haven’t managed to save Cottington Hill. What’s going to happen to everyone?’
‘Why don’t I go and get Mr De Silva. See what he’s got to say.’ Without waiting for her reply Archie bounced out of the room.
‘What’s he up to?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Before Archie and De Silva come back I want you to know that right from the beginning when I asked you to come with us I had no idea it would lead to this.’
‘Believe me, if I had known of Bartholomew’s past I would have refused him outright. Pa would never have suggested the marriage. He was desperate, sick and worried for the future. Bartholomew preyed on him in his weakness.’
‘In very much the same way he took advantage of Nikolas.’ Sergey ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head. ‘My mother died giving birth to Nikolas. We thought he’d died too. I can remember the colour of his face, blue, and his lips an even inkier colour. Then I picked him up and he coughed, drew his first breath. Perhaps it was too late. He found everything difficult. Speaking, walking. He never rode a horse. When he got the job with Waverley as his nightwatchman in the pawnshop he was so proud of himself. At last he felt he was helping, earning money … I should have taken better care of him.’
She ran a hand down his unshaven cheek, cupping his jaw, then stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the lips, tasting his remorse. Perhaps if she’d taken better care of Pa … she shook the thought away.
‘They’re in here. Mr De Silva, we need your advice about something.’ Archie led De Silva into the room.
‘Catherine, it’s late. I really think you should consider taking some rest. It’s been a taxing day for all of us. Mrs Duffen has been kind enough to offer me a bed for the night.’ De Silva frowned. ‘What about you, young man?’
‘I’m going to Maitland. To keep an eye on Waverley, make sure he doesn’t talk his way out of anything. And the magistrate wants to talk to me.’
Archie pushed himself forward. ‘This matter needs to be sorted out once and for all. No one’s going anywhere just yet.’
‘Really,’ said De Silva, ‘I think everything can wait until tomorrow.’
‘No. Listen up. I’ve kept me mouth for too long. Didn’t even tell Catherine because I didn’t know what to do. Bloody hard keeping me mouth shut when she got back.’
With a long-suffering sigh De Silva pointed to the table. ‘Then perhaps we should all sit down. Catherine?’
She’d be more than happy to sit down, her legs could hardly support her. Whether it was from relief, fear or simply Sergey’s comforting presence she had no idea.
Archie didn’t wait for them to be seated. ‘Someone should’ve asked Bartholomew what he was doing down by the river.’
What on earth was Archie talking about? She’d seen Bartholomew down at the river, the day she’d taken Tilly to the Davis’s place. A new home Tilly would never live in unless money could be found to pay the mortgage. ‘What does it matter what he was doing down by the river?’ Bartholomew had probably covered the whole place working out just how many gold licences he could sell once he’d moved the tenants on.
‘Is this relevant, Archie? Everyone is very tired.’
‘You be the judge of that, Mr De Silva.’ He reached into his pocket and scattered a handful of gold nuggets and flakes across the dining table. ‘He’s been chucking this about down at the river.’
‘Ah! The gold you were telling me about.’ Sergey leant over and picked up a largish nugget, tossing it in the palm of his calloused hand.
‘He’s been salting it, seeding it. Throwing it around like a man possessed down in the river flats. I seen him.’
The day with Tilly. Archie’s strange disappearing act and then Bartholomew flying over the hill in Pa’s buggy. Wandering around throwing his arms in the air. She’d left quickly, hoping to avoid him.
De Silva looked up. ‘You saw Bartholomew planting this down at the river?’
‘Yep, that’s right. Salting, that’s the word. It ain’t right. Been a few blokes accused of doing that. ’Gainst the law, I reckon.’
‘Why would he do that?’ Catherine massaged her temples, trying to soothe the pounding in her head.
‘A very good question, a very good question.’
She tried to remember that day over breakfast when she’d agreed to marry Bartholomew. ‘He told me he’d commissioned a friend of his, a Mr Hargreaves, to do a survey because there was gold on the property.’
‘Have you seen a copy of this survey?’ De Silva asked, a frown of concentration on his forehead.
Not that she could remember. The last few days had been such a blur. Come to think of it she hadn’t seen the wedding licence either.
