Suzanne Robinson (24 page)

Mortimer Fleet hated the country. It was full of empty space where there should be buildings; there were no gin shops, and there were too many animals. Here he was crouched in a hedgerow at dusk, miserable for lack of drink and swallowing the dust from traffic on the road. Jowett and his men were similarly ensconced. They’d been waiting ever since it had been reported that Nightshade was driving out with his lady.

He’d been doing fine on his own when The Gentleman had called a halt to his activities and substituted a plan of his personal devising. Fleet’s attempt to bribe that idiot boy Dinesdale hadn’t worked, but he’d been hopeful that a larger bribe to one of the
gardener’s assistants would work. The Gentleman had refused to wait.

From his own sources Fleet’s employer produced intimate knowledge of Castle Beaufort, its inhabitants, and its routine. The Gentleman informed him of the particular friendship between Miss Dane and Nightshade. Fleet could have told him that without investigation. Any woman who spent more than an hour in Nightshade’s company could be expected to succumb. It was right disgusting.

So now he was waiting in the hedgerow in the growing chill and lengthening shadows. If Nightshade’s carriage didn’t come soon, it would be too dark to do the job right. Fleet shoved the shrubbery aside and tried to peer down the road. Farther down a quarrel erupted between Jowett and Reg Trunk.

“Shut up, you sods,” Fleet hissed. “I think I hear something.”

From a distance came the
clop-clop
of hooves, the jingle of bridles, and the clatter of a carriage. Fleet and his men shrank back into the hedges.

“Remember. Don’t bleeding move until I say.”

Down the road came an open landau, its black lacquered sides and brass shining even in the fading light. Inside sat a woman of august appearance, and beside her—

“Who woulda thought?” Fleet murmured.

He was distracted by the sight of Nightshade in fine duds, walking stick, and tall hat. “Flash clothes and a fine carriage, the bleeding—” He’d almost allowed the carriage to slip past them. Filling his lungs, Fleet bellowed, “For it, me lads!”

Jowett ran in front of the horses, flapping a length of white cloth. The lead pair reared, causing the carriage to stop suddenly. Two more men rushed to capture the horses’ bridles while Fleet and his three assistants scrambled out of the hedges and pointed pistols at the coachman and occupants of the carriage. As soon as they came into sight, the woman began to bleat like a ewe giving birth to twins.

Over the noise, Fleet shouted, “Put up or die!” He winced at the shriek this elicited from the lady.

She threw herself into Nightshade’s arms. Fleet ignored her babbling, as did Nightshade. His old enemy hadn’t moved since they’d set eyes on each other. Keeping his gaze locked with Nightshade’s, Fleet approached the carriage with growing pleasure.

Nightshade’s lips curled. “Mortimer Fleet. Whoever gave you a pistol is a fool.”

“He don’t know I never used one,” Fleet said as he smiled and waggled the nose of the gun at his quarry. “But it don’t appear to be too hard.”

“Still, I should have thought it beyond you.”

Fleet’s smiled turned sour and he noted with irritation Nightshade’s aristocratic speech. “Watch that bitchy tongue of yours, Nightshade, or I’ll risk my employer’s h-anger and shoot you right here.”

The lady raised her head and shrieked, causing the men to cringe.

“Oh, we’re to be murdered in the road!”

Nightshade continued as if she weren’t there. “You aren’t going to kill me, Fleet, or you’d have done it already. What do you want?”

“Miss Dane, o’ course.”

“You fool. This isn’t Miss Dane, and you ought to know I won’t take you to her.”

“You always thought you was so much cleverer than me,” Fleet said. Grinning, he flourished the pistol. “You ain’t going to take me to her. All I’m to do is let Miss Dane know I’ve got you. I got it on good authority that she’ll rush right into my hands.” He stepped closer to the landau. “Now get out.”

A stream of ear-piercing protests interfered. The lady clung to Nightshade like a tick to a dog and squalled when he pried her from him. Finally he succeeded in detaching her and stepped out of the vehicle.

Once face to face with the man whose existence had been a running sore on his soul, Fleet found himself squeezing the trigger of his pistol. Then Nightshade glanced down at Fleet’s gun hand and lifted one eyebrow. Not a trace of fear could be discerned in his eyes when he lifted his gaze. Fleet felt again the gut-curdling hatred for this man whose composure and bearing never failed to make him feel as small and distasteful as a beetle in a dung heap.

“No,” Fleet said. “It won’t be a quick one for you. I want it to be slow, so I can enjoy it.”

“That’s the Fleet I remember,” Nightshade said.

Fleet nodded at Jowett, who had come up behind Nightshade. Jowett raised the butt of his pistol and hit Nightshade at the same time that Fleet punched him in the stomach.

“Glad to oblige,” Fleet said as his prisoner dropped to the ground.

Prim had forced herself to dress for dinner, although it would tax her composure and fill her with vexation to be in the company of Luke Hawthorne and Cecilia Randolph. Every time she thought of her conduct of the past few days, she wanted to curl into a ball and roll into a dark corner. How many times had she almost betrayed herself?

She was fortunate to have been able to convince Luke that her outburst in the Tudor Wing had been occasioned by her distaste for Lady Cecilia. Her pride had been saved. Its continuance gave her no comfort, however, for she existed in a haze of pain. Never having won Luke Hawthorne, she had just as surely lost him, and his loss caused tremors of anguish to shoot through the center of her body relentlessly. There were many times when she found it nearly impossible to summon the fortitude to continue with her daily activities. She had little will even to put up her hair decently or eat adequately, so as not to attract attention to her despair.

