“God, you bastards,” Peter spat. “I’ll never forgive you for this.” He rubbed the fresh drops of blood off his nose and glared balefully at Dominic. In that moment he could have pounded his best friend to within an inch of his life, without regret. If only he could stand without being sick.
“Where is she now?” Peter’s stomach clenched as a look of bitter regret settled over his friend’s face, and knew without hearing the words that it was already too late.
He quickly glanced out of the window at the brilliant golden sunshine streaming through the window, and felt the heavy weight of grief settle over him that was so strong that he wanted to cry aloud in denial. He knew in that moment that she was gone; snatched from him in the cruellest way possible.
He stared blankly down at his hands, hanging uselessly between his knees. He had lost. Failed. He had made promises he hadn’t been able to keep and, as a result, Jemima, the only woman he had ever loved, had died. She had died trying to protect him, and Eliza.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” Dominic offered, wondering if their friendship would ever be the same again. He couldn’t be perturbed by Peter’s anger at him. After all, being knocked out had rendered him useless to do anything to help Jemima. Even though they had already been too late by the time they had arrived at the gaol, it was inevitable that there would be recriminations and accusations when they had to leave empty-handed. If being angry at Dominic helped Peter to deal with his grief, then Dominic was more than willing to take whatever Peter threw at him, fists and all.
It was the desolate calmness about his friend that disturbed him most. Instead of the wild shouting and pleading they had all witnessed in the Mr Simpson’s office, his calm defeat was almost worse.
Throughout their friendship, Peter had always been a warrior, willing to go into skirmishes with a recklessness that at the time had made him one of the best soldiers in the British army. It was disturbing to see him so defeated. It was as though something inside him had simply given up, and it disturbed Dominic greatly.
Peter glared at the man he had considered his friend. He knew it wasn’t Dominic’s fault. The man had, after all, eschewed the warmth of his bed and breakfast in order to accompany him in his desperate quest to save Jemima, but it didn’t ease the thick fog of anger and grief that burned in his veins.
“I won’t say it’s all right,” he growled, his voice as cold and emotionless as the green eyes that glared across the small tavern table at Dominic. “God, I hate you,” Peter snarled, snatching the brandy from the table and downing it in one huge gulp. He gestured to a serving wench, demanding the bottle, as he slammed his goblet down on the table.
“Don’t drink too much, Peter,” Dominic ordered, sitting back and watching as Peter refilled his goblet, downing the contents just as swiftly as the first. “We have to go back to Havistock.”
“Go to hell,” Peter snarled, defiantly refilling his glass and downing that too. He was about to refill his glass for a fourth time when Dominic’s hand on his stopped him. Rage began to build in his chest and he snatched his hand away from Dominic’s.
“We have Jemima’s body to take back to Havistock.” Dominic watched as Peter froze and stared blankly at him as the significance of his words sank in. “Edward and Sebastian have remained at the gaol, to ensure her body is kept separate and returned to us. He is returning to Havistock with her as we speak. She deserves to be buried in consecrated ground, Peter, rather than in that cesspit.”
Peter’s blood chilled at the thought of Jemima’s body, cold and lifeless. A wave of physical pain blossomed from his chest, spreading outwards in a misery that numbed his senses. He glared absently at the bottle before him, and was about to take another drink when a pale and visibly shaken Sebastian appeared beside them.
“Let’s go,” Sebastian suggested, snatching the bottle from under Peter’s nose and taking a fortifying swig directly from it. He hoped that it would wash away some of the horrors he had just witnessed, but knew it would take far, far more than a few swigs of watered-down brandy.
“You have her?” Peter asked softly, eyeing his friend’s haggard features.
Clearly Sebastian was shaken by the morning’s events. His usually handsome face was drawn, his blue eyes troubled and turbulent. Deep grooves now sat on either side of his mouth, matching the wrinkles that marred his high brow.
