The Birth of Blue Satan

by Patricia Wynn

  “This notice describes the clothes I was wearing when I escaped, right down to my wig. Fortunately it was brown and was lost. I shall make do with my own hair from now on, but surely Lade will recognize the ‘black mourning suit’ I was wearing when I stumbled in here.”

  “I’m sure he’s noticed the ring you’re wearing, too. I’ve seen him eyeing it, as if he’d like to know how much it’d be worth if he pinched it. That’s in the notice, too. You had better take it off.”

  Gideon looked down at the massive ring encircling his finger, with its death’s head wrought in finest gold. In a very short while, it had become more than an emblem of his mourning. He wore it in place of the signet that had belonged to his father, and which, by all rights, should be his. It reminded him of his father’s death and of the role he had played in it.

  He toyed with the ring, turning it with his fingertips.

  “No, Tom. I can’t take this off. Not until I’ve found my father’s killer.”

  He could see that Tom was about to launch into a protest, so he cut him off. “It will not matter at any rate. With my hair a different colour from that description and modest clothes, I will be able to deceive most people. And Lade won’t need the ring to tip him off.

  “Unfortunately we won’t be able to prevent him from putting two and two together, though, which means we will have to buy his cooperation.”

  Tom herumphed. “And what’s to keep him from taking your money and the reward money, too?”

  The only solution that presented itself struck Gideon as distasteful, but he knew that he couldn’t afford such qualms. Again, he realized how much his situation would force him to disguise his nature.

  “I shall have to threaten him,” he said. “I will lead him to believe that if he betrays me, my band of confederates will make certain he suffers.”

  “And what band of confederates would that be?”

  At Tom’s wry tone, Gideon laughed for the first time that day. “Why, Tom, I am sure you can fill the positions alone. Haven’t you gone from being merely a groom to groom, valet, butler, and general man of business in just a pair of days? But, don’t worry—I won’t ask you to murder Lade. There’s simply no need for him to know how friendless I am at this juncture. Let him think I’ve got an army of villains to support me.”

  A later thought came to worry him. “But what about the woman? Katy? Shall I have to frighten her, too?”

  He was surprised by the look of shock on Tom’s face, followed by signs of an invisible struggle.

  “No, sir,” Tom said, and the uneven tone of his voice suggested that the words were costing him aplenty. “I don’t think she would snitch on your lordship. She’d like a job—tending your lordship’s clothes. I told her it was no kind of work for a woman, but her father was a draper in Tunbridge Wells and she was used to dealing with fine folk, she said. I know it’s not the usual thing, but I don’t see how you would find a good man here in the Wild for the job.”

  “You’re certain she wants it badly enough to resist that reward?”

  Tom squirmed miserably. “I just don’t think she’s a squealer. But, yessir, she does want it very much.”

  “Good. Tell her she may have the post with my blessing, and ask her to make me some clothes. I’ll want a couple of sober suits, of the kind a Quaker merchant might wear. And I should have some plain pairs of breeches and shirts like yours for riding out at night. I want clothes that will make me disappear.”

  “She’ll be disappointed,” Tom said, as if he drew some comfort from that. “She had her mind set on sewing your lordship’s silks and satins.”

  Gideon smiled. “Tell her I’ll let her make some of those, too. I should be ready for anything. In fact—” he recalled the plans he had been working on when Tom had returned — “I’ll be needing a good set of clothes very soon.”

  With a grimace, he returned to the unpleasant chore in front of him. He stood and began collecting the incriminating papers. “Let’s have Lade in, then, and we’ll see what can be done with him before we set up household here.”

  Gideon spent the next hour or two playing a mental game of chess with his landlord over a bottle of his fine French claret. He had alternately to woo and intimidate Lade without revealing the nature of his Achilles’ heel. And in the process he learned something about his host that could come in useful should he ever step out of line.