And this waiting was torture. The family were gathered in the drawing room before dinner, and Luke and his guest hadn’t returned. Tusser was dozing by the fire. Mrs. Apple and Louisa were talking quietly while they sipped sherry. Prim walked around the room pretending to admire the paintings on the wall or take an interest in a piece of Chinese porcelain. All the while she expected Luke to enter the room and
announce that he and Lady Cecilia had settled matters between them and to name the date of their wedding.

A long time ago she had dreamed little daydreams of such an announcement for herself. In these fantasies she was quite young, certainly not the great age she was now. Her suitor came to her father’s house, breathless with fear for his reception. Usually he found her in the conservatory among cascades of tropical flowers, but sometimes she had him searching for her in the park and finding her beneath the branches of an aged oak or beside a cascading waterfall. Always he called out her name in desperate longing; always she turned to him, smiled, and answered by holding out her hand. He rushed to her, then stopped to kiss her hand and stumble over his proposal.

Unworldly, naive, silly. That had been before her fortune vanished in the storm of irresponsibility created by her father. She had no more silly dreams. And now they appeared pale and uninteresting compared to the brilliant reality of the man she always thought of as Nightshade. Her parents would never have approved of him, had they lived. Her brother and Aunt Freshwell would rather see her a permanent spinster than attached to such a man.

Prim picked up a gilded container with a pedestal base that fit neatly into her hand. Intricately engraved and pierced, its lid swung back to reveal an Elizabethan watch shaped like an egg with a crystal top. Her fingers played with the top as she thought about Luke and Lady Cecilia. Even running as far as America wouldn’t ease the pain she would feel, knowing that those two were—

“What is that noise?” Mrs. Apple asked.

Looking up from the watch, Prim heard footsteps clatter on the marble floor outside the drawing room. Over this resounded a hysterical bleating that seemed to fill the vastness of the hall. Tusser snorted and woke up. Louisa and Mrs. Apple rose as a group of servants burst into the room. In their midst, supported by them, came Lady Cecilia, alternately shrieking and scolding.

“Oh, my heart, my heart. I shall faint.” A sudden bellow belied this claim. “Turnpenny, where is that brandy?”

Prim rushed to Lady Cecilia as the servants lowered her to a couch in front of the fire. “Lady Cecilia, what has happened?”

Tusser waved his cane at the footmen and Featherstone.

“Get away from her. Give her air.”

Mrs. Apple took Featherstone aside and began a quiet conversation while Louisa took brandy from Turnpenny and helped Lady Cecilia drink. Cecilia downed the glass in one gulp, a practiced one.

“Oh, dear Lord in heaven. My heart is pounding. I shall faint. More brandy!”

Prim glanced through the open doors. “Where is Sir Lucas, Lady Cecilia?”

“I shall never be the same. I shall die of fright, and be lamented forever.”

“Lady Cecilia, where is Sir Lucas?” Prim asked again.

“We were set upon.” Cecilia swallowed another entire glass of brandy. “Such palpitations. My heart
will burst. I thought I should die. Thank heavens I escaped.”

“You were attacked? Robbed?” Prim’s anxiety was growing. “Where is Sir Lucas?”

Cecilia turned her face to the fan Turnpenny was waving at her. “It is indeed a wonder that I escaped. Brandy, I need more brandy to calm my heart.”

Snatching the glass as Louisa proffered it, Prim pulled it out of reach when Cecilia’s hand sought it. She planted herself in front of the woman.

“Cease this blithering at once!” Cecilia’s mouth snapped closed, and she goggled at Prim, who fixed her with a killing stare and said carefully,
“Where—is—Luke?”

Lady Cecilia sputtered, then stopped when she saw Prim’s hand curl into a fist. “They took him. I’m sure he’s all right. What does it matter, when I have almost been killed from the shock?”

It was vital that Prim control her rage. Tusser and Louisa tried asking the same question with less success. Lady Cecilia ranted of her own narrow escape, her nerves, her heart. Prim was considering slapping Cecilia when Mrs. Apple left Featherstone and took her arm. Drawing her away from the others, she whispered to Prim.

“Featherstone got the story from the coachman. They were attacked by a group of men on the road from the village to the park. From his description, I think it was Mortimer Fleet and his lads.”

“Fleet? Oh, dear heaven. Fleet.” Prim pressed her hand to her stomach, suddenly ill.

Mrs. Apple grabbed her arm and propelled Prim to a chair. “Get hold of yerself, missy.”

Vaguely aware that Mrs. Apple’s voice had suddenly taken on the vibrant timbre of a much younger woman, Prim clutched the arms of the chair and took a deep breath.

“That’s better,” Mrs. Apple said. She handed Prim a sealed envelope. “Fleet handed that to the coachman. Said he was to deliver it only to you.”

Her hands shaking, Prim opened the envelope and read.

“If you want to see him alive, come back to London. The Laughing Knacker in Whitechapel. Tell no one or he dies.”

The message was printed, as if someone had copied it from an original. The letters blurred as she stared at them. Shaking her head, Prim looked up at Mrs. Apple. The woman was staring at the note and tapping a fingernail against her front teeth. Prim stuffed the note into her sleeve and rose.

Mrs. Apple grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?”

“To London, of course.”

“You can’t. You’ll do no good.”

Prim jerked her arm free and faced the woman. “I am going. Please do not waste my time in argument. No power in the world is going to prevent me from getting him back.”

Mrs. Apple regarded her for a moment, as if assessing Prim’s strength and will. “All right, love. But if you’re going, at least let me help you.”

It was Prim’s turn to survey Mrs. Apple. Quelling
her nearly insane urge to rush off at once without forethought, Prim noted that the old lady seemed to be standing straight instead of bent over with age. Gone was the vague fluttering of hands, the sweet and benign expression.