Peter suddenly realised just how traumatic the morning must have been for everyone, not just himself. He felt some of his anger diminish, only to be replaced with soul-deep sorrow. However deeply the brothers had been affected by the last few hours, they didn’t have the connection to Jemima that he had. He had been the one who had slept with her. He had been the one who had made promises to help her. He had been the one who had failed to keep his promises.
The sudden memory of Dominic’s ordeal when Isobel faced death came to, and he had a better understanding of just what Dominic had gone through. Only this time was different, because Dominic had been given a second chance. Isobel had been alive and, although ill, had found her way back to him to seek the help he had readily offered her.
For Jemima, there had been no second chances. He had blundered, and fumbled, and been useless in offering her any assistance at all, leaving her to a humiliatingly public death. God knows what horrors she had experienced in her final moments.
Anger and self disgust swept through him as he pushed to his feet, moving through the doorway of the tavern in a dark haze of grief. The morning sunlight hurt his eyes as he approached the crude wooden cart sitting directly outside the door.
His eyes met and held Edward’s solemn gaze briefly before he moved to the back of the cart and climbed aboard. His gaze locked on the outline of the body clearly visible beneath the thick blankets.
With shaking hands he slowly drew the blanket down, away from her face, and swallowed the cry of denial that threatened to choke him. Although he had known he was fighting for her life in Simpson’s office, the stark reality of seeing her lifeless face for himself scarred his soul.
Oblivious to the hustle and bustle of the busy thoroughfare, tenderly he trailed a blunt finger down her cold, alabaster face. She was like cold marble. It pained him to feel her so cold. So lifeless. He wished he could see her amber gaze smiling at him just once more.
“God, Jemima, I’m sorry,” he whispered softly, his heart a heavy lump in his chest. “I failed you, and I am so sorry.”
Swiping at the moisture on his cheeks, he sucked in a deep breath, aware that, as he jumped down, Edward leaned backward in his seat and covered her face again; something Peter couldn’t bring himself to do. To cover her in such a way meant admitting she had gone beyond his reach, and he simply couldn’t do it. He didn’t need to pull the thick blanket down further to see the markings on her neck. She seemed so peaceful, almost ethereal; almost as though she was waiting for something, or someone to come along so she could open her eyes. He willed her to do so, but knew it was futile. She was gone. Dead.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Dominic muttered, aware that they were drawing the interest of curious eyes.
After several moments, Peter moved to his horse, taking the reins Dominic held out to him.
“If we can get her back to Havistock, we’ll tell Eliza what’s happened, then I’ll make arrangements to get her to Willowbrook for the funeral,” Peter said, daring anyone to argue.
After several moments of careful silence, Dominic decided that Peter couldn’t really hate him any more than he already did and, after meeting the watchful gazes of Edward and Sebastian, regretfully shook his head.
“We can’t do that. Don’t you think Eliza has been through enough? Scraggan is still out there somewhere,” Dominic inwardly cringed when Peter swung around in his saddle to glare at him. Sucking in a fortifying breath, he continued, “I think that we owe it to her to make certain Jemima is laid to rest in peace and quiet.”
“She is being buried at Willowbrook,” Peter argued, his hard eyes meeting Dominic’s in stark warning.
“It’s really for Eliza to decide; she is her sister, after all. I think Eliza may want to bury Jemima next to her mother and father in Padstow, but Scraggan definitely wouldn’t allow a funeral to take place in his patch.”
“Look, Dominic, it really isn’t anything to do with you. It’s not your decision to make. You didn’t know her,” Peter glared at him, refusing to back down.
“I’m just being practical,” Dominic argued, ignoring Edward’s look of warning. “It is my fault.” He turned uncompromising eyes on Peter and waited until their eyes met before continuing. “If I had remained in Norfolk all those months ago, this would never have happened, but instead I insisted on getting back to Isobel. It’s my fault that Jemima has paid for my mistake with her life and, just like you, I have every intention of making amends.”
