Page 21 of Roseanna (The Shackleford Legacies #3)

Twenty-One

Augustus Shackleford could not imagine what had possessed him when he’d decided to walk to Blackmore. It had only been twenty minutes, but he was already hot and bothered and, what’s more, he was unlikely to arrive in time for lunch. He could only hope he didn’t arrive at the same time as the King. In truth, he should already have been keeping a watchful eye on Dougal, but he’d been unable to resist sharing the news with Percy that his majesty was coming to Blackmore.

Given the tense circumstances, Nicholas had been careful to keep the impromptu visit a secret. Indeed, the Reverend had yet to share the news with Agnes. He’d be lucky to escape with his ballocks intact once she found out. But the clergyman knew he could safely rely on Percy to keep the visit between himself and Lizzy. With luck, Finn would get to meet the King of England at the Garden Party tomorrow.

Providing that things didn’t go to hell in a handcart before then of course…

He was just about to pass the old tithe barn on the edge of the village when he caught sight of two men standing in a patch of shadow. He wouldn’t have paid them much attention except that Flossy began a low grumbling. The sound she made when she really didn’t like someone.

Over the years, Reverend Shackleford had come to trust the little dog’s instincts. Flossy knew a blackguard when she saw one. Instinctively, the clergyman quickened his steps, but to his surprise, Flossy held back, her lip curling back over her teeth. The Reverend slowed and looked back. From this angle, he could see the men clearly and he drew a sharp breath in surprise. One of them was the Comte d’Ansouis.

Tristan Bernart stared at the Comte’s empty bedchamber. Had Babin done a runner? If so, he’d left all his clothes and belongings. And to leave now made no sense. The only way he could hope to evade the noose was to pretend to be one of the victims of the explosion. If he ran now, fingers would point straight at him.

Unless, of course, he intended to escape to France.

Perhaps that had been his intention all along. To set everything up, then escape before Blackmore went up in flames.

Or perhaps his decision had been a hasty one. Up until his arrival, he’d did not know his majesty would be present. To kill the King might well be every revolutionary's dream, but it set the stakes infinitely higher. If he was caught, he’d face far worse than the morning drop.

Tristan gritted his teeth, wondering exactly when the bastard had left. It could have been hours ago. And he’d been waiting for the bell to ring like a good little valet. It was only as lunch approached that he decided to ignore the Comte’s instructions not to be disturbed.

Some bloody conspirator he’d make.

Swearing under his breath, he went down to tell the Duke.

At first, Roseanna couldn’t fathom where the old Scot was going. He didn’t seem to have any destination in mind, but she supposed it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that he was simply going for a stroll. Perhaps she should tell him that lunch would be served in less than half an hour.

She quickened her pace, intending to ask if he wished to accompany her, but before she could get close enough to hail him, he promptly disappeared. For a second her steps faltered, then she picked up her pace again, fearing he’d fallen. The last thing the poor man needed was a broken leg to go with his toe.

Seconds later, she arrived at the place Dougal had vanished. It was an open courtyard, one that she’d never been in before. The laundry room and scullery were to the right and, looking around, she could see a couple of empty carts like the one the two conspirators had been in the day before. However, the courtyard was currently deserted, although she could hear voices coming from the laundry room.

She took a few steps forward and spun round. There was no sign of the old Scot. Turning back towards the house, she suddenly spotted a set of steps leading downwards. From her position, she could just see the top of a door.

Putting Trixie down on the ground, she walked towards the steps. As she got closer, she realised she was looking at Blackmore’s cellars, and the door was wide open.

Picking Flossy up to stop her grumbling, the Reverend stepped to the side of the barn where he couldn’t be seen. Once the little dog was quiet, he was able to hear what was being said.

‘Mary said yer wantin’ a lift to Plymouth. It’ll be ten bob, an’ not a penny less.’

The Reverend couldn’t help wincing. Ten shillings? He was being robbed. Wait ‘til the varmint saw the state of the old Alf’s cart. He’d be lucky to reach Plymouth by Christmas. And why the devil was he going to Plymouth anyway?

To the clergyman’s surprise, the Comte accepted the cost without quibbling.

‘It’ll tek me ‘alf an hour to catch Dolly ‘an ‘itch ‘er to the wagon,’ Alf went on.

‘Can’t you get here any sooner?’ There was both frustration and fear in the Frenchman’s growl.

‘You could always walk,’ was Alf’s matter-of-fact response. ‘Best wait inside the barn. This ‘eat ain’t good fer a nob.’

Seconds later Alf strolled unhurriedly back towards the village, whistling, while his would-be passenger stood watching with gritted teeth. After a few moments, however, the Comte picked up his valise, pulled opened the door and stepped into the dimness of the tithe barn. Given that the barn was a haven for rats and smelled like it, the Reverend guessed he was more concerned about being seen than avoiding a suntan.

Evidently the Frog was doing a runner. The Reverend had no idea what the implications of that might be, but he knew he had to stop Pierre d’Ansouis from leaving Blackmore - and he only had half an hour to do it. Obviously, he could pay Alf the ten shillings not to take the Comte, but the old skinflint would likely ask for eleven instead.

He needed Percy.

‘We’ve searched the whole of the area directly underneath the dining room and found nothing.’ Adam’s frustration was clear. ‘Could we have got it wrong?’

The two men were conferring in the Duke’s study as usual, though Adam had barely recognised his friend. Nicholas rarely dressed so ostentatiously.

