Confessions Bundle. Jo Leigh

      “What d’you mean?” asked Treeg, leaning in to hear. Young Skurch also moved closer.

      “Do you mind me asayin’ how that bloke looked familiar, but I couldn’t place ’im?”

      “Aye,” Wickham acknowledged. The others nodded.

      “It come to me yesterday, when we was on the road, where I seen ’im before.”

      “How come you didn’t say nothin’ then?” Wickham demanded in a harsh whisper.

      “’Cause I thought you was all with me, that’s why,” Boffin replied. “I knows who he is, I tell ya.”

      “So what?” Wickham said scornfully.

      “So he’s rich-leastways his family is. And they’ll pay plenty for knowin’ where he’s at. Or he’ll pay plenty for us to keep it quiet,” Boffin finished triumphantly.

      “Who is he then?” Treeg demanded.

      “He’s Lord Elliot Fitzwalter, that’s who. Missin’ these five years. When he up and did a bunk, his brother, the Duke of Barroughby, offered to pay a handsome price for news o’ his brother.”

      The men’s eyes widened, then Wickham scowled. “Thinkin’ you’ll put the black on ’im? That was five years ago. Maybe the duke’s changed his mind.”

      “Maybe he hasn’t,” Boffin countered.

      “P’rhaps they’ve patched up their quarrel,” Skurch offered.

      Boffin gave the lad a sarcastic look. “You must be off your chump. If they was friends, why’d he come back lookin’ like he hadn’t but two pennies to his name? Why did he tell us he was David Fitzgibbons? Why did he cheat me out o’ ten pound? I tell you, he’s hidin’.”

      “So how’s he goin’ to pay for us to keep our gobs shut, if that’s what he wants?”

      “He’s got to have friends. How else could a man disappear the way he did?”

      “If he’s gone to ground again,” Wickham said, “then how d’ya expect us to find him when his own rich brother couldn’t? Take out an advert in The Times?”

      “No!” Treeg said excitedly. “If Boffin’s right, and he’s still around here, we’ll find out soon enough. A good-lookin’ toff like that’s bound to stand out, and Lincolnshire’s not exactly a popular spot with the aristocracy, now, is it?”

      “With good cause,” Wickham muttered.

      “Exactly!” Boffin said, ignoring the ex-convict. “Now you’re understandin’ me. He’s hidin,’ all right, but probably some place ’round about here.”

      “Now hold on,” Wickham demanded. “How come you know a lord? Been to his club, have you? Gone to a few society balls and made his acquaintance?”

      “This particular lord liked things ’sides gentlemen’s clubs and assembly balls,” Boffin said significantly. “I’ve seen ’em, and that’s a fact. I say we start with the gentry ’round here.”

      “What, walk up to the front door and say, ‘Scuse me, have you seen Lord Elliot Fitzwalter ’round about?” Wickham proposed with a cynical sneer.

      “Yeah, right, that’s exactly what I thought!” Boffin replied with an equally cynical sneer. “We’ll keep an eye out on the fine houses nearby. And the village, too, and anybody else looks like they might have company.” He smiled at the young man. “A good-lookin’ bloke like him, I bet he’s holed up with some woman. You can see about that.

      “Either way, we’ll find my fine lord.”

      With a relieved sigh, Grace opened the garden gate and tugged the man through. She would be a happy woman when this was over. She hadn’t been this out of breath since the pig had gotten into the garden two summers ago.

      She glanced down at her burden. The man’s trousers were going to be in a terrible state, but she thought that a small enough price to pay for preventing illness and possibly death-if she didn’t fall ill and die from the effort herself.

      She closed the gate and began to pull him toward the cow shed, finally managing to get him inside. Brushing a damp, dangling lock of hair out of her eyes, she smiled at Daisy, who was placidly chewing and regarding her with large, bland brown eyes. Then, to Grace’s considerable surprise and chagrin, she noticed a fine black stallion comfortably lodged in the stable she had intended to use as temporary accommodation for the stranger.

      Only one man in the county had a stallion like that, and that was Donald Franklin.

      What was Sir Donald Franklin doing here? Had he come to inform them of the rent increase personally?

      Grace stifled a groan. She had hoped to keep that particular difficulty from Mercy, at least until she had thought of a solution to their problem. How was Mercy coping with Sir Donald’s unwelcome presence and, more importantly, was she managing to act a little polite? Now would hardly be the time to offend their landlord.

      Unfortunately, Mercy had never liked Sir Donald, and if he told her what he intended to do, she would surely burst into tears or angry denunciations.

      Grace expelled some air, put her hand on her aching back as she straightened, regarded the horse and then the stranger.

      She could tell Sir Donald about the man, of course. He might be able to offer assistance. The stranger and his welfare would be out of her hands, and she and Mercy need not have any fear of being attacked by a runaway criminal, if he was a criminal.

      Therein lay the problem, for Donald Franklin had never been known for his merciful qualities. He would be far more likely to have the stranger thrown in the village lockup, a small, damp building little better than the out-of-doors. He would probably never entertain any possibility that the wretched man might be a victim himself.

      Grace could just see herself trying to convince Sir Donald of that notion. He would undoubtedly claim she was being a silly, sentimental young woman-and she could even envision him using his callous solution as an example of his fine leadership and concern for the safety of his tenants.

      She was not about to have her efforts to help this man undone by the unsympathetic Donald Franklin.

      Grace tugged the stranger into the farthest unused stall as quickly as she could, and piled some straw over him for warmth, as well as to hide him from Sir Donald, who would have to come to fetch his horse. Hopefully, the fellow would sleep quietly until Sir Donald was gone. Considering that he hadn’t awakened again, and the mode of movement had not been very gentle, she felt there was little danger of that.

      She would come back as soon as she could to see if he was awake, with her father’s pistol tucked into her skirt for safety.

      Giving the slumbering stranger a final glance, she went on her way, dashing through the farmyard and into the back door of their house, reflecting that it was a good thing the drawing room was at the front of the house and faced the main road.

      When she entered the kitchen by the scullery, she called out a cheery “Mercy, I’ve come home!" as if she hadn’t seen Sir Donald’s horse. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have, and she certainly had no desire for Sir Donald to suspect that anything abnormal had happened today, beyond his surprise visit.

      She removed her boots and cloak, surveyed the wreckage of her dress, which looked as if it might never come clean, set her basket on a sideboard, then grabbed a linen towel used to dry the dishes and wiped her face and neck.

      As she did so, a quick survey of the small kitchen showed that Mercy must be feeling better, for a kettle was on the hearth, and the smell of beef stew emanated from the small iron pot dangling over the fire. If Mercy was still feeling ill, she wouldn’t have bothered with a stew, for Grace had told her before going to the shops that morning that they could have cold meat for supper.

      “I’m