“Come on!” he said to Oliphant. He whistled up his own signal, calling his men to action.
Shapes rose out of the gloom, coming at them from the direction of the cave.
His own men and Crane’s clashed together on the beach like two opposing tides. Griffin needed to get to that cave on the other side of the cove. For that, he had to get past Crane’s henchmen, but there was no way he could fire a shot in this melee. He didn’t want to kill anyone, particularly his own men. He threw down his rifle and joined the fray.
They fought on wet, uneven sand in near silence. Only the ocean’s roar and the grunts and cries of men as they attacked and fell could be heard.
Using his brute strength to his advantage, Griffin milled his way through the crowd. From the corner of his eye, he saw movement by the cave. In an instant, he registered that someone had used the cover of fighting to pack the ponies and escape.
Crane. It was exactly the kind of thing the blackguard would do.
Griffin yelled to Oliphant, then went after the ringleader, drawing the pistol from his pocket and releasing the hammer as he went.
As he drew closer, his suspicions were confirmed. He couldn’t see well in the darkness, but he would know that hulking form anywhere. It was, indeed, the tormentor of his youth.
Griffin firmed his grip on his pistol. He didn’t want to shoot Crane, but if Crane left him no choice …
Silently, he moved up the path toward Crane. The man was not alone. A woman struggled along beside him.
Bessie, from the inn. What was she doing there?
As Griffin hesitated in surprise, Crane swung around, shining his shuttered lantern directly into Griffin’s eyes.
Blinded by the sudden flash of light, Griffin dropped to the ground and rolled to the side. At the same time, a pistol barked, missing him by inches, judging from the shower of rock splinters that fell on his head.
Before another shot fired, Griffin picked up a large rock and hurled it in Crane’s direction. The second shot went wild.
Two shots. He gambled on Crane carrying only two pistols, maybe a knife.
He rose to a crouch, then launched himself at the bastard. Together, they fell off the path and went tumbling down onto the sand.
Crane came down on him with an elbow to the gut. The impact winded Griffin, but he drove through the pain, wrapped his hands around Crane’s throat.
Then he saw the knife bearing down. He caught Crane’s wrist with one hand, struggling to hold the knife at bay while simultaneously attempting to crush his enemy’s windpipe with the other hand.
“Thought you didn’t care about free trade,” panted Crane.
“This is personal,” grunted Griffin. With a surge of strength, he bore Crane’s arm back, dashing the hand that held the knife against the rock.
The knife fell from his splayed fingers.
In a wrestling move, Griffin flipped Crane onto his back and punched him in the face. “You dare to threaten me with silly notes, and you think I’ll just sit there meekly? Did you think I’d let you blackmail me for the rest of my life?”
Crane laughed silently, in spite of the bloody mess Griffin had made of his mouth. “I didn’t write you notes. Why should I? Say it to your face if I have something to say, don’t I?”
Griffin hit him again. “Who’s the witness? The one who saw Allbright’s murder?”
Crane’s chest, which had been shaking with mirth, stilled. “Witness,” he repeated. “No witness that I ever heard of. Someone pulling your leg.”
“Liar.” Griffin hit him again. And again. And once more, for all those lashings Crane had so enjoyed giving him as a boy. Another time for the scars Crane left. On Griffin’s face and on his soul.
But he found no enjoyment from meting out this punishment. That was the difference between them. They were both big men and powerful with it, but Griffin simply had not the heart for cold, systematic violence.
Leering up at him, his face a bloody mask, Crane was defiant to the last. “Go on, then. Finish it,” he said thickly. “They’ll hang me anyway, won’t they?” Disgust laced his tone, even as his voice grew faint. “Ah, you don’t have the guts.”
“You’re right,” said Griffin, getting to his feet. “I don’t have the stomach for this.”
Crane didn’t move. For all his bravado, he must have been hovering on the edge of consciousness.
Griffin looked around to see bodies littering the beach—most of them moving still, many groaning. And a number of his men walking slowly toward him, led by the vicar.
Someone ran for the justice of the peace, who’d no doubt cowered in his house while all this went on without him. The constable was fetched to make the arrests and the contraband unloaded from the ponies and inspected.
Griffin took one long, last look at his nemesis, shook his head, and started for the path where the docile ponies still stood, and Bessie with them.
“Is he dead?” she asked.
“No. But he will be hanged,” Griffin said. He took the reins and led the ponies behind him, not caring if she followed or not. Not caring much about anything.
They walked in silence all the way back to the village. It occurred to Griffin that he didn’t know where the ponies belonged.
“Where shall I take these?”
“They belong at the inn,” said Bessie. She put her hand on his arm. “Come into the taproom, my lord.” She smiled up at him tremulously. “Drinks on the house.”
He glanced toward the cheerful lights and sounds of the taproom and shook his head. “Thank you, but no.”
“Well, then.” She took the ponies’ reins from him and bobbed a shaky curtsy.
He turned to go, but before he could, she caught her breath in a choking sob and grabbed his hand and kissed his broken, bloody knuckles. “Oh, my lord! Thank you! Oh, thank Heaven we are free.”
“Free of Crane, you mean?”
“Yes.” She was silent for a few moments. “My lord? Those notes,” she said in a low voice. “They were from me.”
He halted and stared at her in the darkness. “From
you
?”
She glanced over her shoulder, as if she could not truly believe she was safe from Crane now. “Your sister did not cause Allbright’s death. It was Crane.”
“What?”
She flinched at his tone. He cleared his throat and said more softly, “Crane killed Allbright? How can that be?”
