To Be Seduced (18 page)

“We hereby conclude the accusation against the grand traitor Richard Marcus Harcourt, Baron Harcourt, whose crime was no less than high treason. He was to succor, shelter, and aid the most bloody-handed men acting in the riots of January last, led by the foul murderer Thomas Venner. We contend that he was brought to a fair trial before the Court of the King’s Bench at Westminster, where it was proved by good evidence that he abetted those who were to have killed his Benovolent Majesty…”

As the meaning sank in, Bethany felt as if a set of invisible fingers choked her. She tried to protest that she had just proved he was innocent, but could not push the words past the suffocating pressure in her throat. Over the roaring in her ears, she could barely hear the sentence handed down by the court.

“He shall be hanged up by the neck, and cut down whilst some life remains in him, afterward his breast to be ripped open, his heart taken out, his body quartered and displayed for the warning and correction of public morals.”

“No.” Her knees gave way, try as she might to stay upright. Richard’s arms held her up. He had broken away from his guards to come to her. Tears blurred his face in front of hers before she buried her face in his shoulder.

“I am so sorry, Rickon. I failed you, it was all for nothing.” He held her close for a moment, his lips brushing her cheek while he stroked her hair, soothing her.

“No, sweet girl, ’twas not wasted. You came for me after all, didn’t you?”

She had no idea what he meant. Anguish lanced through her as the guards pulled him away. Ignoring them, she clung to his hand as long as she could before they forced her toward the door. “Please forgive me. I thought if I told them the truth, it would save you.”

“And so it has.” King Charles rose to his full height, gaining the attention of the entire chamber. “Lord Harcourt, approach.”

With a guard on each side, Richard walked over to the King. The clop of his shoes was the only sound in the chamber, until he knelt before him. The King regarded the assemblage sternly and spoke.

“Richard Marcus, Baron Harcourt, is this day graciously granted the benefit of a full and free pardon for the crime of treason against the Crown in relation to the January rebellions, the reason being that we are sufficiently satisfied by the testimony presented by his wife that he never did knowingly associate with any supporter of the rebellion and spent the days in company with her. So ordered by Charles the Second, King of England and Scotland, in the thirteenth year of our reign.” He finished and pointed to the Chief Justice’s clerk, who bent over his parchment scribbling furiously.

“Write it up and present it for our seal and signature.” The crowd roared its approval.

Through her shock, Bethany noticed a number of individuals who had howled earlier for Richard’s blood now cheered his freedom, in view of His Majesty’s professed belief in his innocence. She shook her head over their shameless reverse of opinion, but in the end, it did not matter. Richard was free.

From her place by the door, she observed Captain Loring. Predictably, he did not rejoice in the King’s pardon. His face black with anger, he shouldered his way through the crowd in her direction. Thinking he wished to leave the site of his defeat, she moved out of his way, for the idea of speaking to him revolted her.

The small movement must have caught his eye, for he changed his route to confront her. Although shaky from Richard’s brush with death at this man’s hands, she lifted her chin. He could hardly harm her in the middle of a crowded courtroom under the King’s eye.

“You interfering little bitch.” He hissed the words so softly, even the guard could barely hear him. “Why could you not have stayed in Yorkshire where you belonged?”

“Because your lies about my husband endangered his life.” She met his eyes steadily as she spoke.

A flash of motion at the corner of her vision caused her to turn her head. With a shock, she recognized Mr. Ilkston as he detached himself from the back of the crowd near the royal party. The captain’s glance had followed hers. Now his lip curled.

“Just as well.” He reached under his coat. “Mayhap this will hurt that whoreson you married more.” Grabbing her wrist with one hand, he pulled the other out, revealing a steel knife.

Bethany screamed and fought to pull her hand free from his grip, but he struck too swiftly for anyone else to react. He stabbed low, aiming beneath her breastbone in a blow so heavy she reeled from it. The blade glanced off the stiff whalebone busk and tore through her quilted and boned stays. By then the guard and several bystanders acted, disarming him and holding him in place.

Kind hands supported Bethany as she held her torn bodice and stays together. As she watched Richard’s white face trying to push his way through the crowd, a stinging sensation along her side increased until she could no longer ignore it. Glancing down, she realized blood oozed out of the torn material of her gown and stays.

It did not spread fast enough to indicate a deep wound. She breathed deeply, forcing her heart to stop pounding.

