Harry swore. “They’ve got her.” The words burned his throat.
“They can’t have got far.” Salter gestured to his people. “It’s the lady we’re after—tallish, dark-haired—most of you’ve seen her. Name of Mrs Babbacombe.”
Within seconds, they were quartering the area, quickly, efficiently, calling her name, threshing through undergrowth. Harry headed towards the river, Dawlish beside him. His throat was already hoarse. His imagination was a handicap—he could conjure visions far too well. He had to find her—he simply had to.
LEFT IN THE PEACE of the meadow, Lucinda smiled to herself, then settled to convert the cornflowers growing in abundance around the base of the rock into a blue garland. Beneath her calm, she was impatient enough, yet quite confident Harry would shortly be back.
Her smile deepened. She reached for a bright dandelion to lend contrast to her string.
“Mrs Babbacombe! Er—Aunt Lucinda?”
Blinking, Lucinda turned. She searched the shadows beneath the trees and saw a slight, shortish gentleman waving and beckoning.
“Good lord! Whatever does he want?” Laying aside her garland, she crossed to the trees. “Mortimer?” She ducked under a branch and stepped into the cool shade. “What are you doing here?”
“A-waiting for you, bitch,” came in a growling grating voice.
Lucinda jumped; a huge paw wrapped about her arm. Her eyes widened in incredulous amazement as she took in its owner. “Scrugthorpe! What the devil do you think you’re doing?”
“Grabbing you.” Scrugthorpe leered, then started to drag her deeper into the trees. “Come on—the carriage’s waiting.”
“What carriage? Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Lucinda was about to struggle in earnest when Mortimer took her other elbow.
“This is all most distressing—but if you’ll only listen—it’s really nothing to do with you, you know—simply a matter of righting a wrong—fixing a slight—that sort of thing.” He wasn’t so much helping to drag her along as clinging to her arm; his eyes, a weak washy blue, implored her understanding.
Lucinda frowned. “What on earth is all this about?”
Mortimer told her—in disjointed phrases, bits and pieces, dribs and drabs. Totally engrossed in trying to follow his tale, Lucinda largely ignored Scrugthorpe and his dogged march forward, absent-mindedly letting him pull her along, shifting her attention only enough to lift her skirts over a log.
“Damned hoity female!” Scrugthorpe kicked at her skirts. “When I get you alone, I’m going to—”
“And then, you see, there was the money owed to Joliffe—must pay, y’know—play and pay—honour and all that—”
“And after that, I’ll tie you up good—”
“So it turned out to be rather a lot—not impossible but—had to find it, you see—thought I’d be right after Uncle Charles died—but then it wasn’t there—the money, I mean—but I’d already spent it—owed it—had to raise the wind somehow—”
“Oh, I’ll make you pay for your sharp tongue, I will. After I’ve done, you’ll—”
Lucinda shut her ears to Scrugthrope’s ravings and concentrated on Mortimer’s babblings. Her jaw dropped when he revealed their ultimate goal; their plan to reach it was even more astonishing. Mortimer finally concluded with, “So, you see—all simple enough. If you’ll just make the guardianship over to me, it’ll all be right and tight—you do see that, don’t you?”
They had reached the edge of the river; a narrow footbridge lay ahead. Abruptly, Lucinda hauled back against Scrugthorpe’s tow and stood her ground. Her gaze, positively scathing, fixed on Mortimer.
“You ass!” Her tone said it all. “Do you really believe that, just because you’re so weak and stupid as to get…?” Words momentarily failed her; she wrenched her elbow from Mortimer’s grasp and gestured wildly. “Gulled by a sharp.” Eyes flashing, she transfixed Mortimer; he stood rooted to the spot, his mouth silently opening and shutting, his expression that of a terrified rabbit facing the ultimate fury. “That I will meekly hand over to you my stepdaughter’s fortune so you can line the pockets of some cunning, immoral, inconsiderate, rapacious, fly-by-night excuse for a man?” Her voice had risen, gaining in commanding volume. “You’ve got rocks in your head, sir!”
“Now see here.” Scrugthorpe, somewhat dazed by her vehemence, shook her arm. “That’s enough of that.”
Mortimer was exceedingly pale. “But Uncle Charles owed me—”
“Nonsense! Charles owed you nothing! Indeed, you got more than you deserved. What you have to do, Mortimer,” Lucinda jabbed him in the chest, “is get back to Yorkshire and get your affairs in order. Talk to Mr Wilson in Scarborough—he’ll know how to help. Stand on your own feet, Mortimer—believe me, it’s the only way.” Struck by a thought, Lucinda asked, “Incidentally, how is Mrs Finnigan, the cook? When we left she had ulcers, poor thing—is she better?”
Mortimer simply stared at her.
“Enough, woman!” Scrugthorpe, his face mottling, swung Lucinda about. Opting for action rather than words, he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to him. Lucinda uttered a small shriek and ducked her head—just in time to avoid Scrugthorpe’s fleshy lips. He grunted; she felt his fingers grip her shoulders tightly, bruising her soft flesh. She struggled, rocking to keep him off balance. Her gaze directed downwards, she saw his feet, clad in soft leather shoes, shuffling to gain greater stability. Lucinda lifted her knee, inadvertently striking Scrugthorpe in the groin. She heard his sharp intake of breath—and brought her boot heel down with all the force she could muster, directly onto his left instep.
“Ow! You bitch!” His voice was crazed with pain.
Lucinda jerked her head up—her crown connected with Scrugthorpe’s chin with a most satisfying crack. Scrugthorpe yowled. He put one hand to his foot and the other to his chin—Lucinda was free. She whisked herself away—and Mortimer grabbed her.