To think that his father had been willing to risk everything—his life and estates, and his son’s inheritance—for such a hopeless cause rocked Gideon to his very core.
He pored over the papers, examining first their broken seals and scrawled signatures. A number of the friends who had come to his father’s burial were represented here, as were others who had not appeared. In every case they had pledged their support for James Stuart if he should come.
Then he came upon a name that so startled him, an erratic pulse started beating in his throat.
Here was the Duke of Bournemouth’s hand and seal on a letter promising full support should his Majesty King James III arrive in England with a company of French troops sufficiently large as to ensure his victory over the newly-crowned King George.
These, then, were the papers the Duke had been so eager to retrieve. And no wonder, for the mere inscription of the name James III would brand him as a Jacobite and traitor to King George. The letter implied that the Stuart King had made him promises of greater land and honours in exchange for his support, something his Grace of Bournemouth would not wish to be known now that he had assumed a valuable place at Court. This letter would be enough to hang him.
With his nerves on edge, Gideon read on to discover the extent of his father’s treason against the Crown. It seemed that Lord Hawkhurst had taken on the duty of raising a group of supporters in the southeast of England, in case the Pretender managed to march as far as London. An invasion was planned for the west coast as soon as James could persuade the Regent to commit French troops.
The men on this list had pledged their support in exchange for greater titles or the promise of an appointment at Court, either for themselves, their daughters, or their sons. Lord Hawkhurst, apparently, had done it as a matter of conscience. He had asked for nothing more than the honour of serving his true king.
Gideon held evidence in his hands that could condemn a number of men to the gallows. But only one of these had put money on both sides and ended up in a place of trust in the Hanover court.
What if the Duke had killed his father to still the one voice that had the means to expose him? Clearly, he had wanted these papers, enough to threaten Gideon. Perhaps, his threats had carried more danger than Gideon had believed.
He thought through the details. If the Duke had plotted with his father, he might have been told of the small staircase leading to his father’s library. He would not have wanted to be seen entering the house of a known Tory, not when most Tories were suspect. But they might have met in secret. Gideon found it hard to believe that matters of such importance had been discussed entirely through letters. Yet, his father had seldom left home.
The Duke could have climbed the staircase, hidden while Gideon and his father were arguing, then used the cover of that fight to kill Lord Hawkhurst and throw the blame on his son.
But in that case, the Duke would have received the cut. He had been at the ball when Gideon arrived and had not appeared to be hurt, but his cut might have been more shallow than Gideon’s, and even Gideon had managed to conceal his for over an hour that night. Perhaps the killer had, too.
But who had attacked Gideon if the Duke was already at the ball?
One of his lackeys? If so, the Duke of Bournemouth would not be the first man to use his servants to attack his enemies.
But would he have sent someone else to murder another peer of the realm?
Gideon doubted he would. The risk of taking anyone so deeply into his confidence would have been too great. It would have put him at the mercy of a servant who could use his knowledge to demand money.
The more questions Gideon thought of, the more frustrated he became. How could he discover if the Duke had even had the time to kill his father? He would have to find out where Bournemouth had been before his arrival at the ball, and what time he had arrived, facts that were impossible for him to gather in his current situation.
If he could ask Mrs. Kean, she might be able to answer his second question at least, for she seemed to have an observant eye. But how was that to be accomplished when he dare not show his face at Isabella’s house?
As Gideon realized what he would have to do to prove a duke guilty of murder, an overwhelming sense of defeat threatened to crush him. How would he ever get his freedom back?
How could he find the truth if he had to hide? How could he prove anything against a favourite of the king?
He had been able to force his way into James Henry’s house, but he could not do that to his Grace of Bournemouth. The Duke’s numerous estates would be gated and guarded. And waylaying him would be next to impossible, for he travelled with an army of servants and enough outriders to guard a royal treasure.
Gideon was too unused to having his will thwarted to take frustration calmly. He had been raised to be obeyed, to receive almost anything he desired at a mere request.
He was not stupid. He had been accounted a good student and had enjoyed his studies far more than many of his peers. But he had never had to employ the sort of shrewdness necessary for subterfuge. He’d had no need to be unscrupulous or even very smart. He had always preferred action to invention and openness to trickery.
But those were tools reserved for people who could walk in the light of day. He would have to use the opposite if he wanted to catch his father’s murderer.
His sense of caution warned him that there were other men named in these papers, any one of whom might have had a motive for murder. He would have to go through them and make a list of possible suspects. Then he would have to make a plan. And he would learn to use whatever means were possible for a fugitive from the law.
Before Tom set out for the county town of Maidstone, he discussed his master’s requirements with Mr. Lade, telling him that the woman who had done his washing would not suit. He told him to call in the best workers he could find and have them ready for his inspection when he returned. Lade grumbled about “gentry coves what don’t have the wit to keep upon the sneak” and how all this commotion “would bring the harman down on his house,” but in the end he seemed to understand that if he wanted to keep his flush customer, he would have to improve his service.
Tom would never have asked for Katy’s help, but when Lade heard that he wanted to use the only wagon the inn possessed to drive into Maidstone, he insisted that Tom take her along. He had purchases he needed himself, and could not leave the house to go.
