Page 11 of The Shooting Season

“You are no gentleman. How dare you, how dare you prowl around this house of mourning and seek to fill your pockets.” I said in an outraged whisper.

“Oh, come now Benedict”,

I took in a sharp breath, astounded that this man knew my name. My gaze dropped and I saw the lantern light illuminate a pair of rather splendid boots. Two-tone black and russet leather ankle boots to be precise. I had seen boots like this before, but they belonged to another man, a kind, intelligent American named John Edwards of Massachusetts who had kept me company on my overnight journey. His boots were laced and each lace capped with a silver charm in the shape of….I gasped as silver charms twinkled at the tips of the laces of these boots.

“John Edwards?” The words were whispered in a breath. The man chuckled.

“Why sir, you made the most excellent company on the journey to up to Bonny Scotland!” The intruder said with a distinctive American accent.

“What the devil is going on?” I barged past the silhouetted man and rushed to the table and grabbed the handle of the lantern. I pulled the shutter open and a bright light shone upon the face of… Mr. Artur Engels of Germany. I took a step back.

“Who the hell are you?” I wondered for a moment if Laudanum had been added to my wine earlier, or if my tryst with Euan had brought on a frightful dream. If this was a dream I wanted to wake up now!

“Oh Benedict, you are so very naive. It’s one of the things that immediately attracted me to you.” The stranger said drolly.

I’d seen enough. I needed to rouse the alarm and the men of the house could deal with Mr. Edwards, or Engels or whatever his blasted name was. There was no way I would allow him to leave this house with even a pilfered penny! I eyed my captor and then the door behind him.

“There’s no point looking at the door, dear heart!” The well-spoken man said. “I’ve locked it. I lured you here for a reason Benedict. Now, let’s take a seat and have a little chat, shall we?”

I was horrified that the man admitted that he had lured me. That would mean he purposely made a racket outside my bedroom door to alert my suspicions and encourage me to follow him. I was a damnable fool. The stranger pulled two chairs beside the trestle table and then he set out a bottle of Port wine and two glasses.

“Stealing from the kitchens too are we?” I sneered. I did not like that I had been captured so easily and whatever reason this man had for luring me to the attic, I would not be easy prey again.

“Sit,” The man commanded. I grimaced and sat in the proffered chair, pulling the lapels of my nightgown closed to ward off the biting chill.

“What is this? Are you going to imprison me here until I freeze to death and then you can be off with the Staff?”

The man snickered to himself. “I saw your reaction to that Staff. You were like a child opening a birthday gift. You want that so badly don’t you, you naughty boy!”

I was outraged by his playful, almost flirtatious attitude. “Thirty years I have waited to own the Staff and I’ll be damned if I let you steal it from under my nose.” I blustered. The stranger held his hand up,

“Ah, don’t worry Benedict. I have other prizes on my wish list.” He wagged his brows and I pinched my lips closed.

“I saw at dinner how well acquainted you are with the new Lord Ardmillan.” The man said.

My hackles rose. Had this vagabond been lurking in the shadows when Euan paid me a bedtime visit? Had he listened to my wanton moans as Euan gamahouched me? Was I about to be blackmailed? Blood iced in my veins. I fixed my captor with a steely glare but remained stoic.

“How well did you know the Late Lord Ardmillan?” The man said as he poured two glasses of Port. He picked up a delicate stemmed glass and offered it to me. I looked at the glass as if it were full of poison but I did not take it. He put the glass down on the table in front of me.

“Fine”, he huffed. “I thought that a sip of Port might warm us both and make this chat a little easier.”

“Who are you? John Edwards of Massachusetts, Artur Engels of Germany—“ I accused with a mocking sneer. “What is your name, man? I will not say another word until I know who I am addressing.”

The man stood, smiled, and bowed his head respectfully.

“Sebastian Cavell, at your service.”

Truths &Untruths

I felt warmth rush to my nethers as he purred out that name–Sebastian Cavell. I was not supposed to feel this… this heat for the man who had lied his way into my old friend’s good graces. The lantern light caressed his face giving it sharp; defined, almost feline angles and making his eyes glow devilishly. He was indeed a very well-made man and I was both allured by him and appalled with myself for feeling even a little tingle of attraction towards this rapscallion. I had heard the name Sebastian Cavell before and for a second could not think where I’d heard it. Then it came to me…the front page of The Times Newspaper that Cavell—or John Edwards—had been reading on the train to Scotland. The headline read:

Gentleman Thief Strikes Again!!!

“Nohhh! It cannot be.” Sebastian Cavell was a notorious master thief, and fashionable society was awash with rumor as to his identity. It was believed that he was one among us, and in turn, the elite began to circle on one another and distrust their fellows. The broadsheets had made Cavell into a sort of hero in the eyes of the common folk. He would steal from the rich—especially those who had made their money from slavery and plundering British Colonies. He was believed to be a radical anti-imperialist—one who did not believe in the God-given right of Her Majesty to civilize any foreign territory she desired.

He retook his seat and reached for his glass of Port wine.

“What do you want Cavell?” I sneered.