‘Might be a good idea if someone checked Mr Cottingham’s desk. Bartholomew’s been spending a lot of time in the study.’
‘A good idea, Archie. I’ll go and do that right now.’ De Silva stood and reached for the door handle.
‘Before you go, I got a question. What’s this gold worth?’
De Silva shrugged his shoulders.
Archie turned to Sergey. ‘You’ve been to the goldfields, you ought to know.’
‘Depends who’s buying. Last I heard about four pounds an ounce. Depends on the quality.’
What had all of this to do with her? Somehow Catherine couldn’t summon any enthusiasm or interest.
A satisfied grin stretched across Archie’s face. ‘I’m not too good with them big numbers, Mr De Silva, out of my league, but I’ve picked up a hell of a lot of the stuff Bartholomew’s been throwing about.’ He hefted the bulging leather pouch in his hand, similar to the one that held the money he’d sewn into her jacket. ‘I’d say this is my gold, Miss Cottingham’s in fact. Found on her property. I’d hazard a guess it might cover that mortgage. If not, there’s more where that came from.’ He plonked the pouch down on the table. ‘Be my pleasure to see the place clear and free of debt. Be happy to hand it over, as a gift like. Is there somewhere you’d like me to make my mark?’
Catherine’s stared at him. Was she understanding Archie correctly?
De Silva coughed and his face flushed first red then almost puce. ‘What you’re suggesting, Archie, isn’t technically legal. That gold belongs to Bartholomew.’
‘Rubbish.’ Catherine’s throat tightened as if she were about to burst into tears. ‘No, it doesn’t. It belongs to all those poor diggers Bartholomew scammed with his forged promissory notes. Ask Tilly, she’ll tell you.’ She covered her face with her hands.
‘It’s time I left. I want to make sure Le Grice has all the facts.’ Sergey moved towards the door.
‘You better take this then.’ Archie slid the pouch across the table. ‘See what you can do with it.’
‘Wait, let me see if I can find this report from Hargreaves and the wedding licence,’ De Silva said as he and Archie left the room. Would this never end?
The next thing she knew Sergey’s warm hands covered hers and lowered them from her face. ‘Catherine, in another time and another place I would never leave your side but I owe it to my brother, to my family, to see Waverley brought to justice. Until that happens I can’t rest.’ He brushed his lips over the back of her hands.
She didn’t want him to leave. He gave her strength, made her brave. ‘Stay, please stay.’
‘I can’t. I have to see this through. I’ll return as soon as I know Waverley is behind bars.’
He’d had to go, couldn’t wait a moment longer or he wouldn’t have the will. Everything driving him forward had been taken, gone with Waverley to the lock-up.
Archie’s plan was a stroke of genius. It would leave Catherine free of debt and give her Cottington Hill—all she wanted, all she needed. And he intended to make sure that happened. This time he would be the one with the proposition for Waverley.
If he could talk him into relinquishing the mortgage papers in exchange for the gold, Waverley wouldn’t get done for salting. He still wouldn’t have a leg to stand on when he came up for trial for the forged promissory notes and the sapphire ring and dubloon would link him to Toombes’s murder. The man wanted to do a deal—Sergey had one for him.
Tsar was less than enthusiastic when he led him out of the stable. He threw Bessie a look as much as to ask whether he could stay.
‘I’m sorry, old mate, this isn’t quite over yet.’ He waited for Tsar to accept the bit, then slipped the bridle over his ears and turned to the saddle. He couldn’t call it over until Waverley stood in the dock sentenced for Toombes’s murder and Nikolas’s name was cleared. Sergey swung himself into the saddle and took the short cut up the hill to pick up the track to Maitland. With luck he’d be there just after dark.
Finding the lock-up didn’t prove difficult. It housed the only light burning in the main street. Through the window he could see two constables sitting at a table, mugs of something in front of them. No sign of the magistrate, no sign of Waverley. His stomach churned. He’d intended to go with them but they’d had Waverley out of Cottington before he’d even known they’d arrived. One look at Catherine’s heartbroken face and he’d known who was more important.
