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“’E said ’e would get ’ere by nightfall. Now shut up and leave me alone.”
“She shore is a fancy piece. ’E might not notice if we just ’ave a wee taste of ’er afore ’e gets ’ere.”
Emma’s stomach dropped into her shoes, but she forced herself to remain strong, for she knew that whatever she was feeling, Belle was feeling it a hundred times worse.
“Are you stupid? Of course ’e’s gonna notice if we touch ’er. Damn it, if you ruin this fer me, I’ll kill ya. Don’t think I won’t.”
A scuffle ensued. Slightly panicked, Emma knocked on the door.
“What the hell?” An unkempt man whipped open the door. Belle was sitting on a bed by the far wall next to the other man. Next to the bed was an open window. Emma noticed that her cousin wasn’t moving a muscle, and she strongly suspected that the man next to her had a pistol pointed at her back.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” Emma said quickly, bobbing a curtsy. “But the innkeeper was wonderin’ if you’d be wantin’ something ta eat. ’E thought you might want it up ’ere in yer room.”
“I don’t think so.” The door started to close in Emma’s face.
“Hey! Wait a minute. Did ya ever think that I might be ’ungry?” The man on the bed glared viciously at his partner.
“All right. Bring us up a meal. Meat pie, if you got it. And some ale.”
“Thank you, sir. Oi’ll get it up ta you as soon as oi can.” Emma bobbed another curtsy, afraid that she’d overdone the accent. She waited by the door for a few moments after it closed, listening to see if the villains suspected anything. They only continued to bicker, so Emma was convinced that she’d carried off her charade. Besides, Belle hadn’t even recognized her.
Once Emma returned to her room, she sent Ames down to order some meat pie and ale. He brought it back to her on a tray about ten minutes later. “Wish me luck,” she whispered, and disappeared down the hall.
Taking a deep breath, Emma knocked on the door again.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, sir, bringin’ ya some meat pie, jest like ya asked fer.”
The door opened. “Come on in.”
Emma entered and put the tray down on the bureau, taking the plates one by one to a nearby table. She had to prolong her precious few minutes in the room. She needed to let Belle know that help was on the way. But her cousin had her gaze fixed on one of the bedposts and wasn’t moving.
“Could you believe the rain we ’ad yesterday?” Emma said suddenly. “Oi swear, it was a tempest out there, don’tcha think?”
The villain by the door gave her a funny look. “Yeah, I s’pose.”
Emma brought the third and final plate over to the table. “And everybody got so upset about it. Personally, oi thought it was all much ado about nothing, but ya know, some people won’t listen to reason.” She moved back to the tray and picked up a mug of ale with two hands. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Belle’s eyes narrow. “Oi don’t know,” she continued brightly. “It all turned out fine in the end. Don’tcha think? And that’s all that matters, right? All’s well that ends well, that’s what oi always say.”
No doubt about it, Belle had definitely torn her eyes away from the bedpost and was now regarding Emma curiously.
Emma, meanwhile, was still holding the second mug of ale. “Some folks, though, they just like ta complain, an’ there’s nothin’ ya can do about it. My sister Cymbeline, she just went on and on about the rain. I thought my brother Julius was gonna kill ’er. When Julius sees ’er wailin’ it’s like the devil’s gotten inta ’im.” Emma paused and put the last mug of ale on the table. “But my other sister, Emma, she stepped in afore Julius could ’urt poor ol’ Cymbeline. She took care of everything.”
Belle started coughing uncontrollably. Her fit seemed to jolt the villains, who had been almost mesmerized by the strangeness of their serving maid, back into reality. “Listen you,” the one by the door said. “We’ve got a lot to do. Get on out of ’ere.”
Emma bobbed another curtsy. “As you like it.” And she was gone.
Through the door she could hear the men yelling at Belle. “Whatsa matter with you now? Yer not getting sick on us, are you?”
Belle’s coughs petered out with a few feeble clearings of her throat. “It must have been the rain.”
Bottomley rode like the devil himself was on his tail. He sailed through villages big and small, pushing his horse nearly to exhaustion. If he hadn’t been convinced of the urgency of his task when he left, he certainly was by the time he arrived at Westonbirt. The hard, unrelenting pace of his ride had slowly pushed him further and further into a state of panic, until he was certain that the very fate of the world depended on his reaching the duke.
Sliding off his horse onto wobbly legs, he ran into the house, gasping for breath and shouting, “Yer grace! Yer grace!”
Norwood appeared instantly, ready to upbraid Bottomley for his complete lack of decorum, not to mention his use of the front door. “Where is his grace?” Bottomley gasped, clutching Norwood’s shirtfront. “Where is he?”
“Get a hold of yourself,” Norwood bit out. “It’s hardly seemly—”
“Where is he?” Bottomley demanded, shaking the butler.
“Good God, man, what is wrong?”
“It’s her grace. She’s in danger. Terrible, terrible danger.”