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There was a low fire burning here and signs of occupancy. Possibly it was the proprietress’s sitting room. Arthur crossed to the rear and tried one of the windows. It opened without difficulty. The ground was not far off. He mimed climbing out and extended a hand. One of the opera dancers took it, and he helped her over the sill. He gestured for her to crouch down beside a shrub border, and she did so. Another followed her out, and another.
All was going smoothly until the girl called Poppy darted over and pushed aside the fire screen. Moving with startling speed, she raked the coals of the fire out onto the carpet, then threw a pile of papers from the writing desk over them. As flames licked up, she added the contents of the woodbin. She kicked glowing embers under the draperies of the other window. Fringe at the bottom caught fire, and more flames licked up toward the old, dry wood paneling. “That’ll keep ’em busy,” Poppy murmured with vindictive pleasure.
It was all over before Arthur could protest, so he didn’t bother. He handed Señora Alvarez over the sill, signaled for Poppy to follow, and slipped out himself, closing the window behind them. Perhaps the fire would be an effective diversion, and not a pointer to their escape.
The señora, whose courage and resourcefulness seemed boundless, had spotted the row of yews that marched toward the wrought-iron fence at the back. She pointed to it, and he nodded. Crouching low, the group ran into its shadow.
The gardens were as oddly untenanted as the house. Certainly they looked as if no gardener had tended them for years. They moved quickly down the row of yews, keeping close to the drooping branches. Arthur didn’t think they could be visible from the lower regions of the house, and indeed there was no outcry.
When the trees ended, they were not far from the stables. But a graveled yard stretched between them and the building. Arthur could see his curricle drawn up at the far side. Anyone walking across to it would be exposed. There was no choice from here.
He managed to convince his charges to wait in the shelter of the last yew tree. They were less anxious now that they were outside. Then he strode across the yard, the crunch of his boots on the gravel seeming very loud.
There was a back gate in the wrought-iron fence, he noted. Was it best to use that and not drive around to the front? It might be locked, however, and he didn’t know where the lane that ran away from it led. It would have to be the front. He stopped beside his curricle. “Hello,” he called.
After a moment, the groom who had taken charge of his vehicle appeared in the stable doorway.
“Joe, isn’t it? Bring my team. I am leaving.”
The young man looked startled. Presumably he wasn’t accustomed to seeing visitors back here. But he touched the brim of his flat cap and said, “Yessir.”
Arthur followed him into the stable, surprising him again. His horses were in loose boxes. Joe went to lead them out.
There was a narrow wooden stair in the back corner that surely led to rooms above. The off-duty guard would be there, Arthur concluded. He hoped the man was deeply asleep.
There were four horses in the stable other than his own. Two were clearly for riding, and two were carthorses to pull the rustic wagon that sat near the wide door. As the only choice, the wagon would have to do.
Arthur walked with Joe as he led the team out to the curricle and began to harness them. The groom looked anxious. Arthur decided to push a little. “Quite an establishment Lord Simon has here,” he said.
Joe’s sidelong look and twitching shrug suggested that he wasn’t comfortable with the comment.
“Do you like working here?” Arthur asked him. He put a tinge of contempt in his tone.
The younger man did not look at him. “I just takes care of the horses. That’s all.”
“But you know what goes on inside?”
The groom finished fastening the traces. “That’s nothing to do with me!”
He was so vehement that Arthur decided to take a chance. “Girls are beaten and misused in that house.”
Horror flitted over Joe’s face. He hunched and hurried his work on the bridles and straps.
“And since you work here, you are partly to blame for that.”
“No, I ain’t!”
“Perhaps you have even heard their cries,” Arthur added. “And never lifted a finger.”
Joe’s hands dropped from the harness. He glanced fearfully up at a small window in the upper part of the stable.
Arthur noted it. That must be the guard’s quarters. The frame was empty.
“I hate it here,” Joe murmured to the earth at his feet. “But Harkon’ll beat me within an inch of my life if I open my trap. And they said if I leave they’ll hunt me down and make sure I can’t squawk. I think they’d kill me. Harkon said as how he knifed a fella once.”
“If you help me, I will see that they cannot harm you.”
Joe finally looked up. He examined Arthur as if evaluating his power to keep his promise. “Help you how?” he asked finally.
