Margaret Moore (28 page)

“Oh, no, I am delighted!” he cried. “Well, not delighted about the circumstances, but delighted you think I could be of use. I’ve been useless most of my life. And you must call me Foz.”

“You are so kind, and I’ve lied to you.”

“Well, in a good cause, I believe.”

“Other than Rob, you are my only friend.”

Lord Cheddersby set down the fork and looked at her with a remarkably determined expression. “After a good breakfast and when I am properly dressed, we shall see about sorting this mess out, shall we?”

“Do you think we can?” she asked softly, voicing the first hint of a doubt.

He blinked, looking rather like an owl startled by daylight. “Well, now that I’ve finally got something important to do, I shall certainly give it my all. Besides, I’m convinced you acted in Mr. Harding’s defense or else Sir Philip would have killed him. Your action was not premeditated, so it cannot be considered felonious.”

Now it was Vivienne’s turn to look surprised.

“Oh, I know a little bit about the law. Not a lot. I only know a lot about Latin—but that’s where I learned some law. My tutor Muttlechop made me read the medieval yearbooks, the records of the courts. Pretty dull stuff, for the most part, but I do recall a few things.”

She reached out and covered his hand with hers. “You make me feel better, Foz, and I cannot ask for more.”

“And if your odious, mean uncle has cast you out, you must stay here,” he declared. “Nor should you trouble yourself about money. What’s the good of me having so much if I can’t share it?”

“Oh, Lord Cheddersby … Foz, I couldn’t.”

“Nonsense. I insist.”

“Thank you so much,” she replied, grateful for his generous offer, for otherwise she really had no idea where else she could go. “You are truly a kindhearted, generous friend.”

“Enough thanks, Mistress Burroughs.” He gestured at the room. “This place is far too enormous for just me and my servants, really. We simply rattle around like peas in a barrel. I shall gladly pay your expenses until Mr. Harding is free and able to marry you.”

“I will always bless you for helping us,” she said, smiling at him with tears in her eyes.

He cleared his throat loudly, his own eyes moist. “Yes, well, you had better try to get a little sleep. In the meantime, I’ll get myself dressed and go to Newgate and see that he has the best accommodation that ghastly place affords. And I shall be happy to speak in Mr. Harding’s favor at trial, if it comes to that. I daresay there are plenty of others who would, too.”

“Will I be able to explain what really happened?”

Foz gave her a sympathetic look. “I’m not sure that would be the wisest course, because you would also be saying Mr. Harding told a rather monstrous lie. Besides, the judge and jury will likely think as your uncle does, that a woman is not capable of such an action.” He held up his hand. “I know, I know, very blind of them. But they will. No, I think we should keep to the facts as Mr. Harding has told them. If so, he acted in self-defense, and that is something the court should not only understand, but pardon.”

“I hope you’re right, my lord,”

“Still, it would save a lot of bother if the king would pardon him.”

“He can do that?”

“Absolutely, and in this case, quite rightly.” Foz gave her a bright smile.

She flushed. “I fear the king may not be amenable to helping me. He was very angry with me last night because I wouldn’t—”

“I know, my dear,” Lord Cheddersby interrupted gently. “I, um, happened to be at Whitehall. But the king is a very capricious fellow, and just because he is cross with somebody one day doesn’t mean he will be the next. I’faith, if that were not so, the Duke of Buckingham’s head would have been on London Bridge years ago. Still, even if the king will not help, I’m sure the judge will see that Mr. Harding was acting in your defense, and so not guilty of murder. Now do try not to worry. There is nothing more you can do, at least for the present.”

“I cannot sit idly by while—”

“I fear you must. There is nothing a woman can do in such circumstances,” he said. He gave her a sympathetic smile as he went to the door and called for his footman. “Jeffries, escort Mistress Burroughs to the green bedchamber and see that she lacks for nothing.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Vivienne watched Lord Cheddersby depart, then sat some moments at the table before going with the haughty Jeffries, a gleam of resolution in her vibrant eyes.

*   *   *

Rob fingered the pebble he had plucked out of the fetid straw of the cell, took his aim at the two gleaming, beady eyes in the crack of the wall and threw, grunting at the sudden twinge of pain from his broken rib.

The rat gave a squeal and the eyes disappeared.

“Still good,” Rob muttered grimly.