“It’s too late now!” Peter snorted, glaring at his friend. “What do you expect to do?” he shouted, pointing a shaking finger toward the back of the cart. “She’s dead! It’s too late! We were too late! Now, it is nothing to do with you,” he growled, shooting each of them a hard glare. “I love her, and I know Eliza will agree that if Jemima cannot be buried in Padstow, then she should be buried far away from Scraggan. She can rest at Willowbrook.”
“Look, you two,” Edward interjected, scowling across the width of the cart toward his brother and Peter. “I think Eliza is the one who has to make the decision. I can understand your argument Peter, but arguing over her body now really isn’t respectful. Leave this discussion until later.”
Swamped by roiling emotions he didn’t know how to handle, Peter lapsed into sullen silence and slowed his horse enough to settle into a steady walk behind the cart. It gave Peter the distance from the others that he desperately needed at that moment. He hadn’t intended to be disrespectful by arguing over Jemima, but felt a fierce protectiveness toward her especially after failing her so catastrophically. Ensuring she could rest in peace was something he could achieve, and he had every intention of not letting her down again.
Little else was said on the long ride back. Peter was disinclined to converse with anyone, preferring instead to remain at the back of the procession, his gaze locked on the lifeless body of the woman he loved.
The atmosphere between the men had grown increasingly tense throughout the journey. None of them had lost sight of the fact that they still had to inform Eliza of her sister’s fate. Edward’s face was filled with dread as they turned into the long driveway of Havistock Hall. Peter couldn’t stand the thought of facing anyone else’s heartbreak, and had to dig deep to enter the house beside Dominic and watch Edward break the news. Briefly his eyes met and held Eliza’s as she desperately sought confirmation that Edward was telling her the truth. Peter couldn’t speak. His throat was locked tight. Unable to bear the desolation on her face as the stark realisation of her loss sank in, Peter averted his gaze, his jaw clenching tightly against the burning need to punch something.
“We were too late,” Eliza whispered, doing nothing to swipe the tears from her drawn face. “Oh God, Edward, we were too late.”
“Let’s get you out of here,” Edward said gently, trying to ease her into the study, only for Eliza to dig her heels in, refusing to budge from the cold marble floor.
“Where is she going?” Grief made her voice tremble.
“We’re going to move her to one of the back rooms. She can stay there until we can arrange the funeral. The maids will prepare her,” Dominic moved forward and held her cold hands. “I am so very sorry, Eliza,” he said softly, his chest tightening with guilt and remorse.
Peter couldn’t stand it any longer. Struggling to contain his grief, he walked silently out of the front door, sweeping past Sebastian without a glance. Once in the fresh air, he sucked in a deep breath of the crisp morning breeze, desperately trying to regain some control over his emotions. If it was his house, he would have no hesitation in going back inside, slamming the door shut behind him and smashing the place to pieces in an attempt to assuage his burning rage. But it wasn’t his house, it was Dominic and Isobel’s, and as a guest he had to respect their property. His inability to vent his pain only increased the burning fury at the unfairness of her death, and he struggled to control the raging emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.
Determined to get Jemima inside, away from any prying eyes, Peter strode to the cart and stood behind, waiting for the others to join him. Within moments Edward, Dominic and Sebastian had appeared on either side of him, helping to slide the board beneath Jemima into their waiting hands.
They carried her solemnly through the front door, past a weeping Eliza and down the corridor toward the back of the house and the servants’ quarters. Dominic had already ordered his butler to clear a storage room, and the maids were just finishing carrying the last of the boxes out of the room when they approached. Standing back respectfully, they watched as Jemima was placed carefully on the solitary table in the middle of the room.
Peter paused for a few moments, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder before reluctantly leaving the room. As he approached the main corridor of the house, he could hear Eliza weeping, but couldn’t bring himself to offer his condolences right at that moment. He just needed to be alone.