Bessie swallowed. “I—I saw your sister struggle with Mr. Allbright. I wanted to cry out, to put a stop to it, but I was with Crane and he wouldn’t let me. I was so thankful when Lady Jacqueline got away. She—she’d pushed Allbright and he staggered and wrenched his ankle, I think, and fell down. He struck his head and rolled a little way, but he was nowhere near the true edge of the cliff. And he was breathing, I know, because we went over to check on him. I said I’d run for a doctor.”
She covered her face with her hands. “I don’t know what made me do it. But I looked back to see Crane put his foot out and—and roll Mr. Allbright off the cliff with the toe of his boot.”
She was sobbing now, but he took her by the shoulders, willing her to steady herself. “Do you mean to say Crane killed Allbright? And you knew this all along?”
She raised stricken eyes to his. “I was so frightened! He said he’d kill me if I said anything to anyone. And he
would
have killed me, my lord. You know he would.”
Yes, he knew it. He couldn’t blame her for keeping quiet, but what a nightmare! He could scarcely comprehend the enormity of what Crane had done, both to Jacqueline and to him. And to Bessie as well.
“Will you be prepared to sign a statement to that effect?” said Griffin. “I will use it only if absolutely necessary, I swear. It is likely that it won’t be necessary. Crane is going to be hanged anyway, and without further evidence against me, I do not think this murder investigation will reopen.”
“Yes,” she whispered; then in a stronger voice, she said, “Yes. I will do that, my lord.”
A big hand clapped him on the shoulder. “Come for a pint!” said the vicar. “Or something stronger, eh?” He peered at Griffin’s companion. “You here, Bessie? Come along, come along, you have a horde of thirsty men about to descend on you, and it will be all hands on deck, I expect!”
Somehow, Griffin was swept up with the crowd. He found himself crossing the threshold of the taproom before he could object.
Bracing himself for the cold shoulders and dirty looks he always received when he came here, Griffin stuck his chin out and walked in.
To be met by a deafening cheer.
The news of their raid on the smugglers as well as his own bloody battle with Crane had traveled fast. The villagers’ hatred and fear of Crane and his men far surpassed their fear of the resident ogre, it seemed.
Bewildered, Griffin received pats on the back and congratulations from the same people who had looked at him askance before. Tankard after tankard of ale was pressed into his hands by men he knew and others he’d never even met or spoken with. Smiling faces met him everywhere.
That night, in spite of his efforts to resist, the hard layer that resentment and anger had formed about his heart crumbled into dust.
“Don’t let all the adulation get to your head,” recommended the vicar with a fond smile for his parishioners. “Tomorrow, they’ll be grumbling about the rents.”
Griffin grinned and raised his tankard to his lips. Perhaps they would, at that.
As he walked a trifle unsteadily back from the village, he felt disoriented, light-headed with drink—and with relief.
Everything was going to be all right.
For Jacqueline, at least.
* * *
“I cannot leave her.” Rosamund turned to Maddox, who hovered on the threshold of Jacqueline’s sickroom, a cheerful bunch of daisies in his hand.
Jacqueline had no sooner received Maddox’s proposal than fainted in his arms. Certainly, a dramatic and memorable reaction to a gentleman’s addresses if Jacqueline had been at all romantically inclined. Unfortunately, her swoon had been no missish piece of amateur dramatics, but rather a total collapse.
Rosamund took the flowers from Maddox and put them in the vase beside the bed where Jacqueline fitfully slept. She laid a finger to her lips and moved past him and out into the corridor.
“The doctor says it is a fever. She must have complete bed rest.” Rosamund gripped her hands together. “He says the strain of the season has knocked her up, but I believe you and I know the cause.”
She pursed her lips, feeling traitorous but so impatient to know what was happening in Cornwall that she felt as if she were permanently on the verge of screaming. “I cannot leave her. But perhaps you could post down to Cornwall, sir.”
His concerned gaze slid to the open door of Jacqueline’s bedchamber. Then his lips twisted in a wry smile. “I am not the least use here, am I? Not until she is a little better and can perhaps sit up and play cards and the like.”
He blew out a breath. “I’ll go. But I do not expect Griffin will confide in me.”
“I think he will when you offer him your friendship and support.” She didn’t know that, though, did she? Griffin was a very stubborn man.
Oh, how she missed him! Feared for him, too.
Maddox voiced her unspoken fear. “What if he
has
been foolish enough to make a false confession? I could just see him doing something so deuced noble and ridiculous.”
“See that he doesn’t, Mr. Maddox. I am quite depending on you.”
She glanced away. “And tell him—”
Tell him I love him. Make him come back to me.
She forced a smile. “Tell him Jacqueline is in no real danger. There is no need for him to hurry back to Town if he does not wish.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Griffin inwardly groaned when he heard Oliphant’s cheerful voice greet Mrs. Faithful. Firm steps approached the library door.
The vicar had made it his mission to stop Griffin from going directly to the Devil. Why he must take it upon himself to interfere in that worthy enterprise, Griffin didn’t know, except that vicars tended to do that sort of thing.
Of course, thought Griffin, eyeing his empty glass, Oliphant might just be here for the brandy.
After the euphoria of the night he’d almost killed Crane with his bare hands, Griffin had returned to an empty house. Oh, it was full as it could hold with servants, but it felt empty without Rosamund.
He was a maudlin, besotted idiot, and he wanted her back so badly, he could taste it. But nothing had changed since the night of Jacqueline’s ball. He couldn’t pretend to himself that it had.
Maddox had tried to see him but been denied. Only Oliphant had the courage to come despite the increasing rudeness with which Griffin spurned his attempts to cheer him up.
“Rise and shine!” The vicar went over to haul the heavy curtains back from the French windows, flooding the room with light.
Griffin winced as the combination of a persistent headache and nausea rolled over him with a vengeance. He shot the vicar a crude and anatomically impossible insult that ought to have seen him excommunicated on the spot.