He dismounted and tied Tsar to the hitching post, took the steps onto the verandah two at a time and pushed open the door. The larger of the two constables looked up from the array of playing cards in front of him. Patience. Exactly what he needed in a large dose.
‘Waverley.’ He turned to his mate. ‘Know anyone by the name of Waverley?’ The other constable scratched his pockmarked face and pushed back his chair, stretching out his legs. ‘Nope. No one by that name.’
Jesus Christ! He’d done it again. Talked his way out of it. Surely not. ‘Short bloke, balding, wearing a blood-splattered silver waistcoat.’ And with any luck a broken nose if his punch had landed square.
‘Oh! You mean Mr Bartholomew.’
Right, of course. ‘Yes, Mr Bartholomew.’ He spat the words through his clenched teeth. Bartholomew wouldn’t be the only one with a broken nose if these two fools didn’t stop mucking him about.
‘Not here.’
‘Where then?’
‘Magistrate Le Grice wanted a quiet word with him.’
Sergey stood his ground. ‘Where would I find Magistrate Le Grice?”
‘Not sure we should be giving away information like that.’
That did it. He reached out, grabbed the idiot by the lapels of his officious blue jacket and lifted him to eye level. ‘Where?’
‘Down the road. First left. Next to the Albion Inn.’
He was out of the door and back on Tsar before the bloke’s feet hit the ground. Bloody Waverley, he could talk his way out of an adder’s nest.
The Albion Inn was as quiet as charity in the goldfields and only one light burnt in the window of the house next door. Not bothering to tether Tsar he flung up the steps and hammered on the door.
‘Waverley. Show yourself.’ He threw a kick at the shiny black door. ‘Bartholomew!’
As he lifted his foot again the door swung open. A tall man with ferocious white eyebrows peered down his hooked nose at him. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I want to speak to Bartholomew.’
‘Petrov, is it? De Silva said I should expect you.’
Sergey grunted and pulled his jacket straight. He must look like a madman, he was behaving like one too. He’d never get to Waverley unless he took control of himself. ‘I beg your pardon. I would like to speak with Mr Bartholomew. I called at the lock-up and they told me I’d find him here.’
‘That’s more like it.’ Le Grice winked at him. ‘Come in. We’re just having a nightcap.’
The hairs on the back of his neck rose, every instinct he possessed told him he was wasting his time. What hope did he have against the likes of Bartholomew with the law behind him? He’d said no one would believe the son of a blacksmith, a trick rider. He almost called it quits until Catherine’s tear-stained face flashed before his eyes. He’d let Nikolas down. He wouldn’t do it again, not to her. Not to anyone.
‘Thank you.’ He stepped over the doorstep and followed Le Grice down the hallway into a room lined with overflowing bookshelves. A lamp on the desk threw a strange green tinge over the room. Bartholomew was sitting low in a leather chair in front of a small fire.
‘Can I get you a drink? Brandy?’
‘No. No, thank you.’ He needed to keep his head clear and he couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten, or drunk anything for that matter.
Le Grice gestured to the pair of winged leather chairs in front of the fire.
‘I’ll stand.’
‘As you will.’ The magistrate took the chair on the left of the fire, crossed his legs and looked up at him. ‘You wanted to speak to Bartholomew?’
Yes, yes he did although now the moment had come he wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. De Silva had said he doubted the legality of Archie’s scheme and here he was about to propose it in front of a magistrate. Well, he’d find out soon enough who was the ass.
‘I have a proposition to put to Mr Bartholomew.’
The body in the chair stirred, the slightest sign of interest. Perhaps he’d belted the bloke so hard he’d rendered him insensible.
‘Go ahead, young man, go ahead.’
‘Mr Bartholomew holds a mortgage over Cottington Hill that he has threatened to call in if Catherine Cottingham doesn’t marry him. She would like the opportunity to pay said mortgage out.’ Still Bartholomew didn’t react, didn’t even lift his head.
‘Does she have the funds to cover that mortgage?’
‘Yes, yes she does.’ This was ridiculous. Give him a raucous audience and a horse beneath him any day. He might as well be a schoolboy standing up to recite his lesson.