At the doorway to the library he paused and glanced into the main foyer. A bitter pang of envy stole through him as he watched Edward sweep Eliza high into his arms and carry her up the stairs to the privacy of their rooms. Dominic drew Isobel into his arms for a hug, clearly needing comfort himself.
The sight of their intimate embrace left Peter feeling more desolate than ever; it was a stark reminder of everything he could never have for himself.
Quietly closing the door behind him, he headed for the brandy decanter. While he was pleased his friends had found happiness, a slow tide of bitterness swept through him that he had no woman to come home to now. No wife to have children with, and share the ups and downs of everyday life with. No best friend, and no soul mate.
All he had left now was a raging thirst for vengeance. Until his dying day, he would not rest until Scraggan was brought to justice. He owed it to Jemima to make sure her death wasn’t in vain. If that meant hunting down the man responsible for setting her up, and meting out his own justice, then so be it. He would face the consequences with pride.
With the image of Jemima’s cold and lifeless face firmly in his mind, Peter took another long draught of his brandy and slumped back against the chaise-lounge to make his own macabre plans.
Some considerable time later, he was slouched, half-drunk, on the chaise, when a visibly shaken Eliza sat down beside him. He couldn’t summon the thoughts, or the interest, to ask her what had happened and was about to take another swig of his brandy when the bottle was abruptly snatched out of his loose hold.
Peter jerked out of his alcoholic stupor and sat bolt upright, grumbling a protest at her abrupt removal of his emotional anaesthetic.
“What do you think you are doing?” she demanded, standing over him and holding the bottle aloft.
He wondered briefly if she was going to hit him with it and immediately tried to stand, only to find his legs wouldn’t hold him up. Eliza’s small hand in the middle of his chest propelled him further backward until he was leaning uncomfortably against the hard arm of the chaise, watching in disgust while she opened the window and hefted the bottle outside.
Ignoring the fact that a woman was present, Peter cursed fluidly and watched her stalk toward him, anger practically reverberating from her. He should stand up and argue with her. He should protest that he was grieving just as much as she was. But all he could do was sit and watch her approach him. He couldn’t blame her for hating him; he deserved her anger. Not only had he failed to protect her sister as he had promised he would, but the results of his failure had brought about untold grief from which neither of them would recover.
His mind clouded with a mix of brandy and grief, he stoically sat perfectly still and silent, and waited for her to lambast him.
“If there is one thing Jemima hated,” she muttered, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling it tight, drawing him forward until they were nose to nose, “it was a drunkard. If I see you with another bottle in your hand, I’ll beat you over your stupid head with it.” Her voice trembled with the strength of her anger as she glared into his eyes.
“What are you trying to do? Do you really think you will succeed in drinking yourself into an early grave too?”
“I love her,” Peter’s voice was hoarse with grief and bitter regret. Staring into eyes so similar to Jemima’s brought about a pang of longing so sharp that he almost cried aloud with the pain of it.
“I know,” Eliza replied gently. “I do too, but drinking yourself to death isn’t going to bring her back. She has gone, Peter. If you really care about her, you need to sober up and help us sort out her funeral. When she is buried, you have an estate that needs your attention and people living and working there that depend on you for their livelihood. You cannot fail them.”
“Like I failed Jemima?” Peter’s voice was harsh as the horrifying memory of his last look at Jemima alive swam in his mind before he could quash it.
“You – didn’t – fail – Jemima.” She bit out each word through clenched teeth. “Nobody did. If you really want to be harsh about it, Jemima could have done more to protect herself. Instead, we sat there in Derby like ducks waiting to be picked off by a merciless hunter. It was only a matter of time before Scraggan found us. Luckily for me, Edward found me and saved me before Scraggan got me. Jemima wasn’t so lucky. There was nothing you could have done. Drinking yourself unconscious is going to get you nowhere,” she chided, releasing her hold on his shirt and pushing him abruptly away from her.
“She should have come to me,” Peter gasped through the heavy weight in his chest. “I would have helped her.”
