Vanity (51 page)

“Don’t ye want yer breakfast, sir?”

Amy’s voice piping hesitantly from the door brought his head up from morose contemplation of the ring. “No, take it away.”

“I could bring ye summat else, mebbe. A slice of rare beef, per’aps.” She looked at him with hopeful eyes.

Rupert struggled for patience. “If I want anything, I’ll call you, Amy.”

Disconsolately, the girl took out the laden tray, and Rupert resumed his pacing.

He could find patience with Amy, but not with Octavia, he reflected with a surge of remorse, seeing again the deep hurt and shock in her tawny eyes, the tremulous line of her mouth, hearing again the desperate appeal in that rich voice.

Maybe she wouldn’t come back. He could hardly blame her. But, dear God in heaven, how could he endure this captivity, this hideous impotence, another minute?

Ben’s unmistakable tread on the stone stairs outside helped him to break the spiraling panic. There were two sets of footsteps.

“See who I’ve brought ye, Nick.” Ben marched in, very smartly dressed in his Sunday clothes and a powdered wig. His companion was dressed most elegantly in gray silk, with a black silk ribbon around the queue of his white wig.

The stranger’s occupation was clear to Rupert before Ben finished the introduction with a grand flourish. “’Is Honor Mr. St. John Moretón, barrister-at-law.”

“Mr. Moretón.” Rupert bowed.

“Sir.” The barrister returned the bow and looked around. “I see your friends have ensured your comfort.”

“For the moment,” Rupert agreed.

“They have also retained me to represent you. I am, of
course, doing all I can to put off the trial,” the barrister added as if it were self-evident.

“Because to hasten it would hasten my execution?” Rupert inquired dryly.

“My dear sir, we don’t talk like that!” the barrister exclaimed. “No such thing … no such thing.”

“No, that’s right,” Ben put in stoutly. “An’ miss is right, y’know, Nick. She said we’ve given up afore we’ve even started.”

Rupert sighed. “The facts speak for themselves, Ben.”

The barrister coughed. “If I might ask for some details of the facts, Lord Nick. Perhaps you have another name?” He raised his eyebrows. “A name less … well, less notorious, shall we say? One a little less likely to raise the judge’s hackles.”

“No,” Rupert said coolly. “I’m sorry to have to disappoint you, Mr. Moreton, but Lord Nick is how I will be known at my trial.”

The barrister looked disappointed. “As you please, of course. But it’s strongly against my advice.”

“Duly noted.” Rupert ran a hand through his disordered locks. “Much as I appreciate your interest, I really don’t feel we have anything useful to discuss at this stage. And I would rather like to make my morning ablutions….” He stroked his unshaven jaw in an explanatory gesture.

The barrister looked most put out and Ben extremely displeased. But if the highwayman wasn’t prepared to cooperate in his defense, then there was little anyone could do.

The lawyer left and Ben followed him to the door. There he paused. “You want company, Nick?”

Rupert shook his head. “I’m the devil’s own company today, Ben. But don’t think I’m not grateful. However, instruct Mr. Moreton to stop his delaying tactics. I want this over with.”

Ben shook his head. “What’s the point of ’urrying it, Nick?”

“I can’t stand the suspense,” Rupert responded with a cool smile.

Ben glared at him, clearly not pleased with this attempt to make light of the dire situation. Then he shrugged and stomped off in the barrister’s wake.

Rupert flung himself onto the bed and lay staring up at the plaster ceiling. At this rate he was going to drive off all his friends. But why couldn’t they understand that there was no comfort to be gained with false hopes? His only possible comfort lay in coming to an acceptance of the inevitable—an acceptance that would enable him to face his death with calm and grace. An acceptance that would enable him to face the loss of Octavia and a love that sang so deeply in his veins, it was intrinsic to his whole.