“Bethany!” Richard pushed at the crowd to get to her, but the solid wall of bodies pressing in on her and Loring prevented him. She tried to catch his eye, to assure him she had not been hurt badly, when she cried out again.

“Richard, behind you! The King!” Mr. Ilkston had pulled out a dagger of his own and crept so far into the distracted circle of courtiers that he stood nearest Charles. His Majesty had not armed himself with a sword, but he pulled a dagger of his own and took a defensive stance.

“King Jesus and the heads upon the walls!” To the horror of the assemblage, the countryman shouted the motto of the Fifth Monarchists. Richard wasted no time. Grabbing a rapier from one of the guards, he stepped between Ilkston and the King.

It ended quickly, for Ilkston was no more a swordsman than an assassin. In moments, Richard struck the dagger out of Ilkston’s hand and would have run him through save for the intervention of Charles Stuart.

“Stand down, my lord.” The King’s voice rang out in cold fury. Richard relaxed but rested the point of his blade against the attacker’s jugular vein. Two startled courtiers remembered themselves enough to grab Ilkston’s arms. “We earnestly desire that this man and Captain Loring stand their trials.”

The hum of shouts and cries rose to the ceiling around Bethany and threatened to drown her. Feeling faint, she groped her way through the mass of bodies. She walked, hard, into one.

Familiar arms encircled her as Richard’s honey over gravel whisper recited her name repeatedly and added something she could not hear. As she rested her head on his shoulder, the buzz of the crowd merged into a black cloud. It enveloped her without warning, cutting off sight and sound.

She swam back to consciousness slowly. Gaining her senses fully, she found herself staring up at a kindly older man who awaited patiently for her to rouse. She examined his face stupidly for several seconds, wondering where she was and why she did not recognize him.

Suddenly remembering, she struggled to sit up, batting at the hands that urged her to remain still.

“No, milady, you have suffered an injury and great fear on top of a hard journey.” The gray-haired man spoke gently but in a manner indicating that most people obeyed his orders. A friendly smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes softened the command.

“I can feel that.” She winced as she raised herself on one elbow to look around.

Someone had placed her on a long wooden table in a small chamber with half-paneled walls, lit by two narrow windows. Carved wood covered the ceiling. The floor, she noticed when she sat up, was tiled by small black and white lozenges. She grasped his arm.

“Richard! I beg you, where is Lord Harcourt?” Her heart hammered as she pleaded, fearing he also had suffered an injury.

He patted her hand. “The pardon has been written out and signed by His Majesty, madam, thanks to your determination. And the cowards who attacked you were arrested on the spot.” He picked up a folded square of linen. “If you must sit up, I might as well bandage you.”

She did, and he pressed the makeshift pad onto her wound. Glancing down, she noticed it still bled a little, but she moved easily, if painfully. Her heavily quilted stays and quick movement had prevented serious damage.

To her alarm, the stays were clearly visible, as her open bodice bunched around her waist.

“Your husband insisted on stopping the proceedings until someone arranged treatment for you.” Bethany hissed as he bound the pad firmly in place with a length of batiste heavily edged with lace. “Fortunately I am a doctor and was in attendance this day, although I had to borrow kerchiefs and cravats to use as bandages.”

He tied the length of cloth tightly. She gasped in pain, but did not complain. She had no desire for the thing to slip.

“There’s only a clean pad on the wound, for I certainly have nothing at hand to make a poultice with. Is there anyone at home who can make one?” At her affirmative answer, he nodded. “Very good, you shall need something to draw out the humors. Do you know what receipt is used?”

Bethany explained that she had an entire book of physic receipts gathered by her mother. The old man listened carefully to her description of the one it recommended for bloody wounds. He nodded again.

“That will do well, but I would recommend using half again as much cobweb to be sure the wound closes.” His eyes twinkled. “In the meanwhile, I expect you would like to dress.”

Bowing, he excused himself. Bethany wasted no time putting herself to rights, although the ties on the back of her gown proved a challenge. Eventually she managed to tighten them enough to give herself the appearance of respectability.

Exiting the room, she found her companion waiting politely for her. She tamped down her impatience to find Richard and curtsied to him.

“To whom do I owe my thanks, sir?” He bowed over her hand.

“Doctor George Bates at your service, my lady.” She thanked him sincerely for his assistance and begged to be allowed to offer him payment. He brushed the request aside. “’Twas an honor to assist so intrepid a woman.”