“I know, but don’t you see? She was trying to protect you. By staying in Derby, she was as close to you as she dared be without actually seeking your help and putting you at risk too.”
Peter studied her as she stood before the fireplace. She looked so familiar, so like Jemima, he ached to hold her. It was all he could do to remain in his seat.
“I would like to remove her to Padstow. She should be buried beside Father.”
“I’m sorry, Eliza, it isn’t possible,” Dominic replied from his position by the doorway, regret lacing his voice. “It’s too dangerous with Scraggan’s men in the area. If we could get her there, they probably wouldn’t give us the opportunity to bury her in peace.”
“We owe her the dignity of a peaceful burial, without the threat of Scraggan disturbing proceedings,” Edward added. He didn’t mention that Havistock was only a few hours away from his own estate, Eliza’s future home. Having Jemima buried at Havistock meant that Eliza could at least visit her sister’s grave whenever she chose.
“I have already arranged for the funeral to be held in two days,” Dominic announced flatly, in a voice that brooked no argument.
Peter swore again and sighed deeply. Although he could understand the need to give Jemima the peaceful burial she deserved, he hated that her final resting place was so far away from his own home in Oxfordshire.
“Eliza, might I have a word with you?” Edward moved toward the door that connected the study to the library and waited for her to join him.
Within moments, Peter was alone in the room with Dominic.
“I’m sorry, Peter. I wish we could move her to Willowbrook, or even Padstow, but it really is up to Eliza,” Dominic began, struggling to find a way to communicate with the new and grief-stricken Peter. Although his friend hadn’t actually vented his fury at being knocked out, Dominic knew their friendship had changed forever, and felt a pang of loss for the easy camaraderie that they had once enjoyed. “I think Edward has plans to marry Eliza, and wants Jemima buried her so she can visit the grave whenever she wants to. You are also more than welcome to visit as often as you want to, I hope you know that.”
Peter ignored the comment, and stared blankly into the fire for several moments. “As soon as she is buried, I’m going after Scraggan and I won’t be back until the bastard is dead. If I go too, then so be it.”
“Don’t say that, the man from the War Office has just arrived. We can decide between us what to do to make Scraggan pay.”
Peter snorted, and stood on shaky legs to glare at his one-time friend. “It’s none of your business. You have your wife, and are expecting your first child any day now. It isn’t your battle anymore. Stay here and take care of your own.”
“You are our own, Peter, whether you like it or not,” Dominic countered swiftly, not liking the reckless determination on Peter’s face. “I think there has been enough death, enough loss in the family, don’t you?”
“I will have vengeance,” Peter snapped, determined not to allow Dominic to command him. “You can do what the hell you like, but nobody is going to stop me getting vengeance for her.”
He couldn’t stand to waste time arguing with Dominic and turned to stumble toward the door.
“I’m coming with you,” Dominic declared, watching Peter’s uneven gait as he lurched toward the door.
“No, you are not,” Peter replied flatly, turning back toward the room. “You have a family to protect. This isn’t your battle Dominic, your job is done. You cannot control everything in your world, especially me. I’m going after Scraggan, and I don’t need your permission to do so.”
“Let’s go and talk to Sir Dunnicliffe,” Dominic suggested carefully, watching his friend sway alarmingly due to the effects of the brandy. “You cannot interfere with a government operation, you know that. Once you know what Sir Dunnicliffe and his men have planned, then we can decide what to do.”
He carefully ignored Peter’s snort of derision and followed him out of the room. They were half way to the library when a loud, high-pitched scream rent the air. Cursing, Dominic turned and took off for the back of the house. Peter paused and listened carefully for several moments, before shaking his head. Whatever madness was going on at the back of the house; clearly wasn’t Jemima, or Eliza, and could be left to Dominic to sort out.
Isobel appeared at the door in front of him.
