“There’s time for all that later,” he said. “Go upstairs and pack a few things. I’m headed to the village to track down the magistrate, and I’m taking you three to the inn in the village until all is sorted.”
“Where’s Mrs. Hargrave? And Tom?” asked Charlotte.
Sutcliffe blinked and gripped Charlotte’s hand. “They’re gone! They left soon after Mr. Welbourne, and without another word. Oh, please do tell me what is happening.”
Charlotte’s stomach clenched.
Suddenly this very house, which had seemed so isolated for so long, now seemed to be danger itself. She looked back to Anthony. “You’re right. We shouldn’t stay here.”
“Quickly, get your things. Put on dry clothes. I’ll tend the horse and then be right in.”
She was standing near him, and he gripped her hand with his. She squeezed back. Tighter. She did not want to let go. He was the last stronghold—the last place she could garner strength.
Anthony headed toward the stables, and Charlotte and Sutcliffe hurried into the empty kitchen. The familiar warmth rushed her and soothed her trembling limbs, but a new, much more sinister atmosphere had gripped the household. She wanted nothing more than to hold her son tightly to her and never let go, but there would be time for that when they were certain they were out of danger. Now she needed to stay focused.
“Henry’s freezing,” Charlotte ripped her cape from her shoulders, “and no doubt starving. Please get him out of those wet things and feed him. I am going to change and get him a dry gown. Alright?”
Gooseflesh prickled her skin, and the pins holding her hair had long since given way, and her hair hung wet about her shoulders. Her mind raced ahead to the next steps. The inn in the village, and then Anthony would probably return here to meet with the watchmen, if they were indeed to come. Henry would need fresh gowns, his blanket, and—
She stepped from the kitchen through the corridor but as she crossed the great hall, a singsong yet gritty, masculine tone stopped her in her tracks.
“You lied to me, Mrs. Prior. Didn’t you?”
She froze and turned her head in the direction of the familiar voice.
William Walstead exited through the parlor door and stopped just outside the threshold.
She should be happy to see him. Surely he was here to assist. But a frown creased his brow. His russet eyes were dark and hard. And the sinister grin on his clean-shaven face was probably the most frightening thing she had ever beheld.
She resisted the urge to inch backward.
No, he was not here to assist.
She held up her trembling chin, determined to hide the fear—and the confusion—welling within her. “I could say the same thing to you.”
He smirked and stepped forward, his polished boots snapping against the stone floor. “I asked whether you knew about the King’s Prize. You told me you didn’t know to what I was referring. Furthermore, when I asked whether you knew where the emeralds were, you looked me dead in the eye and lied. I find that exceedingly offensive.”
She could only stare as her mind attempted to make sense of his presence.
“Your husband owed me money,” he continued. “A great deal.”
Her voice felt airy and weak, despite her best effort to bolster it. “I’ve told you before that I know nothing of his business deals.”
Walstead chuckled. “Roland Prior was a devious man. A very devious man. But I suppose I should give credit where credit is due. He bested me. Tricked me. But now he is dead, and someone must pay his debts.”
She stammered, grasping at any delay tactic she could summon. “H-how had he bested you?”
Walstead dragged his finger over the windowsill and then looked at his fingertip to examine the dust. “He said he would pay those poor fools who work for him at the mill to go to Plymouth to get his rather large shipment when it arrived from Spain. But he never had any intention of paying them, so he hired me and a few of my best men to steal his goods and return them to him in secret. Since the goods were stolen, he did not have to pay the mill workers for transporting the goods since they did not complete the job and deliver the cargo. Clever, eh? But you see, he then put me off and refused to pay me for not only that job but several others we completed for him around the same time.” He clicked his tongue. “And that is never a good idea.”
“If that is the case, then take it up with the solicitor,” she challenged with a tone much more confident than she felt.
“That’s where you’re wrong, my dear Mrs. Prior. Remember how I told you he’d made unscrupulous investments? His estate is bankrupt. I doubt even Silas Prior will be able to save it. But your husband did have one thing in his possession that was very precious indeed—the King’s Prize. And I know because I witnessed it being confiscated from the mill workers. Mill workers, you see, are no match for my men. But oh, what a tangled web. But Roland surprised me—I never would have guessed he hid it in his mousy wife’s belongings. Very clever. Very clever indeed.”
“You are despicable,” she sneered.
“I’ve long suspected that you played a part in all this, and you, my dear Mrs. Prior, have been a thorn in my side. What am I to do with you?”
She stared at him. He exuded frightening confidence—and it struck her to her core.
“You will give me the emeralds now.” He stepped closer. “And if you comply, I might just let your son live.”
He retrieved a pistol from his coat and pointed it at Charlotte. He cocked it.
The air vacated Charlotte’s lungs. The sight of the pistol incited a fear that flew in the face of the hope the day had otherwise brought.
She sputtered, searching for protest, when another voice behind her spoke. Smoothly. Confidently. “She doesn’t have the emeralds. I do. So if you want them, you will have to speak with me.”
Chapter 42
Anthony matched Walstead’s hard glare with his own.
Never did he think he would be on this side of Walstead—opposing him instead of working with him. But he’d left Anthony with no choice. Anthony was acutely aware of his pistol in his waistband. But he would not make a move for it until he was certain he had the upper hand.
For Walstead was pointing his weapon at Charlotte.
“I said she doesn’t have the emeralds,” Anthony repeated.
“Ah, there we are!” Walstead threw his hand up in mock celebration. “Welbourne. I have to say, you surprised me as well. I never would have pegged you for such a romantic soul. Who would have thought that a stoic man such as yourself would have a softness for a woman? I’m not often surprised. Nor am I often deceived. But you did both. As I was just telling Mrs. Prior, I abhor deception.”
Anthony was determined to keep Walstead’s focus on him and not Charlotte. “Release her.”
Walstead laughed. “So gallant! But don’t forget who I am. I know how skilled you are at this sort of negotiation. But we both also know something else—I am better.”
Sudden movement in the courtyard sounded, and a horseman and a carriage rumbled up. Anthony’s stomach tightened. Ames’s profile flashed next to the driver, along with other men he did not recognize.
He thought that Ames went to get Walstead—but why was Walstead already here?