‘Bartholomew.’ Le Grice leant forward and rested his hand on the arm of the chair. ‘Will you accept payment for the mortgage papers you hold?’
A grunt sounded from the chair, whether it was agreement or complaint Sergey had no idea.
Le Grice turned to him. ‘How do you intend to pay this sum?’
Sergey pulled Archie’s pouch from his pocket. ‘In gold.’ He dropped the pouch into Le Grice’s outstretched hand.
The chair squeaked and Bartholomew’s swollen face looked up. Chances were Le Grice would have him on an assault charge from the look of Waverley’s face. Sergey didn’t reckon he’d packed such a punch.
God he wanted to lie. Just say the goldfields, pretend it was his, anything to see it through. ‘Cottington Hill.’
‘That’s my …’ Waverley’s voice petered out and he subsided into the chair. ‘I’ll take it as payment.’
He was going to let it go. It couldn’t be that easy.
‘That seems to have resolved your issue, Mr Petrov.’ Le Grice smiled up at him, his eyebrows dancing above his twinkling eyes. They’d discussed it. He’d put more than a gold nugget on it.
‘It’s solved Miss Cottington’s issue. I have other matters that need to be dealt with.’
‘Yes. I am aware of those. Father Brown has just left. There are certain items that will be required. Do you have them?’
Sergey nodded, unable to speak, his throat tight. Could he trust this man? Could he trust the law?
Le Grice second-guessed him. ‘I’ll issue a receipt and draw up a letter for Mr Bartholomew to sign relinquishing his claim to Cottington Hill.’ He moved around behind his desk, pulled out a wad of paper from the drawer and lifted his pen from the inkstand. ‘I understand your reluctance, Mr Petrov. Your dealings with the law in the past have been less than successful. I assure you I wish to see nothing more than this matter concluded. Please trust me.’
Trust. So much easier and less painful simply to rely on himself. If he still had the pistol he could solve the problem in an instant.
‘Mr Petrov?’
Sergey pulled out the wedding licence and dropped it onto the table. The same swirls and patterns Bartholomew favoured, another forgery without a doubt. His fingers brushed the ring. All the evidence he had left to prove Waverley’s guilt. If he handed it over, even if he had some receipt for it, the proof of Waverley’s involvement in Toombes’s death would be lost.
‘Father Brown has given me the promissory notes, both from Sydney and Hobart. Is there anything else?’
‘De Silva couldn’t find any sign of the report from Hargreaves.’
‘That appears to have been a figment of someone’s imagination.’ He threw another look at Waverley still slumped in the chair. ‘Nothing else?’
In one quick movement Sergey pulled the ring out of his pocket and dropped it onto the desk, then snatched back his hand before he could change his mind. ‘You’ll find the Spanish dubloon in Waverley’s waistcoat pocket. He doesn’t like to be without it. Some sort of talisman.’
‘Ah, he didn’t mention that.’ Le Grice rose from the desk and stood in front of Bartholomew, his hand outstretched. ‘The dubloon, if you please.’
With a low moan Bartholomew reached into his fob pocket and produced the bent coin. He turned it over once and brought it to his lips, then dropped it into Le Grice’s palm.
‘Thank you. This matter will come before the courts and I intend to ensure justice is done.’ Le Grice returned to the desk, turned the two papers over, pressed them against the blotter and then carried them and the pen back to Waverley.
He struggled to sit up, then scratched some flourish at the bottom of both sheets of paper.
Sergey had no idea whether it was Waverley’s signature. Who the hell would know? If the man could forge promissory notes and get away with it, a signature, anyone’s signature, would be a snap.
Le Grice added his signature to both documents, folded them in half and held them out. ‘Now I think we should call it a night, don’t you?’
And walk away. Leave Waverley free. If he couldn’t have him dead he at least wanted the bastard behind bars. Le Grice was asking for a bit too much trust. ‘What’s going to happen to him?’ Sergey turned to take one last look at the heap of a man sunk in the chair by the fire. It was only then he noticed the cuffs around Waverley’s wrists and ankles. Perhaps Magistrate St John Le Grice wasn’t such a fool.
