Page 125 of The Meaning of Love
By the time they reached the forecourt, most of the riders were wilting. Phelps was waiting with a round of ale and cider to quench the riders’ thirsts, plus slices of Mrs. Phelps’s seed cake, an offering that was gladly accepted by all.
Still mounted, Melissa circulated, chatting and graciously congratulating those who had reached Herne in time to claim a place among the dozen ceremonial riders. With genuine sincerity, she assured several neighbors that she would never forget her first Wirksworth Ride.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Hockey step to Julian’s stirrup and report. From the expression on the grizzled stableman’s face, he was delightedly conveying the news that the captain had been secured.
Later, when Julian and Felix joined her on the steps to wave their guests on their way, Julian confirmed that.
Finally, as the last rider disappeared down the drive, Julian met Melissa’s gaze, and she sensed an easing in his stance as if a weight had slid from his shoulders.
“No one seemed to suspect anything,” he said.
She nodded. “I kept an ear out, but I didn’t hear so much as a single whisper.”
“Everyone was caught up in the day. Most knew what to expect, and that’s what they got.” Felix grinned at Melissa. “The only unusual comments I received were commiserations over having missed the finale while rescuing you.”
She humphed. “I suspect, at least with those who attended today, I’ll never live down missing the finale of my first Wirksworth Ride.”
Julian caught her eye. “But it’s over now, in many more ways than one. Or so I hope.” He tipped his head indoors. “Let’s see if we can get some answers to our most pressing questions.”
Chapter 17
They went straight to the corridor off the kitchen and down the steps to the cellars and the old dungeon. Julian was grateful that they didn’t encounter his mother or his uncle along the way.
With Melissa and Felix, he walked past the cell holding Mitchell, Manning, and Richards. He noted all three were hovering close to the open grille in the heavy door, as best they could listening to and watching what was happening in the cell at the end of the short corridor.
Benton also stood at the grille in the door of her cell, directly opposite that of the three men.
Damian and Gordon were slouched against the wall on either side of the door to the third cell. They straightened as Julian, Melissa, and Felix neared.
Julian halted before the cell door and, through the grille, studied Findlay-Wright.
In an undertone, Damian reported, “He came around as we got him into the cell. If his arrogance is anything to judge by, he’s perfectly certain he’s going to walk away from all this unscathed.”
Gordon looked troubled. “I don’t understand it. He seems totally unconcerned. I would have said he’s demented, only I know he’s as sharp as a tack.”
Damian lowered his voice still further. “I got the distinct impression he knows something we don’t. He’s smug as can be.”
Julian drew in a long breath, then nodded. “Let’s see.”
They’d left the key in the door. Julian turned it, then opened the door and set it wide.
The cell hadn’t housed a felon in decades and was normally used as a storage room. Sacks of grain were piled against all three walls, and several barrels stood to one side.
Findlay-Wright had fashioned a bench of sorts on which he sat facing the door—rather reminiscent of a king on his throne, holding court for his subjects. As Damian had warned, the dastardly captain appeared remarkably relaxed.
Julian decided to play along with the king-and-subject theme, at least to begin with; people like the captain often let down their guard when they believed themselves in control. He stepped into the cell and halted just inside the door. The cell was about three yards deep, which meant the captain had to look up to meet his eyes—possibly not what the man had had in mind with his staging. Julian waited impassively as the others filed in. Melissa paused by his left shoulder, a half step behind him, while Felix took up a position to his right and Damian and Gordon ranged behind them.
“The first question I have,” Julian evenly said, “is what you hoped to gain by this campaign of yours against me. You’ll never be able to claim the title, so what was the point?”
Findlay-Wright’s slow smile was the epitome of contemptuous, with just a hint of the derisive. “You haven’t worked it out, have you?” He made a show of being struck by a sudden insight and widened his eyes. “Could it be that you don’t actually know?”
Julian sensed both his brothers shift restlessly, reacting to the captain’s taunting.
But it was Melissa who moved, stepping up to stand beside him. She fixed the captain with an openly inquiring, overtly curious gaze. “Your campaign has been so exquisitely planned and stretches over such a long time.” Her tone bordered on the admiring. “You clearly thought through every move very carefully.”
Findlay-Wright’s gaze had deflected to her. He studied her for a moment, then smiled and, almost preening under her supposed recognition of his abilities, replied, “Indeed, I did. I worked to have multiple agents in place before I made the first move.” His pale-blue gaze returned to Julian, and a smirk touched his lips. “I’ve long observed that careful planning wins out every time.”
Melissa folded her arms and nodded understandingly. “In hindsight, your plan is really rather amazing.” She frowned, faintly puzzled. “How far back did you start?”
