Page 22 of Roseanna (The Shackleford Legacies #3)

Twenty-Two

‘Right then, Percy, we haven’t got much time. Has Lizzy still got that candlestick Grace gave her for Christmas – the one where the cherub’s wearing nothing but his smalls?’

Percy looked up in confusion as Reverend Shackleford burst through the front door.

‘Come along, Percy, get a grip. I might have negotiated another ten minutes with Alf, but it still gives us less than half an hour to give the varmint a deuced headache before the old skinflint gets back with the cart and the Frog ends up in Plymouth.’

Percy stood up, more bewildered than he’d ever been in his entire life. He wondered if the Reverend had finally become addled.

‘What exactly do you want it for, Sir?’ he asked carefully, particularly concerned about the reference to a headache.

‘No time for that now lad, I’ll tell you on the way.’

‘Where are we going?’ the curate asked, standing his ground.

Augustus Shackleford gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘Once again, Percy Noon, we have been called upon to save this fair nation. This time from that bacon-brained Frog who, as it turns out, had plans to murder the King.’

‘Then why is he going to Plymouth?’

The Reverend opened his mouth, then closed it again. In truth, the clergyman had no idea whether the Comte had actually planned to do away with his majesty, but why else would he be running away if not because someone had cried rope on the blackguard.

He was getting desperate. He gritted his teeth. ‘Please, Percy, I really can’t do this on my own. I swear I’ll do the braining – all you’ll have to do is tie the varmint up.’

‘With what?’

It had to be said the curate was becoming slightly hysterical. The Reverend wanted to cry. All these years, and Percy was every bit as chuckle headed as he’d always been. Oh, there was that brief time when they’d saved Agnes from having her finger chopped off by George’s murderous foster father, but it hadn’t lasted long…

Augustus Shackleford gave an inward groan. ‘With this.’ He held up a length of rope that had just cost him two shillings from that deuced money grubber. At this rate, he’d be in Dun territory by the end of the day.

‘Once we have him secured, we’ll lock him up in the tithe barn for his grace to deal with…’ He paused before adding slyly, ‘I’m certain the Duke will want to thank you personally for helping secure a traitor.’

He could see that the curate was wavering. In Percy’s eyes, Nicholas Sinclair was only slightly less important than God.

‘Swear you won’t hit him too hard.’

‘I wouldn’t dare,’ the Reverend answered truthfully. ‘I doubt I’ve got long before I’m scheduled for tea and toast with the Almighty. The last thing I want to do is risk ending up on the end of old Nick’s toasting fork instead.’

For a second, Percy looked as if he might cry. Then he squared his shoulders and took Lizzy’s candlestick off the mantlepiece. ‘Lead on, Sir,’ he said with barely a quaver.

‘ Belter . So, what be ma job then?’

Roseanna dropped the stick like it was the gun Dougal had referred to. ‘This is gunpowder?’ she breathed. ‘What’s it doing here?’ She became aware she was standing on what felt like a length of thick yarn.

‘Don’t move Rosie.’ Her father’s stern voice came from directly behind her. Roseanna froze, as much from guilt as fear. Then she frowned as he shouted, ‘Max, we’ve found it. Fetch Jago and Jamie.’

Minutes later, Roseanna was surrounded by the four men while Dougal watched with interest from his seat on the now closed whisky barrel, Trixie at his feet.

‘Step back carefully, love,’ her father ordered her once they’d re-secured the lids on all four barrels.

Swallowing, Rosie stepped backwards until she could no longer feel the rope under her feet.

‘If we follow the fuse, we’ll find the rest of them,’ Jago commented, his voice laced with relief.

‘I can’t even begin to speculate how both of you came to be here,’ Gabriel commented drily, ‘but it appears that we owe you our thanks.’ He turned to Dougal, who was now attempting to hold his pilfered jug of whisky behind his back. ‘Mr Galbraith, I would be grateful if you could please take my daughter and your highly inflammable jug of liqueur far away from these cellars.’

‘Dae ye reckon ah be giein a knighthood fer this?’ he asked, getting to his feet.

‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ muttered Max from the shadows as he traced the fuse to another six barrels stacked tightly in the corner.

‘Go straight to the Duke, Rosie,’ Jamie instructed, ‘and tell him we’ve found it.’ Roseanna nodded, not knowing whether to laugh or cry as she picked up Trixie and followed Dougal back towards the entrance.

‘Mr Galbraith,’ Jamie added, raising his voice to ensure it carried to the disappearing Scot. He waited until Dougal stopped and turned round. ‘ Tell no one .’ The magistrate’s final command left absolutely no room for misunderstanding…

‘Your job will be to look out for Alf’s cart,’ Reverend Shackleford told Finn as the lad trotted happily behind them. Both he and Percy well knew there was no point in forbidding the boy to accompany them – he’d simply take a different route.

The curate scowled at his superior as they approached the tithe barn. Lizzy would have his hide if any harm came to the boy. Not that he’d be able to live with himself either.

‘Right then,’ the Reverend hissed as they arrived at the side of the barn, ‘you’ve got the rope, Percy, and I’ve got the candlestick…’

‘Ah reckon if ye grab him where his ballocks be, Revren, ye’ll get a much better swing,’ Finn interrupted, his whisper deadly serious.

The two men stared at the boy. ‘I’m not sure I’m strong enough to grab the fellow’s baubles,’ the clergyman muttered after a moment.

‘Nae his , Ah’m talkin aboot the candlestick.’ Finn sniggered as he pointed to the cherub’s loin cloth.

The Reverend grasped the candlestick round the cupid's nether regions, as the lad had suggested. It was actually the perfect place for him to get a good a swing. He felt a moment’s disquiet at the boy’s instinctive grasp of such tactics. What had the Almighty got planned for him?

‘I’m going to knock on the door,’ the clergyman whispered. ‘As soon as he opens it, I’ll give him a quick tap on the noggin. Then you run in, Percy and truss the blackguard up like a deuced chicken. Are we ready?’

Father and son nodded solemnly and after only a slight hesitation, Reverend Shackleford gave the door a sharp knock.

For a second, it looked as though the Comte had already left the barn, but after a moment there came the sound of a latch lifting. Taking a step backwards, the Reverend readied himself.

But as the Comte opened the door, the Reverend just couldn’t do it. What kind of an example was he setting to Finn? Tare an’ hounds, he was supposed to be God’s representative on earth. He should be upholding His values, not making deuced excuses to break them.

The two men stared at each other for a second. When the Comte spoke, his voice contemptuous. ‘Who the devil are you and where’s that imbecile with the cart?’

The varmint hadn’t recognised him. Reverend Shackleford blinked, completely thrown.

‘He be waitin’ fer yer roond the corner, yer ludship,’ Finn piped up, stepping forward. ‘He sent us tae fetch ye.’

The Comte narrowed his eyes for a second, then giving a disdainful nod, picked up his valise and took a step through the doorway, just as an enormous rat came scuttling past his feet. With a horrified yell, the Frenchman lifted his foot, intending to bring it down on the rodent’s head.

Flossy had had enough. She’d spent the whole time growling under her breath. As the nobleman lifted his foot, the little dog leapt forward and wrapped her sharp teeth round his ankle. With a scream, the Comte dropped his valise and tried to peddle backwards, but his feet got tangled up in his baggage. Seconds later, his head hit the ground with a loud crack.

‘I tek it he ain’t goin’ to need that ride to Plymouth,’ Alf spoke up behind them.

Percy hurried over to the Comte’s motionless body and used the rope to secure the nobleman’s hands and feet.

‘That he isn’t,’ the Reverend commented cheerfully. ‘But I’ll give you a shilling to take him back to the Duke.’

By the middle of the afternoon, the King had still not arrived, but Duke had received word that his majesty was half an hour away. Most of the other guests were already making themselves at home, including the Duke of Wellington and Lord Grey. Naturally, the politicians had been given chambers at opposite ends of the house.

The barrels of black powder had been swapped for the same number of casks containing harmless food stuffs. The fuses had been replaced in exactly the same position and Chapman’s men were ready and waiting to for the conspirators to show themselves.