Perhaps, if he had come to recognize and accept that love earlier, it would have been enough. He would have been able to let go his vengeance and settle for a joy that he was certain came to very few men. Instead, he’d ignored the recognition and focused only on the obsession that had lived with him through every waking moment since Cullum Wyndham had run away from Wyndham Manor. And the obsession had brought him to the foot of Tyburn Tree.

O
ctavia walked blindly away from Holborn, turning toward the Embankment. Tears ran down her cheeks beneath her veil. She was stunned by the mistake she’d made. Instead of convincing Rupert of the possibility of action, she’d merely underlined for him the powerlessness of his situation. She knew how much he needed to be in control of events. How much he needed to know that every strand was in his hands. And by acting as she’d done, succeeding where he had not, she’d rubbed his nose in his own failure.

By doing something where he could do nothing, she’d made him more vulnerable, not less.

And yet, try as she would, Octavia could not imagine acting other than she had done.

She turned away from the river, back toward the Strand. Her head down, lost in her own misery, she didn’t notice anything at first. Then she was pushed against a wall, a blast of foul breath swamped her nostrils, and the sound of
running feet and yelling voices penetrated her blind self-absorption. She could see little through the thick veil and pushed it up as she cowered against the wall.

The street was full of people, hurrying, intent, and for the moment silent. They carried staves and bricks, and their faces were contorted into an expression of almost transfixed hatred.

They surged past Octavia, and a yell went up from the end of the street. “To Westminster … to Westminster.”

They were streaming across Westminster Bridge from St. George’s Fields on their way to petition Parliament for the repeal of the Catholic Relief Act. Lord George Gordon had spoken to the masses that morning, and judging from their faces, every word had struck home.

Octavia edged backward into a narrow alley. She didn’t want to get caught up in the tide—and what a tide it was. The mass of humanity flowed on and on, and on every face was the same look. The same fanatical glitter, the same twisted features. And every voice now roared their battle cry: “No popery … no popery.”

A carriage forced its way through the middle of the throng as she cowered in her alley. But no horses drew this vehicle: it was pulled by sweating, exuberant men, and the crowd chanted and cheered, pressing back to allow the carriage passage.

A young man, smiling and waving, appeared in the window, and the crowd roared again and banged on the panels and cheered on the laboring men.

“Lord George … Lord George,” they yelled. “Make way for Lord George.”

Octavia stared, fascinated, at this man who could so inspire such a massive mob. The youngest son of the Duke of Gordon was an unremarkable-looking figure. Bright-eyed and lively, certainly, but not the stuff of which heroes were made. And yet he was the hero of this mad, wild-eyed mob.

There were thousands of them, and she began to wonder if they would ever pass and she could be on her way.

But at last the tide had passed and there were only a few
stragglers in the street. The roar of the crowd could still be heard, however, and it was a sound that sent a shiver down Octavia’s spine.

She hurried home along Piccadilly, where she noticed that the merchants were boarding up their shops and people were gathered on corners, whispering and looking anxiously around. Several people were painting “No popery” slogans on their doors and shutters—a talisman against the mob if it should turn violent.

And after what she’d seen, Octavia had little doubt that it would take almost nothing for that to happen. If Parliament refused their petition, if one man stood against them, they would turn into a pack of ravening wolves.

She turned into Dover Street, breathless, her tears dried, superseded by trepidation at being on the streets in this volatile atmosphere.

As she ran up the steps to the front door, a small voice piped from the basement steps beneath. “Ye’ve got to write ’no popery’ on yer door, Miss Tavi.”

“Frank!” She leaned over the rail, peering down at the small figure huddling on a step. “Where have you been? We’ve been so worried about you.”

Frank stood up, but he was ready to run, a small animal sniffing the wind, his eyes sharp, frightened, watching her every move. “You goin’ to ’and me over to the beak?”

“No,” she said. “Come on up here. No one’s going to hurt you, I promise.”

Frank, however, remained where he was. “I jest comes to tell you to write that thing on yer door. I ’eard ’em talkin’. They’re goin’ to burn any ’ouse that doesn’t ’ave it.”