  Although Lade was a thorough scoundrel of the sort who would have no qualms in cheating his own grandmother, he seemed to have one sentiment which, though founded on nothing but superstition, would provide a basis for dealing with him in a consistent manner. He had a thorough hatred for the Hanoverian Succession, and he blamed it for most of his ills.

  Like others with no sense of right and wrong, he had to have a scapegoat to blame for his faults and their resulting miseries. The Jacobite principle that, in deposing the genuine heir to the throne, the English had invited a punishment from God, had taken root in his brain, to fester in a stew of self-pity and resentment.

  As soon as Gideon got wind of this, he turned it to his advantage. Lade already believed him to be an escaped Jacobite of some sort. He was willing to believe, too, that a fellow partisan of the Pretender would need to set up his base in friendly territory. And he was more than ready to accept the inducements Gideon offered.

  For a stipulated sum, far in excess of its real value, Gideon engaged to rent all the private rooms of the Fox and Goose, leaving only the public taproom for Lade to run. A regular income to be paid in advance was never to be refused. And Gideon made a sufficient number of veiled references and toasts to their “love o’er the Main” to confirm Lade in his early suspicions.

  He only hoped Lade’s superstitions would serve when he read a copy of the handbill and realized that his fellow Jacobite Mr. Brown was none other than the Viscount St. Mars. But—should they not—Gideon had collected enough evidence from Lade to see him hanged.

  The next morning, after a night of thought, Gideon handed Tom a folded sheet of paper and told him that he needed him to ride into London to put a notice in The Daily Courant. While there, he was to arrange for the news-sheets to be posted to him on a regular basis.

  Seeing Tom’s curiosity, he said, “That notice refers to a set of lost papers that have been found in the possession of a deceased gentleman in Kent. It directs their owner to inquire for a Mr. Mavors at the Catherine Wheel in Southwark in four days.”

  “Mavors? Who’s he?”

  “Mavors is a Latin form of Mars. If the Duke of Bournemouth knows his Latin—which we have to assume he does—he should come at the appointed time to meet me.”

  “You don’t mean you’re riding into London!”

  “Only into Southwark. They’ve never seen me at the Catherine Wheel, which is why I’ve chosen it for the rendezvous. And don’t worry, I will go disguised.”

  Gideon watched Tom struggle to suppress his protest and was relieved when he did. He would have to come to the same realization that they could not afford to play it safe, if they wanted to find his father’s murderer and clear his name.

  After Tom had left, Gideon had to fight off a sharp attack of loneliness. A hopeless voice inside him told him that what he should do was get drunk and take Lade’s wench to bed. He would feel a bit better for feminine comfort, and he was unlikely to get it from the lady he’d wanted to make his wife. Try as he would, he could not keep an image of Isabella in his mind. The closest he could come was a hazy vision of a tiny waist and the ghostly sound of a teasing laugh, hardly the memories to console him when what he needed was support. Mrs. Kean’s kind words, uttered in their brief encounter, had done more to calm him in his moments of desperation. He could summon her face, with its intelligent eyes and sympathetic smile, with no trouble at all. He wondered whether she still believed in his innocence.

  Impatient with himself for letting his mind wander again, he tried again to conjure Isabella’s face. He had to keep her before him, had to hold on to
his love for her, or that last argument with his father, the one that had led to his father’s death, would have had no meaning at all. That was one possibility he could not contemplate.

  He hoped by now that Mrs. Kean had convinced Isabella that the charges against him were false. If not, he must find his father’s killer in time to convince her himself.

  But, for the meantime, a generous dose of debauchery was the only comfort he would be allowed.

  In the end, he did not call for Katy. Instead, when night came, he asked Avis to saddle his mare. He had another yearning—to see his home again. And he needed to discover if he had an ally in the Abbey.

  Tom had informed him of Philippe’s role in getting his father’s pistols. Gideon wanted to thank him. He also knew that Philippe could be a valuable source of information. In his impudence, the valet had always known his master’s most intimate business. It remained to see whether his loyalty could survive an even greater test, now that his master had been declared outside the law.