Tom offered to run Lade’s errands. He would have offered his soul to avoid riding in a wagon with a harlot, especially one with a face to make him wish his virtue were not so strict.
He had avoided looking at her on every occasion, which had been hard in this tiny place, where it seemed she was always near to hand. It had been tough at first when she’d assumed he’d want her, for how many of Lade’s other clients had not? A few harsh words and a turned head had cured her of flirting, but it had taken all his will to ignore her when he often passed her on the stairs. He could not move through the narrow stairwell without brushing her body with his.
The first time it happened, he had smelled the ripe, womanly scent of her, which had shaken him so deeply that when she’d smiled up into his eyes and said good morning, he had almost answered back. Since then, he had made certain to hold his breath. Still, he could sense her feminine sweetness in the air.
He would not be seduced by a trull who made her living keeping strange men’s beds warm. He knew too much about the suffering that came from sin. His own father had taken the pox from whoring after Tom’s mother had died. He’d gone full mad with the pain, and there had been nothing in the end Tom could do to help him but hand him the knife he’d begged for.
He had heard that Hell’s worst torments were reserved for those who refused to keep themselves clean. Most men ignored that teaching, because they didn’t want their pleasures curtailed, but Tom knew it for the truth. His father had not had to wait for Hell for those torments. He had suffered them on earth.
And her
e at the Fox and Goose, deep in the Wild of Kent, Tom would force himself to keep clean when every fiber of his being yearned for the pleasure this woman could bring.
He almost cursed when Katy emerged from the back of the inn and looked about for the wagon. She wore a plain woolen dress, but a brighter scarf had been tied around her shoulders. Its bright, cheery red made the yellow of her hair glow like the warmest sun.
She looked different this morning. Cleaner, and not as bold as she did in the taproom at night. She even seemed shy, as she pulled herself up on the box beside him and arranged her skirts so they would not touch him.
She understood that he wanted nothing to do with her, but to Tom’s dismay, she was even more tempting when shy.
Angrily he turned his attention to Lade’s mules, who were reluctant to leave the yard. They repeatedly refused the gate in spite of his lively cries, and a snap of the whip did nothing to persuade them. Tom was about to get down to lead them through it, when Katy bounded down from her seat.
“I can do it. I know what these beasts be wantin’,” she said.
She dug into the pocket of her skirt and brought out a handful of small dried apples, which she placed in her palm before backing through the gate. The ears of the largest mule pricked up, and as Tom gave a slap to the reins, it hesitantly walked out behind her.
Once the team was through, Katy rewarded them. Then she climbed back up, as Tom scowled.
“I hope you’ve got a bushel of them apples so we can make it the rest of the way to Maidstone,” he said as he cracked his whip by the big mule’s ear. Immediately, the team put their heads down and pulled with a will.
“We won’t be needin’ any more. That’s Lucifer. He can’t abide that gate, but he won’t give you any more trouble now that he’s through it. He’s a good mule.”
“He likely puts up that fuss ‘cause he knows you’ll feed him. Better to let me handle him. Beasts shouldn’t be spoiled.” Tom had spoken harshly to end a conversation he wished he had not started, but Katy straightened her shoulders at his rebuke.
“He doesn’t fuss because I spoil ‘im. He’s scared. And that’s why I have to feed ‘im. He was walkin’ under that gate once when it collapsed and cut him bad on the neck. I just give him a little treat so he’ll forget it. He’s a good mule, and I don’t like to see a creature get whipped if he don’t deserve it.”
Tom was startled. He did not often use the whip himself. Certainly not to force a frightened animal to overcome a fear.
But since he did not want to appear too friendly, he said, “Spare the whip, and you spoil the beast.”
How many times had he frowned at those very words, and yet he was producing them to frighten away this pretty woman?
The tactic worked. Katy herumphed and folded her arms. She looked about at the passing scenery with her chin in the air. Tom did nothing to break the silence, though every time the wagon gave a lurch to the left, and Katy was flung against him, he had to grit his teeth. He couldn’t hold his breath all the way into Maidstone, but her smell was like a warm summer breeze, urging him to lie down in a pasture.
They made the rest of the trip without a word passing between them, through the dense forest of the Wild, bumping over deep cart tracks. Then they moved on through great fields of hops on either side of a road, and finally orchards filled with cherry trees in full white bloom. Near noon, they rolled past the ancient College of Priests, All Saints Church, the old Archbishop’s Palace with its dungeons and the stables across the road. A medieval bridge took them across the narrow river Len before the wagon climbed to the High Town. Tom paused his team before they reached the market cross.
Maidstone was a prosperous county town. It stood near the middle of Kent, at the junction of two major roads and two rivers. The Medway to his left was the stream that was used to bring London goods from Rochester down to Tunbridge and beyond. It also carried Kentish ragstone back to London for buildings, as well as paper, and hops to the brewers for beer.