“Who did you hear?”

“Men in the tavern. I was ’idin’ under the table … catchin’ scraps. I ’eard what they said. So you do it, Miss Tavi.”

Before she could say anything eke, he’d gone in one swift, darting movement, up the area steps and off along the street as if all the devils in hell were after him.

“Is that Frank, my lady?” Griffin, who had just opened the door, stared up the street at the flying figure.

“Yes.” Octavia stepped into the hall, frowning. “There’s mischief afoot, Griffin. Frank says we should paint ’No Popery’ on the door if we’re not to be burned in our beds. He carne to warn us. Interesting, don’t you think?”

“Maybe so, ma’am. But why did he run off, in that case?”

“He’s still afraid. It takes a long time to gentle such a wounded little creature,” she said. “But I think we should take his advice, Griffin.”

“Aye, ma’am. There’s tales abroad … rumors … scare-mongering probably, but it’s best not to take chances.”

“No, I agree.” She went to the stairs.

“Oh, by the way, my lady. Lord Wyndham was here earlier. He seemed convinced he’d lost something in the small salon last night.” Griffin spoke without expression, his eyes fixed on a copper plate bearing visiting cards.

“Oh? What was it he lost?” Octavia inquired with an air of indifference.

“He wouldn’t say, my lady. But he had two footmen and the parlor maid turning the room upside down.”

“Did he find it?”

“I don’t believe so, ma’am. He was not best pleased when he departed.”

“How strange,” Octavia said carelessly. “But I daresay, whatever it is will turn up when the room is cleaned.”

She continued on her way upstairs. It was to be hoped that Philip would not confront her with his loss. He had no possible reason for suspecting she might have purloined the ring and every reason for avoiding her.

“Octavia, dear child, I’m feeling in need of a little company.” Oliver’s voice greeted her as she passed his apartments. “I find myself sadly dull today.”

“Then I will come and keep you company, Papa,” she said.

“Why in the world are you dressed in widow’s weeds?”
her father exclaimed, taking in her appearance. “Has something happened to Warwick?”

His voice was sharp, and Octavia was glad of her veil, reflecting as she’d often done that it was almost impossible to be sure what Oliver saw and what he didn’t. What he guessed and what he chose to ignore.

“Of course not, Papa. But something’s amiss in the streets. Lord George Gordon has held his meeting, and the people are marching on Westminster.”

“Oh, are they, indeed!” His eyes lit up and he was immediately diverted. “Then come and tell me all about it.”

“I’ll just take off my cloak.”

She went into her own apartments, deciding that devoting her attention to her father for the rest of the day would be a welcome and peaceful diversion. She would tell Griffin to deny her to all callers and retreat into the hermitage of her childhood.

But there were no callers that day, only news from the streets brought by terrified servants and messengers. The mob, some twenty thousand strong, had presented their petition at St. Stephen’s at Westminster. Parliament by a vote of 192 to 6 refused to receive the petition and turned away Lord George and his petitioners.

Throughout the evening and into the night, the city resounded to the sounds of the mob as they raced in large troops on an orgy of destruction. Fires burned against the midnight sky as they torched the houses of ministers and ambassadors and anyone they considered a friend of Catholics.

Twice a mob surged down Dover Street, and Octavia and her father watched from the roof as they waved their burning brands and hurled stones and staves at the windows across the street. Their own house had the talisman upon its door, and the mob passed them by.

At dawn the sound of a pitched battle came from over the roofs from the direction of the Strand. The shrieking of the mob was joined to the roar of soldiers as the military charged with bayonets and horses. The mob came streaming
back down Dover Street chasing the soldiers, who fought step by step as they dragged a handful of prisoners they’d arrested to the Old Bailey and Newgate.

“May heaven preserve us,” Oliver muttered. “What people do to each other in the name of the living God!”