“Oh, Peter,” she gasped, her eyes full of tears. She made to approach him, her arms held open for a hug, only to pause, and stare at Peter in horror when he backed away.
“Don’t, Isobel,” he growled in a hoarse voice. “Just don’t.” He brushed past her, refusing to look at her again, and pushed through the study door. He didn’t really give a damn what Sir Dunnicliffe had planned for his men. It wouldn’t change Peter’s intention to go after Scraggan himself. Sir Dunnicliffe was bloody useless now. Whatever he was going to do, it was going to be too little too late. If the man had appeared only a couple of days earlier, then he could have been able to step in and keep Jemima off the gallows. As it was, poor timing and bad judgement had murdered her. Peter wasn’t sure he wanted to even see the man, let alone listen to his officious plans.
Something deep inside him, however, some intrinsic need for answers, made him want to see this Sir Dunnicliffe for himself. To see the man who was just as responsible for Jemima’s death as the hangman who had supervised her hanging. As he entered, he eyed the man standing before the fireplace with blatant contempt and immediately moved to the brandy decanter, making no attempt to introduce himself.
Although he had heard stories of Sir Dunnicliffe’s service in the armed forces, he had never been personally introduced to the man who had been lauded by many as a brilliant, intellectual soldier whose forethought and planning had won many battles against the French. Only, this time, his forethought and planning had failed, and for that Peter would never forgive him.
“Good afternoon.” Sir Dunnicliffe bowed politely toward him.
Peter gave him a perfunctory nod, and slouched in a chair beside the fire as a clearly furious Dominic burst into the room.
“Where the bloody hell have you been, man?” he demanded, stalking across the room to stand before the new arrival, a glare of accusation on his face. “We sent word for you several days ago. It doesn’t take that bloody long to walk here from London!” Fury burned in the tense lines of his body as he paused before Sir Dunnicliffe, a muscle ticking rhythmically in his jaw.
Unperturbed by the rude welcome he had just received from both men, Sir Dunnicliffe drew himself to his full height and sighed apologetically.
“I apologise for our unfortunate delay,” he said officiously. “We were unexpectedly delayed with some government business. It was unavoidable, I’m afraid.”
Dominic moved to stand practically nose to nose with the man, his eyes hard and merciless. “Do you realise that your ‘unexpected delay’ caused the unjust death of an innocent person?”
Sir Dunnicliffe simply stared directly back at him, almost defiantly. “I’m sorry. If we could have arrived earlier, we would have, but unfortunately matters were taken out of our hands and there was little we could do.”
Dominic swore, and turned away just as Edward and Sebastian arrived.
“Please excuse our anger,” Sebastian offered, having heard Dominic’s shouting from the corridor. “One of our own was unjustly executed this morning, and we are all in mourning.”
Sir Dunnicliffe stiffened and stared at Peter in alarm.
“Who else?” His eyes flew around the room to land on each man in turn, as he waited for someone to fill him in.
Dominic sighed deeply, and somewhat apologetically offered the new arrival a glass of his best brandy, before waving everyone over to the chairs next to Peter and the fireplace.
“What?” Edward scowled, not understanding the question.
“Who else died?”
“Jemima,” Peter answered. Even saying her name was painful. “She was murdered this morning.” He watched Sir Dunnicliffe slowly take a seat on the wing-backed chair opposite, a dark frown on his face. There was something unusual about the man, only he couldn’t figure out what. His drink-laden mind wouldn’t operate clearly but, drunken stupor aside, there was something about Sir Dunnicliffe that was vaguely - odd.
“Murdered?” Sir Dunnicliffe sounded the word cautiously, as if realising there was something he was missing. He studied the toe of his boot intently and waited for someone to fill him in.
When neither Dominic nor Peter seemed inclined to explain, Sebastian took it upon himself to inform the man of the circumstances of Jemima’s demise earlier that morning as briskly as possible.
“Ah, I see,” was all Sir Dunnicliffe said as he glanced at each man in turn.