  The night’s ride home was faster than his last. He and Penny were now both familiar with the drovers’ trails. As they covered them at a spanking pace, Gideon resolved to use his days to learn all the twists and turns of the roads and paths between his new home and London. That was what highwaymen were said to know. It was what made it easy for them to get away when other horsemen set up in pursuit. If he was to keep his gentleman-of-the-road cachet with the host of the Fox and Goose, he would do better to learn a highwayman’s skills.

  As he rode, Gideon welcomed the freedom of being on his own, outdoors and away from Tom’s ever-pressing worry. No matter how much he valued Tom’s loyalty, Gideon both wanted and needed to feel that nothing could hold him back or weigh him down. If he was going to survive this forced concealment, he had to break loose from the mores that had governed his life—honesty, openness, and politeness, and all the restrictive behaviours that had made him an inhabitant of a world that rejected him now. If he had lost one kind of freedom, he must have another to take its place.

  It was this need that pushed him to spur Penny to a reckless run. He rejected Tom’s caution and let her have her head. Together they whipped past trees, through narrow gaps where the bushes nearly met. He put her over dimly seen hedges and deep ditches, feeling the powerful thrust of her hind quarters and the jolts of her front hooves. With the lightest touch of his hands, and whispers of encouragement, he urged her to race to her heart’s content, feeling her exuberance through his legs, and knowing the selfsame need to run. He felt the wind whipping past his face, scented the trees and hops, and the occasional smell that said beast. Grateful to feel pain, he even welcomed the thorns that tore at his knees.

  He did not rein Penny in until she stumbled. Then he soothed her into a cooling walk.

  With his pulse beating a strong tattoo against her lathered neck, he heard her great bursts of air. They thundered with every beat of her gait and every gasp from his lungs.

  Now he felt both exhausted and cleansed. In his wild, dangerous ride, he had felt himself transformed.

  Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate,

  Too soon dejected, and too soon elate.

  Sudden, these honours shall be snatched away,

  And cursed for ever this victorious day.

  With his broad sabre next, a chief in years,

  The hoary Majesty of Spades appears,

  Puts forth one manly leg, to sight revealed,

  The rest, his many-coloured robe concealed.

  Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes,

  And screams of horror rend th’ affrighted skies.

  Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast,

  When husbands, or when even lap dogs breathe their last;

  Now meet that fate, incensed Belinda cried,

  And drew a deadly bodkin from her side.

  Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art,

  An earthly Lover lurking at her heart.

  Amazed, confused, he found his power expired,

  Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Abbey seemed grave, as if the house mourned the loss of the people who had loved her. The underground passageway felt evil and damp.

  He had walked Penny until she was cooled, then, hiding her inside the crumbling ruins, he had used fistfuls of grass to rub every inch of her hide. No need for recklessness or despair would make him neglect her care—unless, in their wild midnight ride, they had both found paradise.

  Inside the house, he tiptoed to his suite of rooms, where he hoped to find Philippe ensconced in the small valet’s chamber near his wardrobe. The silence of the Abbey was so complete, Gideon wondered if the constables had given up their watch. Sir Joshua could not expect them to forsake their trades forever to wait for his possible return.

  He reached his rooms with one of his pistols in hand. The need to carry it was regrettable, but he could not risk being taken again. And in any case, it was unloaded. For all Philippe’s talents, telling a loaded weapon from a harmless one was not one of them.

  A ragged snoring emerged from the valet’s closet. At another time, Gideon would have been amused. On rare occasions he had needed to waken Philippe from his deepest sleep, and he remembered the sound. For now, he was only grateful that his time would not be wasted.

  A gentle shake, then a vigorous one, and Philippe opened his eyes.

  His startled “Mon Dieu!” was quickly muffled by a hand pressed over his lips.

  As the Frenchman froze, Gideon whispered a greeting and immediately sensed Philippe’s relief.

  “O Monseigneur!” As Gideon uncovered his mouth, Philippe sat up and gasped for breath. “You must not frighten Philippe so! I thought milord’s killer had come to murder me, too.”

