At the Highwayman's Pleasure(37)

‘Then it will have been delivered to him this morning.'

‘Yes. Damnation, we must act quickly. I shall have to break in tonight and try to find it-'

‘No. Let me go now and see what I can discover.'

He stared at her.

‘Are you out of your mind? You cannot go to Beringham, it is far too dangerous.'

Her brows rose.

‘It is market day, and if I know Phineas he will be holding a court. He  would not miss the chance to fine his fellow men for their misdeeds.  And even if he is at home I shall have my maid with me and make sure he  knows that I have left word of where I am.' She smiled. ‘I want to make  peace with my new stepmama.'

‘And what do you hope to achieve by that?'

‘At best, to find that letter and at worst-I can at least describe to you the layout of the house.'

‘No. I can as easily find my way tonight. I will not risk your safety.'

‘Please, Ross, let me do this.' She held his gaze steadily. ‘We will neither of us have any peace until he is brought down.'

It took some time to persuade Ross that she was determined, but at last  he agreed, after she had told him that if he would not help her she  would make the attempt alone. A swift plan was devised and she went back  to Allingford to collect Betty.

As she drove back to North Street, Charity wondered just how much she  should tell her maid. Betty had drawn her own conclusions about what had  happened in the dressing room the previous evening, but she had  maintained an affronted silence on the matter. However, if Charity was  going to enlist her aid in this latest escapade, she would have to tell  her at least some of the truth.

* * *

‘Ooh, Miss Charity, that is the most fantastical, madcap idea I have ever heard!'

Charity and her maid were in the gig and on their way to Beringham.  Time was short so Charity had begged Betty to accompany her, promising  to explain everything on the way.

‘To break into a magistrate's house, to find a letter Mr Durden thinks might be there-'

Charity had said nothing about Ross's activities as the Dark Rider,  only that he suspected Phineas of spying for the French. She had to  admit the story did sound implausible.

‘I will understand, Betty, if you do not wish to help us-'                       
       
           



       

‘Of course I will help you, Miss Charity. From all you have told me of  your father, you don't think I would let you go into his house alone? By  heaven, you and Mr Durden are like a pair of star-crossed lovers from  one of Mr Jenkin's plays!'

Charity threw her a wry glance. ‘I suppose we are, only in this instance I have no idea what the ending will be!'

* * *

The afternoon was well advanced by the time they reached Beringham.  Charity remembered the town from her childhood, but it had changed  considerably in the thirteen years since she had run away. It was still a  bustling market town, but she thought it compared unfavourably to  Allingford. The town was less colourful, the people far more sober in  their dress and countenance. One or two turned to stare as she drove  through the High Street and Charity smiled and nodded, happy to  acknowledge that she was the celebrated actress from the neighbouring  town. She had to work hard not to search the crowds for a sight of Ross,  but he had told her he would be close and the knowledge supported her  as she raised her hand to knock on the door of Phineas Weston's grand  town house.

‘I don't like this, mistress, and so I tell you,' muttered Betty as they waited for the summons to be answered.

‘No more do I,' murmured Charity through smiling lips. ‘That is why I have brought you with me, for protection.'

They were shown inside through the ornate entrance hall and into an  overfurnished drawing room. Charity adopted a stately pace and took the  opportunity to note the layout of the hall-drawing room to the left, two  closed doors to the right with the bust of Caesar in pride of place  between them, sweeping staircase to the upper floors. She gestured to  Betty to sit on the bench in the hall and wait for her.

She was left alone in the drawing room and immediately crossed to the  double doors, peeping through into the dining room beyond. She had  returned to the centre of the room by the time her hostess entered.  Hannah was as overdecorated as her drawing room. Her yellow gown was in  the latest mode, but bedecked with such an abundance of lace and ribbons  that even when she stood still her gown fluttered and trembled of its  own accord.

‘My husband is not at home.'

Charity heard the cold tone. She answered pleasantly and with total  insincerity, ‘I am very sorry to hear that, but perhaps it is not such a  bad thing. I came...' She paused, looked away, her whole demeanour one  of shy uncertainty. ‘I have been thinking about you since your visit to  me.' Hannah's hostile look became tinged with bewilderment. Charity gave  her a sad little smile. ‘Having no family begins to weigh upon one  after a while.'

‘If I understand correctly, it was you who ran away,' replied Hannah.  She did not invite Charity to sit down, but continued to watch her  carefully.

‘I was very young.' Charity gave a sigh. ‘I realise now just how  headstrong I was as a child. How headstrong I still am and prone to lose  my temper all too quickly.' She fixed Hannah with her most bewitching  smile. ‘I hope you can forgive the hateful things I said to you the  other day.'

‘I think it is your father you need to see. To give him your apology.'

‘You are very right, ma'am.'

‘But he will not be home for some time.' Hannah moved towards the door. ‘Perhaps you could come back....'

‘Of course, but please, while I am here-' She broke off, limpid blue eyes fixed upon Hannah's face.

‘Yes?'

‘If I might see his Bible?'

Hannah's brows shot up. Whatever she had been expecting, thought Charity grimly, it had not been this!

‘His Bible!'

Charity nodded, clasping her hands together before her in mute appeal.

‘Yes, if you please. The big leather-bound one. He used to read it to  me every night.' It was an effort not to shudder at the memory. ‘I would  draw such comfort from seeing it.'

Hannah stared at her for a long moment, then with a shrug and a nod she  went to the door. Charity followed her across the hall and through the  second of the two doors. She found herself standing in a book-lined room  with a large mahogany desk in the centre. Her father's study. Her  memory had not failed her. All her childhood she remembered her father  keeping the family Bible in his study.

Along with the worn leather riding crop he had used to beat her.

No time to let the past weigh down upon her now. She needed all her energies for the task ahead.

‘Ah, here it is!' She hurried across to a lectern by the window, noting  as she did so that the study was above the kitchens and overlooked a  small service yard. It was surrounded by a brick wall with a door  leading to a back lane. The door would be locked, but the wall, although  high, would not be impossible for a man to climb over. She laid her  hands on the tooled leather cover of the Bible, saying reverently,  ‘Father's most treasured possession.'                       
       
           



       

She opened it and stared at the flyleaf, momentarily forgetting her role.

‘The Weston family record,' said Hannah crisply, following her gaze.  ‘Your name has been scratched out, but you will not wonder at that, when  you consider the pain you have caused your father.'

Charity was gripping the lectern so hard that her knuckles had turned  white, but she hoped the other woman would see that as a sign of grief  and not the revulsion she actually felt to see the black scoring through  her name, so heavy that it had scratched a hole in the page.

‘You are quite right,' she answered quietly. ‘I have a great deal to repent, I think.'

But not running away from Phineas Weston. Never that.

She said, her voice a nice mixture of timidity and hopefulness, ‘Mrs  Weston-Hannah-I wonder if you would let me...read a little from this  holy book? I think it would help to-to soothe my soul.' Without waiting  for a reply, she carefully turned over the pages. From the hall came the  faint sounds of knocking at the door. ‘Ah, Psalm Thirty-two, how  appropriate.' She put up her head and declaimed, ‘"Blessed is he whose  transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered".'

She continued to recite, even when the footman appeared. He murmured  something to his mistress, who listened in growing irritation. She  looked up at Charity as if to say something, then changed her mind and  followed the servant from the room, leaving the door open behind her. As  soon as she was out of sight Charity moved across to the desk while the  words continued to fall from her lips without pause.