How many rats had he and Jack caught this way? He couldn’t begin to say.

There were other sorts of rats in London, human ones who would enjoy hearing of his fall from grace and then come after his clients.

Slumped against the wall, he surveyed his cell yet again. Of course nothing had changed. The dank gray walls were just as damp, the straw just as odoriferous, the pail in the corner even more so. A bowl of scummy water lay near the door, giving off a smell all its own.

He sighed and glanced up at the narrow window, knowing these surroundings did not horrify and repel him as they would Vivienne. He had known worse places, slept in worse places, been beaten in worse places.

In a sense, he could feel more at home here than he ever could in a fine house like Lord Cheddersby’s or Whitehall Palace—but that didn’t mean he was comfortable or at all anxious to stay.

Would a judge and jury believe that what he had done was manslaughter, not murder? The punishment either way was severe. Could he dare to hope that they would find he had acted in self-defense, and so his offense was pardonable?

He rested his forehead on his uninjured knee. Or maybe this was the ending always fated for him and he had only succeeded in delaying the inevitable.

Even if he were pardoned, what hope did he have now to provide for Vivienne? Nobody would seek his legal services. He would have to take what jobs he could, and he could not bear to think of Vivienne suffering alongside him. To see the burden of poverty dull her bright eyes, the lack of food destroy her blooming health, the misery of cold and filthy lodgings overcome her joyous spirit.

She had said she loved him and wanted only his love in return. If he doubted that, was that not belittling her love—and being as condescending as all the other men in her life who could not believe she knew exactly what she wanted, no matter the price?

He raised his head and looked at the pale morning light trying to shine through the little window, like the hope struggling through his despair. Vivienne the bold, Vivienne the defiant—she would be insulted if he thought she could not cope without wealth. He could see her eyes flash, the set of her lips, the flush of righteous indignation….

By some miracle, the best and bravest woman in London loved him. Why should he sit here wallowing in his despair?

Had he not been trained to argue cases? By God, even though he was not a barrister, could he not somehow contrive to argue his own?

“By God, I will!” Rob cried aloud, and then he laughed.

Sitting in the squalid guardroom, two jail-keepers looked at one another and frowned at the sound of a boisterous laugh. The turnkey with a grizzled beard, three teeth and pockmarked face tapped his temple significantly.

The other blinked his rheumy eyes barely visible beneath lank, filthy hair, and nodded glumly while he scratched at one of his many flea bites. “Sounds like somebody’s gone off his head, all right, Bill.”

“Oy, jailer!” a man shouted, his words echoing off the stone walls. “Turnkey, it would be worth your while to attend to me!”

“What now?” Bill mumbled grouchily as he hoisted himself to his feet.

“If you think he’s mad, why go?”

“’Cause he’s got better clothes than most, that’s why,” Bill explained as he waddled toward the open door. “He might have money to pay for additionals.”

“Ah!” his fellow guard said with a slow nod. “Need any help there?”

“No, I can manage,” Bill muttered as he made his way along the corridor, ignoring the stares or hawks of spit of the other prisoners, until he came to stand outside the cell of his most recently admitted prisoner. “What?” he demanded.

The tall man who, although he was also better-looking than most of his prisoners, nevertheless gave Bill a bit of a shiver, stuck his face up to the grill in the door. “I want you to fetch my clerk, Bertie Dillsworth. Tell him to bring paper, ink and quills. Oh, and a small table and stool. Also, I need better food than moldy bread and fetid water.”

Bill scowled and scratched his grizzled chin. “Think I’m your servant, do ye? Better take another look.”

To his surprise, the man grinned. “I can pay for your troubles.”

“Show me.”

The man produced a sovereign. “There’ll be more. I assure you I have additional funds in my chambers.”

“Chambers?”

“I am a solicitor, Robert Harding.”

Bill looked as if he had swallowed a bug. “Not the one they call ‘Heartless’?”

He bowed. “Your servant.”

“God’s teeth, you got my old mam them ten pounds that skint owed her! Not much, but she needed it bad. Why the hell didn’t you say who ya was?”

“I was not at my best.”

“Ha!” the jailer barked. “’Spose not. Right, then, sir, I’ll see you get what you need.”

“I shall be very grateful.”