‘It’s more likely they did,’ the Duke responded. They weren’t able to access the most current plan of the cellars, and the one they lost to Rosie wasn’t entirely accurate, so it could be they managed to unearth one that was even older - before the most recent alterations were made to the house.’

‘Fiend seize it, it’ll take us hours to check every bloody cellar,’ Adam grated.

‘Where are the others?’ Nicholas quizzed him.

‘In the laundry room.’ The Earl gave a weary grin before adding, ‘Fortunately, one of the barrels we brought back up contained a side of salt pork, so at least we won’t go hungry.’

A sudden knock interrupted their conversation. Directing Adam out of sight, Nicholas opened the door to a thunderous Tristan.

‘You’d better come in.’ Nicholas couldn’t imagine what the hell had gone wrong now.

Triston strode in, his body tense with anger. ‘Our charlatan Comte has done a runner,’ he announced through gritted teeth.

The other two men stared at him in silence for a brief second. ‘Are you certain?’ Nicholas didn’t waste time asking how Tristan knew, accepting his nod at face value.

‘We have no choice but to continue on regardless,’ the Duke growled. ‘We have to assume he planned this, leaving the other conspirators to finish what he started.’

‘Continue looking,’ he ordered Adam, ‘We have to have found the powder by the time the King arrives. Since you can’t find it under the dining room, it may be that they don’t intend to wait until dinner.’

‘My gut is telling me that Babin didn’t plan this,’ Tristan stated flatly. ‘I think he got cold feet at the thought of what might happen if he’s caught with the King’s blood on his hands.’

‘If that’s the case, then his flunkies are probably not aware that he’s gone,’ Adam pointed out. ‘When they find out, the carefully timed plan could well go out of the window. Has Chapman arrived yet?’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘Go back upstairs and search the bastard’s room, Tris,’ he instructed, ‘and report back anything you find that we don’t already know.’

Roseanna went down the steps and peeked through the door. The small, vaulted room was dark, but from the light shining in through the doorway, she could see the outlines of what looked like barrels stacked from floor to ceiling. Down the middle was a clear path. Why on earth would Dougal come down here all on his own? Clearly, he wasn’t concerned about being alone in the dark.

‘Mr Galbraith,’ she called softly, ‘Dougal – are you in here?’ Her voice echoed off the arched ceiling, but there was no answer. Roseanna bit her lip uncertainly. She had no idea what to do. If Dougal had come down here willingly, then mayhap she should just leave him to it.

But what if he hurt himself? ‘Damn and blast,’ she muttered under her breath. She looked down at Trixie. The little dog was sniffing round the closest barrels, seemingly unconcerned by the lack of light. Gritting her teeth, Rosie turned back and pushed the door open as far as it would go, then she took one step forward, followed by another, one hand holding Trixie’s lead and the other stretched out in front of her as she waited for her eyes to get used to the dimness. After about three feet or so, the little dog trotted past her, pulling on the lead.

Surprised, Rosie followed, stepping through an archway into the next vaulted room. To her relief, there was a lighted lantern hanging from the ceiling. She began to realise that the cellars comprised a series of identical vaulted rooms, each one with domed apertures positioned around the edge, leaving a clear path through the middle. From what she could see, nearly every aperture was filled with barrels.

Trixie trotted on purposefully, and not knowing what else to do, Roseanna followed. As she stepped through the archway to the next room, she began to hear a rhythmic knocking sound. Suddenly afraid, she stopped dead and listened - it sounded like someone was tapping something.

Abruptly deciding she’d had enough, Rosie bent down, intending to pick Trixie up and retrace her steps. However, the little dog had other ideas. As soon as the lead went slack, she pulled hard, jerking the handle out of her mistress’s hand. Then she shot off, her tail wagging madly. ‘Trixie!’ Rosie ran after her, completely disregarding her earlier attempt at silence.

The tapping stopped, then a familiar voice said, ‘Ah ken ye smelled the whisky, Beatrix. Ye be a bonny wee lass after ma own heart. Dinnae fash yersel, ah willnae be long. Ah reckon a couple more taps should dae it.’

Roseanna finally caught sight of Dougal Galbraith on his knees, using a flat stone to tap a thin sliver of wood into the crack underneath the barrel’s seal. He was surrounded by four open casks.

‘What on earth are you doing, Dougal?’ she gasped.

‘It took me a while, but ma nose never fails me,’ the Scot answered cheerfully, without stopping. Seconds later, the seal popped off and the pungent aroma of malt whisky filled the air. ‘Ha Ha,’ he crowed, climbing to his feet. ‘Dae ye fancy a wee dram, ma lady?’

‘Dougal, what the deuce are you doing, stealing the Duke’s whisky?’ Rosie gasped, horrified. ‘And why are there all these opened barrels?’

‘Ah kenned it be here,’ Dougal answered with a chuckle. ‘Ah jest haed a few false starts.’ He looked round at the open casks. ‘Ah dinnae ken what be in ‘em, but the smell reminds me o’ when ah’ve had too many neeps wi’ ma haggis.’

Frowning, Roseanna stepped over to the nearest barrel. The stink rising from the cask was the same as the one she’d smelled in the cart, only much, much worse. Gagging, she covered her nose. Then she picked up the Scot’s abandoned sliver of wood and poked it into the barrel. A small cloud of what looked like black soot billowed up.

Dougal looked over her shoulder. ‘Come tae think o’ it,’ he muttered, ‘that looks jest like the pooder Brendon haes in his gun back at Caerlaverock.’