“Truly a credit to her gender.” The familiar voice came from behind her. She turned around and instantly curtsied nearly to the floor.

King Charles inclined his head to acknowledge her.

“Please arise, Lady Harcourt.” His teeth flashed white in a charming smile. “We should dislike protocol to cause you further pain, particularly when we owe you our life.” Having abandoned his attendants, he invited her to walk with him. “Accept our heartfelt personal thanks for proving one man’s innocence as well as exposing a pair of traitors to the Crown.”

He extended his hand. Giving him a questioning look, she tentatively placed hers in it. To her secret relief, he merely brushed his lips over the back of her hand in a polite salute before releasing it. The King spoke again in a far more businesslike manner.

“At this point, one is permitted to name a reward.” He prompted her with a twinkle in his dark eyes and waited for her to speak. Nonplussed, she searched for something to say.

“Sire, you gave me what I most desired when you pardoned my husband.” She lifted her eyes to the royal countenance.

“Indeed! No gold, no lands, no title?” The heavy black eyebrows rose. “One does hear fascinating gossip about a trust fund.” His voice trailed off suggestively.

“I have learned, Your Majesty, that there are some things far more vital to my happiness than money,” Bethany replied firmly, to the King’s obvious amusement. “I cannot speak for Lord Harcourt, however. Perhaps there is something he wishes.”

He regarded her with uncharacteristic seriousness. “If his lordship is foolish enough to wish for more than a lady of your loyalty and quick wits, he doesn’t deserve his pardon.” Her fear must have shown on her face, for he hastened to finish.

“Do not fear, Lady Harcourt, we shall not rescind our word.” He turned to leave, and she curtsied once more. “Convey our friendship to him, and our felicitations upon his choice of a consort.”

She watched him mince away on his heeled shoes before beginning to search for her husband.

She started with the building’s entry hall, but Richard did not await her there. The porter assured her Lord Harcourt had not passed that way. Searching the nearly empty maze of hallways, she found no sign of him. A few clerks scuttled about, all assuming an air of importance, but the dramatic end of the trial seemed to have signaled a general exodus.

With mounting frustration, she realized she had gone in circles. The door at her side led to the council chamber. It stood ajar, showing rows of empty seats. Although looking for her husband inside would likely prove fruitless, she supposed she might as well be thorough. She swung the door wide enough to enter, marveling that it moved so silently on its well-oiled hinges.

She paused on the threshold, frozen in horror. At the far end, Richard stood locked in an embrace with Frances Shadbourne.

Under Bethany’s stunned gaze, Mistress Shadbourne handed her husband a small package. He held her close and said something; his gravelly voice sounded sad, but she could not catch the words. Possibly the roaring in her ears prevented her from hearing clearly.

Getting stabbed in the side hurt no more than a pinprick compared to this. She wanted to collapse, to lose consciousness and never regain it. Even the fact that she had secured his freedom could not change his feelings for his mistress.

Pressing her full skirts to her sides to prevent them from rustling, she backed out. Her throat closed so tightly with tears she could not have uttered a sound had she wished to. Blindly retracing her steps to the main hall, she stumbled in just as their guards escorted Captain Loring and Mr. Ilkston to Newgate Prison. Loring jeered at her.

“Already sorry you saved your husband’s miserable life?” Bethany had no idea how he guessed at Richard’s activities, but her fury vented itself on him.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

The guards cheered her, but she ignored them. She had to leave, now, before her composure deteriorated any further. Slipping past them into the street, she found a chair and directed the men to the house in Saint Clement’s Lane.

Inside, she drew several shaky breaths and buried her face in her hands. She had to get away, to hide until she could mend the gaping hole Richard had just torn in her heart. Since she had brought only what could be carried on horseback, packing would take a matter of minutes.

She started issuing orders as soon as she entered the hall. Soon a footman scurried to the nearest livery stable to procure a heavy coach while a maid trotted upstairs to fold her few clothes. Bethany commandeered a small chest from the attic for them and instructed the kitchen to send a tray up to her room.

“Bread and cheese will do if naught else is at hand.” She shouted the directive after the retreating back of the housekeeper.

Faith proved the greatest impediment to her departure. First no one could find her, until the scullery maid recalled seeing her slip out with Lane. Further questioning disclosed that Richard had rented a small house not far away in Brydges Street.