King Charles looked up from the very boring document he was supposed to be reading and raised a brow. “Chaffinch, what in the name of God is that confounded racket?”

His page, who was standing closer to the door of Charles’s apartments, cleared his throat. “It seems, Majesty, that someone wishes to intrude upon the royal presence.”

Charles’s eyes lit up. “Odd’s fish, really?” Then he frowned. “If it’s the Dutch ambassador, tell him we’re indisposed and can’t possibly see anybody.”

“It is not the Dutch ambassador, Majesty,” Chaffinch replied. “It sounds like a woman.”

“Why did you not say so?” Charles demanded as he got to his feet, then stretched. “That sounds like something we should investigate.” He got a wary look on his face. “Unless it’s Barbara?”

“No, sire, it is not Lady Castlemaine.”

“Ah, then we shall have to see who dares to make so much fuss in our palace.”

Again, Chaffinch cleared his throat. “Majesty, Lord Clarendon—”

“Can go to the devil for a little while,” the king declared cheerfully. “We swear, if we are forced to read any more correspondence from the chancellor of the Exchequer, we shall go blind! Now, out of the way, that’s a good fellow.”

The king waved Chaffinch aside and opened the door, then stepped into the corridor. A short distance away, two palace guards blocked the hall, obviously attempting to prevent the woman in front of them from going any farther.

“Ho, there, what’s afoot?” Charles called out jovially. “An assassin in skirts?”

“Your Majesty, please, I must speak with you.”

“Guards, step aside,” the king commanded.

They did so, albeit reluctantly.

“Ah, Mistress Burroughs!” Charles said, frowning. “This is a surprise. We thought you unlikely to visit Whitehall again.”

The lovely young woman, who no doubt possessed the finest breasts Charles had ever seen, flushed to the roots of her hair. “Your Majesty,” she said, dropping to a low curtsy that brought her cleavage into the royal view, “I most humbly beg your pardon for intruding, but I come on a matter of utmost urgency—and not for myself.”

“A good thing,” the king muttered in an annoyed tone and letting her remain in a subservient position a little longer, “for we do not forget your behavior during your last visit here.”

She glanced up, her really remarkable eyes flashing with a bold spirit he couldn’t help but admire. “Your Majesty, Mr. Harding is wrongfully imprisoned in Newgate.”

“Wrongfully imprisoned?” Charles repeated as she straightened. “This sounds like most serious business, indeed, and the corridor is no place to be discussing serious business. Come, let us retire to my apartments.”

He saw her hesitation, noting the way her shoulders stiffened ever so slightly. Nevertheless, she did not protest when he tugged gently on her hand to lead her away.

He barely subdued a smile. He was sure she must be a bold, energetic lover. Robert Harding should count himself a fortunate man.

They entered his private domain, where the dutiful Chaffinch waited. “You may go, Chaffinch. Mistress Burroughs and I wish to be alone.”

V
ivienne’s heart throbbed wildly as the king’s servant abandoned the room, but she would not flee. Her dread and fears were insignificant. All that mattered was getting Rob free. “Majesty, I have come—”

“You are all out of sorts, Mistress Burroughs,” he interrupted as he strolled toward the table bearing several decanters and crystal wineglasses. “Perhaps you would like some wine?”

“No, Majesty,” she said, trying to sound calm.

The king poured himself a goblet of rich red wine, the heady scent of it drifting toward her. “We gather you’ve come about Sir Philip’s death?”

She stared at him. “Sire?”

“Lord Cheddersby interrupted our game of tennis this morning to tell us all about it.” He took a sip. “The poor fellow was quite indignant that Mr. Harding had been taken to Newgate.”

“Quite rightly, sire,” she replied. “It is I who should have been taken away, for I did the deed.”

The king turned to her with an incredulous look. “You?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I stabbed him.”

“Lord Cheddersby tells us Mr. Harding was defending himself.”

“He was defending me, but he was injured and Philip was going to kill him. I had a knife in my hands and I killed him.”

“God save us,” Charles muttered. “Amazing.”

“It is the truth, sire.”

“Yet your lover has confessed to the deed.”

“Only to protect me, Majesty.”

“A most charming sentiment that has, unfortunately, landed him in a terrible situation.” Charles cocked his head to regard her shrewdly. “Perhaps you are trying to protect him, too. The law is usually more merciful to a woman.”