Before Le Grice had the opportunity to respond a sharp rap sounded on the door. ‘That’ll be the constables come to take Mr Bartholomew to the lock-up for the night.’ He opened the door and the constables barged past and hauled Bartholomew to his feet.
‘Good night, Mr Petrov. If I need any more information where can I contact you?’
‘Cottington. Cottington Hill.’
The door closed.
Catherine would be overjoyed to know that Archie’s plan had succeeded. There would be nothing standing in her way. Before long she would attain her majority and Cottington Hill would be hers.
Femme sole.
A woman alone.
He gave a low whistle and Tsar appeared around the corner.
Good job the animal could be trusted not to roam. Good job he wasn’t still in the goldfields, someone would have nabbed Tsar by now.
The horse ambled towards him, flicked his ears and bunted him in the chest. Poor animal deserved a feed. Come to think of it, so did he. The sign on the Albion Inn squeaked in the wind. Probably too late but worth a try and tomorrow he’d head back to Cottington and give Catherine the news she was praying for. Then he’d return to the goldfields. Rudi and Valentina needed to hear what had happened from him, no one else. He hammered on the door and after a few moments it swung open.
‘It’s a bit bleeding late. What d’you want?’
Great reception. Le Grice had managed better than that. ‘Bed for the night, stable and feed for my horse.’
Tsar stuck his head over Sergey’s shoulder and eyeballed the bedraggled innkeeper.
‘Bloody hell. I recognise him. You’re from the circus. Come in, come in.’
Tsar bunted his shoulder, nudging him forward.
‘Not the horse. Take him round the back. I’ll get someone to see to him.’
He slept better than he’d done in a long while. No dreams, no images of Nikolas dangling from the gibbet, nothing but a peaceful rest. With a belly full of porridge and cream he resisted the temptation to check on Waverley and headed back to Cottington and Catherine. It was time he learnt to trust.
Tsar knew the path as well as he did and Sergey gave him his head, letting the horse pick the pace and the route until they crested the hill overlooking the house, which stood bathed in the warming glow of spring sunshine.
With a whinny Tsar kicked up his heels and took off across the paddock, away from the house towards the cedar tree. Sergey tugged the reins to no avail; the animal had a mind of his own as he cleared the last gate and came to a halt beside the metal fence surrounding the graveyard.
And there she was, crouched down, spreading the flannel flowers that had been her wedding posy across the graves.
Catherine lifted her tear-stained face to his and gave him a forlorn smile, then with a cry leapt to her feet and tangled her arms around his neck.
‘Why the tears, my love?’
‘I don’t know. Relief I think.
He lowered his face to hers. The barest meeting of lips. His hand cupped her jaw and their lips met again, sending heat streaking through him like a wildfire.
Much, much later she drew back. ‘Did you see Bartholomew?’
He nodded, not wanting to speak about the man, sully this precious moment. He reached into his back pocket and brought out the two documents Le Grice had given him.
A frown crossed her face. ‘What are they?’
‘This is a receipt for Tilly’s promissory notes, and the ones from Hobart and the ring’ He folded the paper and stuffed it back into his pocket. ‘And this is for you.’
She unfolded the thick paper, her eyes racing across the sheet until a heartbreaking smile broke out over her beautiful face. ‘It’s a receipt for full payment of the mortgage. He took Archie’s gold? That means …’ She clutched the paper tightly to her chest.
He knew only too well what it meant. It meant Cottington was free of debt and Catherine was free of Bartholomew. That wasn’t all. Now there was nothing to stop Cottington Hill becoming her husband and her lover. His job was done.
‘I have to go and tell Archie. He’ll be thrilled. It’s the best birthday present I could have. Thank you.’ She bestowed a radiant smile upon him, brighter than any gold and worth more too.
‘Now I must leave.’
‘Leave?’ Her eyes widened and her smile vanished.
‘I have to return to the circus. Tell Rudi and Valentina our search is over.’
‘But I … I love you.’
‘And I you, Catherine. Tainted as it is, you have my heart, always. But first I must see this through.’
‘You’ll return?’
‘Then I shall return, trust me.’