The High Street, which sloped sharply down to the riverbank, was full of bustling shops and imposing houses. A community of artisans in fine linen made only one of the towns many guilds. Its mayor was a justice of the peace. The courts for the County of Kent and the gaol were also here. Tom tried not to think of these last as he steered his wagon onto a quieter street and pulled it to a halt.
The shop fronts on the High Street and the sight of well dressed ladies and gentlemen entering their doors had raised a panic inside him. He gazed longingly towards the river, towards the sight of ships and the decks of wharves, where workers would be loading paper and cloth, bricks and tiles, and the stones that were quarried nearby. Today was a market day, and purchasers were herding sheep, cattle and horses back through town after haggling for them in the fields across the bridge. Their droppings muddied the streets.
He could have dealt with those things without even a blink, but to enter these shops—he was bound to make a complete fool of himself.
Katy started to climb down, leaving a cold space where her body had warmed him. Tom reached for her blindly, unable to find the words to stop her.
She turned in surprise. Seeing his look of helpless terror, she sat back down.
“What is it, Mr. Barnes? Have you took sick?”
“No.” He dropped her arm and worked hard to compose himself. “I just need you to tell me where to get the things my master needs.”
Confusion wrinkled her perfect nose. “What have you come for?”
Stiffly, Tom related Gideon’s requirements, trying not to react to the delight shining in her eyes.
“Clothes!” was all she said. And she seemed to find a reason for joy in the thought that a servant would be needed to tend them.
By the time he had finished enumerating St. Mars’s list, it was too late to refuse her help. Katy told him that her father had been a draper in Tunbridge Wells. She had grown up working in his shop, and there was nothing she had loved better than handling the cloth demanded by their prosperous clients.
Tom wanted to know how she had come to her current profession, but he stopped himself before asking. It would do him no good to know more about her, not when keeping aloof already took most of his strength.
Katy insisted on accompanying him into the shops. At first she watched him negotiate for the fabrics he thought St. Mars would want, but once or twice, as he was dithering over the price a shopkeeper was pressing upon him, he felt her touch upon his sleeve. Turning, he saw her frown and give a tiny shake to her head. With her close, her fingers on his arm, he found he could not go on. He had to step back and let her finish the deal.
By the end of the day, Tom was following her around like a pack mule, loaded with bundles of cloth and fine linens, acquiescing to all her choices. He paid a stout-looking boy to guard their purchases after he loaded them into the wagon. Then, they pressed on to order furniture for his master, “Mr. Brown.”
Even Tom knew that the quality of workmanship here was not up to the standards at Rotherham Abbey, but at least St. Mars’s new mattress would have more feathers than the one he had spent the past few nights on. Katy was having so much fun, he had a hard time convincing her that they had bought enough for one day.
They were walking back to the wagon, when she volunteered the information he had refused to ask. He felt the brush of her fingers in his palm, and her touch sent a jolt deep into his flesh.
With a jerk, he turned.
“I wasn’t always at Lade’s,” she said, indicating her meaning by a sadness in her voice. “My parents sent me to work in a shop at Tunbridge Wells, where all the fashionable people come to take the waters, so I could learn to help them in their shop. They wanted me to marry their apprentice.
“Then, at the Wells I met a man. He told me he was a merchant from London, but he was a thief and I got culled.
“He nimmed a cloak from my master’s shop when he was supposed to take me out for a walk. They said I had stood his budge—helped him do it,
you know. They called me his doxy and they nabbed me and clapped me in gaol. But I wasn’t his doxy. I was just a stupid chub.”
Before Tom could cut off these confidences, she went on, “Mr. Lade got out of the clink about the time I did. I couldn’t get no work—no one would have a budge who had bobbed her master. He said he would give me a room and feed me, if I would help him serve and clean and keep his customers happy.
“I haven’t minded it too much,” she said, her gaze on the ground. “It’s better than being hungry or alone. But I would much rather take care of Mr. Brown’s clothes, if you could see your way to helping me get the work. I promise I’ll do as good at it as well as a man would.”
This was not what Tom had been expecting, and relief took him by surprise. He had expected her to offer herself to him. It was what he had feared all day. But, with this fear removed, he felt a confounding sense of shame, as if he were the one who was indecent in some way.
But taking care of St. Mars’s clothes—he couldn’t bring himself to believe that a woman could handle a job always reserved for a man. The very notion was disturbing. Of course, women had always done the wash, but only a man could be expected to keep finery in order. To press his linen and clean his boots.
With Katy’s desperate eyes upon him, Tom tried to shake his head, but he found he could not—not without offering her the kind of comfort he mustn’t give.
“I’ll talk to Mr. Brown,” he said. “I can’t make you any promises, but I’ll tell him how you helped me today and how you used to be in the trade. He has to have somebody he can trust.”
The thought of her spilling St. Mars’s secrets on another man’s pillow caused him to accuse her with an angry look.
Her eyelids flickered with a moment of hurt, before she met his stare straight on. “I won’t go snitching if that is what you mean. I kept Mr. Jack’s secrets, and he didn’t pay me to, that’s for certain. If Mr. Brown will give me this work, I won’t have to keep Mr. Lade’s guests happy no more, and I can be just as quiet as you need.”
The Birth of Blue Satan Page 20