“You got word about Scraggan, I take it?” Dominic snapped, unwilling to allow the man off the hook just yet. He was well aware that Sir Dunnicliffe had not actually told them anything, and, given the circumstances of the morning, it rankled. A lot.
Sir Dunnicliffe nodded and looked sideways at him, before taking a long, fortifying draught of the amber liquid in his goblet. He knew if he had any chance of getting out of the room alive, he had to choose his words carefully. He couldn’t afford to mess things up; at least two people’s lives were at stake.
He nodded and glanced at Dominic. “We got your message. The Star Elite are in position and have been watching him for some time now.”
The conversational tone of his voice belied the brutal efficiency of the small group of elite soldiers who often worked undercover on the most secret missions for the War Office. Very few people knew of their existence, with only a handful of men in the War Office, and the Prince Regent himself, aware of what they have done to gain results. For this particular group, failure was not an option. Sir Dunnicliffe wondered if Peter and Dominic really knew anything about the group of men they had left behind to tie up loose ends in Norfolk, and somehow doubted it. They had certainly progressed from the rag-tag group of ex-soldiers Peter and Dominic had once considered friends.
“I need to take this -” Sir Dunnicliffe’s words were drowned out by a muffled scream from outside the window. Within seconds the room erupted into chaos, as they ran to the French windows as one to see who was screaming this time.
“They’ve got Eliza,” Edward snarled, slamming out of the French doors, and breaking into a run after the burly man carrying a screaming Eliza across the manicured lawn to the trees.
“I’ll get the horses,” Sebastian shouted, racing toward the back of the house.
“Wait!” Sir Dunnicliffe ordered, relieved when Peter drew to a reluctant stop just inside of the door, clearly bristling with impatience at having to stop and explain. “What’s happening?”
“By the look of it, Rogan, Scraggan’s son, has got Eliza,” Peter’s voice was merciless.
“Eliza Trelisk? Jemima’s sister?” Sir Dunnicliffe turned to frown out of the French doors, watching the Cavendish brothers tear across the manicured lawns after the group of burly men who were carrying a screaming young woman, presumably Eliza towards the woods.
“Yes,” Peter sighed. “Edward found her in Derby a couple of weeks ago. Unfortunately, so did Scraggan’s men. Edward managed to keep her safe while he sent word to us asking for our help. Eliza insisted on going to Padstow to see if Jemima was there, so Edward, Dominic, Sebastian and myself agreed to escort her and keep her from Scraggan’s clutched. We were all on our way to Padstow, when we got news of Jemima being held in Derby Gaol. Although we tried to get there in time, we –” Peter sucked in a breath, unable to say the words. He shook his head sadly, and flicked the man a stark look.
Sir Dunnicliffe shook his head regretfully, and turned to stare out of the French doors while he listened to Peter’s explanation.
“Scraggan set Jemima up,” Peter’s voice was raspy with emotion. “There is little we can do to help her now, but while I have breath in my body, they will not take Eliza too.” He didn’t waste any more time with explanations, and vanished.
Sir Dunnicliffe knew Eliza had recently been on her way to Padstow. He also knew that Edward had been accompanied by Sebastian and Dominic Cavendish, as well as Peter Davenport himself. What he didn’t understand was how Eliza had been captured by Rogan Scraggan while in the relative safety of Havistock Hall.
“We need to –,” he turned and found the room behind him empty.
Shaking his head, he stalked to the main hall and motioned to the man standing silently in the shadows beside the front door. Within moments, he too had simply vanished, so efficiently and so quietly, he could have been a ghost.
Sir Dunnicliffe decided to take advantage of not having any of the family members around and, instead of following them out of the house to help chase after Eliza, headed quickly toward the back of the house and the servants’ quarters.
It was time to put plan B into action, before any other unexpected events took place.
“God, what a mess,” he grumbled quietly, shaking his head at the speed at which his carefully thought-out plans were rapidly out of control.