‘Not long after Genevieve’s death, we were on the cut. Nursing our grievances the way only drunken fools do. I ended up telling him my suspicions about my sister’s killer. The next day he came here to see me. Asked me if I’d be interested in putting a rub inthe way of Jack’s plans. When I said yes, he gave me an identity and put me in contact with a fisherman in Salcombe. Richard agreed to run the mine, and I went with my father’s blessing.’ He shook his head. ‘Neither of us had any idea we’d still be trying to put an end to the varlet nearly two years later.
‘As yet he is not aware that we finally have Jack’s identity. Tomorrow, Reverend, you and I will go to his office and give a full accounting of what has happened.’
‘What about Percy?’ Reverend Shackleford asked, ignoring the curate’s look of alarm. ‘Don’t you want his version?’
‘I don’t believe that including Mary Noon in our account will add anything of worth,’ Jago responded evenly. ‘And I assume Percy would prefer his mother to be kept out of events?’ He turned to the curate who stammered his thanks.
‘What about me?’ Charity burst out. ‘I’m the one who identified him.’ Unfortunately before Jago could respond, there was a knock at the door as the main course was brought in, causing Charity to grind her teeth together in silent frustration. Truly, keeping quiet was not one of her strong points.
‘Yes, you are,’ conceded Jago as soon as the door was again closed, ‘and once I reveal Jack’s real identity, it’s my hope that Falmouth Customs officers are far enough removed to relish the thought of bringing the Hope Cove gang down. But we cannot guarantee thatnonewill be in Jack’s employ and consequently wish you dead.’
‘But if his identity becomes common knowledge, how would Miss Shackleford’s death serve?’ quizzed Richard.
‘We can’t afford to let that happen. If Jack gets wind that his identity has been revealed, he’ll simply go to ground. Thesmuggling ring must be caught in the act and Jack with them. Follow Jack and we catch them red-handed.’ Jago looked over at Charity, adding, ‘If he has the chance to go into hiding, he will do everything he can to see you dead.’
‘So who is this deuced rogue in real life?’ the Reverend demanded.
‘His name is George Barnet. As Miss Shackleford discovered, he owns a local butchery business. Well liked by his customers. Indeed, the very last man you’d expect to be involved in such heinous activities. But underneath it all, our Mr Barnet is a butcher in every sense of the word.’
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning, her father and Jago Carlyon were gone just after dawn. Having tossed and turned for the majority of the night, Charity was awake when her father knocked softly, asking to leave Freddy with her. Truly she was glad of his furry company, and it was only after snuggling the foxhound to her that she finally slept.
She awoke to another knock on the door, this time from the maid who had brought some warm water for washing. ‘It’s another beautiful day, Miss,’ she smiled as she placed the water on the dresser and pulled open the heavy drapes covering the window. The sudden influx of light flooding into the room had Charity squinting and covering her eyes.
‘Can I bring you some breakfast, Miss?’ the maid asked.
‘What time is it?’ Charity asked, her voice still groggy from sleep.
‘Half past ten,’ Miss,’ was the cheery response.
Charity sat up in alarm. Truly she’d never slept so late. At the vicarage, she and Chastity were seldom abed after eight.
The thought of her sister brought on an abrupt pang of loneliness. Of late, irritation with her twinhad overtaken affection, and Charity suddenly gasped as remorse slammed into her. She would give a King’s ransom to have her sister with her now.
Realising the maid was waiting for her answer, Charity shook her head. ‘I’ll come down for breakfast,’ she decided, making an effort to smile.
The maid nodded her head in return and gave a small bob. ‘It’ll be served in the morning room, Miss,’ she added before shutting the door.
Half an hour later, she was heading out of the front door with Freddy in tow. Originally intending to simply let the foxhound do his business, she found the weather so clement, she elected to take a short walk instead. Breakfast could wait.
Reluctant to get her boots muddy, she wandered along the large terrace towards the side of the house while Freddy sniffed his way alongside her. To her right, the distant sea sparkled and shone in the sunlight. As she turned the corner, she realised that the terrace circled round to the back of the house, so she continued her stroll. The view from the back was just as stunning, though here the waves were replaced by wild moorland, a carpet of gorse already covering the hills in a bloom of yellow.
What would it be like to live in such a place? The thought came unbidden, and with it an image of her and Jago taking breakfast together. Foolishly perhaps, she allowed her daydreams to continue. Picturing them sitting on this very terrace, children playing on the lawn beyond. Would Jago ever consider her as a wife? Indeed, would she want him to? It was a long way fromBlackmore and her sister. She gave a small rueful chuckle. In truth, it was a long way fromanywhere.
Pausing, she looked up at the house and tried to imagine what it would be like to live within its dour stone walls. Suddenly, her attention was drawn to a first-floor window. There was a man sitting in front of it. Morgan Carlyon. As soon as he realised he’d been spotted, he put down his head, but not before she saw his expression. With a sudden chill, she understood that whatever feelings Jago might hold for her, he would never receive his father’s blessing.
No longer taking in the scenery, her mind a whirl, she continued her stroll. Why would Jago’s father harbour such a dislike for her? And she was entirely certain, despite their eyes meeting all too briefly, that the look in his eyes had been just that.Intensedislike. Almost hatred. Suddenly cold, she hugged her cloak to her and increased her pace.
There was something about Morgan Carlyon. Something other than the fact he was hiding the extent of his disabilities from his family, and possibly everyone. Mayhap he was simply afraid of losing his only remaining child.
Charity shook her head. Such speculation would get her nowhere. Indeed, she could not say for sure whether Jago had any feelings for her at all. He’d kissed her yes, and she believed the look in his eyes had held something more than simple lust. But when all's said and done, she’d never been kissed by anyone else so had no yardstick to measure it by.
And for that matter, what the deuce did it matter? They must needs focus all their efforts on stopping the murderous George Barnet in his tracks. Anything else would simply have to wait.
Calling Freddy to her, Charity hurried round the far side of the house, eventually returning to the front. Above her, the sun had gone behind a large black cloud, casting a dark shadow over the terrace. Glancing up, she felt her stomach tighten and shied away from the sudden fear that it could be an omen
Charity was directed to the morning room by a cheerful footman. Once inside, she’d never been more grateful to see her father’s curate. Percy was already seated, enthusiastically ploughing his way through a large plate of ham and eggs.