To say that Nicholas was surprised at the arrival of the unconscious Comte d’Ansouis would have been putting it mildly. He gave the driver his requested twenty shillings and locked the would-be traitor in Blackmore’s one and only dungeon.

When his majesty finally arrived, both the Duke and Duchess were ready and waiting on the steps of Blackmore, and if her grace blanched a little at the number of retainers climbing out of the fleet of carriages, she hid it well.

As Roseanna readied herself for the dinner, she couldn’t help thinking about the Revisionists still hidden in plain sight amongst Blackmore’s staff. After passing her father’s message onto the Duke, her uncle had first of all closed his eyes in relief, then had done her the courtesy of relating the events of the last day and a half. But although the danger of an explosion had passed, they still did not know exactly how many conspirators there were, and so far, Etienne Babin was not talking.

Rosie decided to wear her favourite apricot evening gown for dinner. After all, it wasn’t often one had the opportunity to dine at the same table as the King of England. And she couldn’t discount the possibility that Triston would get to see her.

In truth, it seemed overly frivolous to be concerned with fripperies whilst danger still lurked, but Roseanna told herself that neglecting to dress her best for dinner certainly wasn’t going to change matters one way or another. And it made her feel better.

All members of the family were expected to play hosts to the newly arrived guests, and ordinarily Rosie would have run post haste in the opposite direction at such a request. But the last few days had changed something inside of her. The desire to hide away was not quite so prevalent and she’d found herself actually seeking the company of others.

Leaving Trixie curled up asleep, Roseanna went to call for her sister. Both had been obliged to see to their own hair since available lady’s maids were now akin to gold dust. Rosie had opted for a simple twist, though the number of pins securing her hair made her feel like a hedgehog. Francesca too had elected to do a humble chignon and, on their way downstairs, she confided to Roseanna that she feared most of the pins were actually stuck in her head.

Both girls were giggling as they entered the drawing room and for a second Rosie didn’t notice Tristan Bernart standing next to the enormous fireplace. When she finally caught sight of him, she stumbled, her heart constricting in her chest. Tonight, he was wearing in full evening dress like every other man in the room. Had he shed his servant guise?

Her stare did not go unnoticed by her sister. ‘So that’s what I’ve been missing,’ she mused. ‘Roseanna Atwood, when this evening is over, I will not allow you to retire until you have divulged all.’ Feeling suddenly light-hearted, Rosie giggled. All of a sudden, anything seemed possible.

She was still giggling as the King entered the room. The ladies performed deep curtsies, and the men bowed. And for the first time ever, Roseanna did not wish she was back in her bedchamber.

In Roseanna’s eyes, dinner was a truly magical affair. The conversation sparkled. She sparkled, and all the while Tristan was looking at her as though she was the most precious thing in the world. She was certain his attention had not gone unnoticed by her mother and father, but for once, she didn’t care. She was in love for the first time in her life, and it was glorious.

Halfway through the evening, the Duke had a visit from a strange footman. He’d bowed to the King, then continued to speak with his grace. The broad smile on her uncle’s face spoke volumes. The conspirators had been apprehended.

The danger was finally over.

After dinner, the gentlemen declined their port and accompanied the ladies to the ballroom, where an orchestra had been set up for those who wished to dance. As Tristan approached her, Roseanna thought she’d never been so happy. With a blinding smile, she accepted his request for a dance. Placing her hand in his, she was just about to speak when there was a sudden commotion at the ballroom entrance. She turned to see what the tumult was, only to see Blackmore’s butler standing at the door, brandishing a pistol.

A sense of unreality swamped her as Tristan dropped her hand and began to run. What on earth was Boscastle doing with a gun?

She watched helplessly as the butler slowly raised his hand and pointed the pistol directly at the monarch. Shaking her head in disbelief, she took a step forward, wanting to warn his majesty, but somehow the words were stuck in her throat. She vaguely registered the screaming around her, but every ounce of her was focused on Tristan as he threw himself in front of the King, just as the gun went off.