  “Then you believe I am innocent?”

  He was glad to hear indignation in his servant’s voice. “But, of course! Who should be certain of monsieur’s innocence if it is not his valet?”

  Gideon gripped Philippe on the shoulder before turning to light a candle.

  Philippe leapt up to assist him, but Gideon made a motion for him to sit, so he returned to the bed and perched himself on the edge. If he was uncomfortable sitting in his master’s presence, in typical Philippe fashion, he did not show it.

  He asked, “How did monsieur get into the house without being seen?”

  Unwilling to share the secret of the passageway with too many people, Gideon temporized, “I know a way. And no one saw me, so I assume we are safe to speak.”

  He asked Philippe, “Is James Henry staying in the house?”

  “No, Monsieur Henry has travelled to London to see monsieur’s bankers. He should be back . . . after the others come.”

  The tenor in his voice made Gideon react sharply. “What others?”

  Philippe was visibly disturbed. “I thought monsieur might have seen it in the newspapers. I thought that was why you have come. . . . His voice failed. Then, in a mood of resignation, he said, “A messenger came tonight. We are to prepare the house for visitors. Monsieur’s cousin, Harrowby, will arrive the day after tomorrow with a party—two ladies and their servant.”

  “Ladies? What can Harrowby be about?”

  He felt a sudden dread at the regret in Philippe’s eyes.

  “It is said that he brings his fiancée. The note said that we are to expect Madame Mayfield and her daughter.”

  Gideon felt a kick in his chest. “No—the messenger was mistaken! Or he lied! Isabella would never marry Harrowby.”

  “Monsieur, there is more. It pains Philippe to tell you, but your villain parlement— the House of Lords—has taken monsieur’s inheritance away. The papers say that monsieur has been accused of treason, but without a trial, you cannot be attainted. Still, it has taken your father’s rights and given them all to Sir Harrowby.”

  Throughout his valet’s agonized speech, Gideon listened as if in a nightmare. The Lords could not have stripped him of his
rights. He could not be so ruthlessly deprived of what was his.

  He had always known Harrowby for his heir, but he had never believed that his cousin would succeed him. Certainly never that he would supplant him.

  Harrowby was the older cousin. Gideon had planned to marry and father children who would come between Harrowby and his honours.

  Now even this reasonable illusion had burst—and in the unthinkable scenario that Harrowby had inherited while he was still alive.

  Unwilling to voice his pain, he could do nothing but go.

  As he turned blindly, he felt Philippe’s gentle grasp urging him down onto the bed. He sank his face in his hands and tried to rub away the shock.

  The Duke of Bournemouth’s warning resounded in ears. It was true—he had few friends at Court. He had only to wonder how much the Duke himself had had to do with these events. If he feared exposure of his own treason, how better to win his own security than to accuse the one man who might have the means to expose him.

  “Did you read the accounts yourself? Did no one try to defend me?”

  “Monsieur, it is said that none of your father’s friends dare to have courage, for they are all under suspicion. They retire to their estates in the hope that they will not be accused themselves.”

  There would be no one. With none but Whigs in the government, he would have no one to appeal to. His only hope would be to prove beyond a doubt that someone else had killed his father.

  Even then, if the motive had anything to do with the Jacobite conspiracy and his father’s involvement was uncovered, he would still lose his estates. The laws of attainder punished the families of traitors, taking away all they possessed. Those penalties had been renewed under Queen Anne in view of the Pretender’s threat.

  How much better a solution had been devised by the Lords. By denying him his summons, they had removed a Tory peer and replaced him with a Whig. Harrowby had always preferred membership in the Kit Kat Club to conformity with his uncle’s opinions. Since he had never stood for parliament or shown a talent for statesmanship, Gideon’s father had dismissed him as a fool and had not been overly concerned with his politics. Like Gideon, Lord Hawkhurst had never imagined being replaced by the likes of Sir Harrowby Fitzsimmons.