The Birth of Blue Satan

by Patricia Wynn

  Gideon was now forced to wonder if Harrowby had planned this all along. Could he and his father have been deceived by Harrowby’s imbecilic air? They had both thought him harmless, but— What if they had been the fools?

  Harrowby had made off with his fortune and, if Philippe were to be believed, was about to make off with Gideon’s woman.

  A surging anger brought him abruptly to his feet. Philippe, who had been hovering miserably, took a step backwards and anxiously searched his face.

  “When did you say they were coming?” Gideon asked.

  “They should arrive the day after tomorrow. They will break their journey two times since they are travelling in Monseigneur’s coach.”

  That would give him plenty of time to plan an interception. Isabella would be made to understand what a terrible mistake she was about to make.

  But how had she been persuaded to marry Harrowby?

  Gideon had no trouble convincing himself that Mrs. Mayfield was behind this rapid decision. If the Duke had not proposed, she would be eager to secure an earl for Isabella, and Harrowby had always been there in the background, no threat to Gideon’s happiness until he had come into possession of the title.

  “Monsieur . . .” Philippe sounded unusually tentative, which made Gideon believe he was sincere. “Is there something Philippe can do to help?”

  “I would like you to stay on, if possible. I expect that my cousin will wish you to serve him as valet. He has never been happy with the man he engaged, and I know how much he admires your talent.

  “My only question, then, is whether you can continue to serve me, when it will be my cousin who pays your wages?”

  He was relieved to see the haughtiness return to his servant’s features. “Monsieur le comte, my wages shall come from the money that is rightfully Monseigneur’s, n’est-ce pas? And when monsieur is restored to the place he should occupy by right, then Philippe will be his valet once again.”

  “And not a moment too soon for me, I assure you.” Gideon smiled, for once entirely willing to pander to the little man’s vanity. “You can see that I am much in need of your valuable attention.”

  “I did not like to say it, but monsieur is correct, évidemment.” This was offered with the most Gallic of shrugs, which almost made Gideon laugh, until the weight of his losses tamped his amusement.

  “I will stay in touch. Though it may be some time before you hear from me again. If you have any messages for me, you may send them to Mr. Brown at the Fox and Goose in Pigden.”

  A measure of caution came over Philippe’s face. “I do not suppose that monsieur will be requiring Philippe’s services at a place that sounds like that?”

  “No. Never fear. You can serve me better by keeping me informed of anything important that goes on inside this house. But I shall soon receive the news-sheets, so confine your messages to important news only. I would not want Sir Joshua to notice a sudden burst of exchanges between the Abbey and my current lodgings. Is that understood?”

  Philippe assured him that it was, and Gideon started to leave. Then he remembered that he had, also, come to obtain some of his clothes.

  In his dressing chamber, as Philippe made up a bundle of shirts and riding clothes, Gideon thought about his plan to waylay his father’s carriage. “I shall need something to disguise myself—some garments unlikely to be recognized as mine.”

  Philippe halted his packing and turned to look through the smaller items in a drawer of Gideon’s commode. He withdrew a black loo-mask. “If monsieur wishes not to be recognized, he should ride masked, and may I suggest his tricorne, pulled low in front, comme ça?” As Philippe talked, he placed Gideon in front of the mirror, fastened the mask, and placed the cocked hat at the angle he believed it should go.

  Gideon saw that with his hair tied at the nape of his neck and these accoutrements, he presented a very different appearance from his normal one. “That will do,” he said. “Now pack my greatcoat, and that will suffice.”

  Philippe shook his head. “Non, monsieur. Not the greatcoat. Monsieur is forgetting how many times Sir Harrowby has complimented him on the greatcoat. It must be something that Sir Harrowby has never seen.”

  Gideon waited for him to emerge from another pilgrimage to the wardrobe, but when he saw the item his servant was carrying, he gave a restrained sigh.

  “You will not be content until I have worn that damned blue cloak, will you, Philippe? I am of a mind to wear it once just so you will stop pestering me about it.”

  “But monsieur will see—” he rushed to drape it across Gideon’s shoulders— “even with those intolerable clothes beneath it, how elegant an appearance it makes. And if monsieur has formed the intention of stealing Mademoiselle Mayfield from his cousin, he must think of how the lady will feel. He cannot lead her to think that she has been abducted by a common ruffian.”

  Gideon could no longer be astonished by anything Philippe said. Still, he marveled at his servant’s ability to fathom his most intimate thoughts.

  Exasperated, he turned back to the mirror, and was surprisingly pleased by what he saw. The blue satin reflected even the smallest amount of light from the single candle burning in the tiny room. It glimmered with a midnight eeriness that seemed appropriate for his plans. With the mask and hat, he looked sinister enough to feel sure he would not be recognized.

  “If this won’t frighten the very stuffing out of Harrowby’s escort, I do not know what will. You seem to have found the answer, Philippe.”

  “But, of course, I have, monsieur. Philippe is un homme de talent. That is understood.”

  Tom rode back from London at a breakneck pace, having learned the news of Gideon’s dispossession in the papers.

  Gideon told him of his plan. “I may not be able to save my inheritance, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let Harrowby take everything away from me without a fight.”

  “You mean to call him out?”

  His question drew a wry smile. “No—for that would be murder for certain, and I cannot afford to have another charge like that laid at my door. What I mean to do is waylay him long enough for a chance to speak to Mrs. Isabella Mayfield.”

  Tom stayed silent, for no matter how risky this errand would be, he would not try to stop St. Mars from obtaining what he wanted.

  Hester Kean was the only person in Harrowby’s boisterous carriage who seemed to be aware of the injustice that was taking them down to Rotherham Abbey.

  The scheme had been decided within a day of her encounter with Mr. Letchworth. For, as he had promised, he had stormed into their house and in the most unpleasant language imaginable given Mrs. Mayfield to understand that he would not be trifled with in such an unscrupulous way. He had then gone directly to call on Harrowby, but fortunately, that gentleman had still been at the palace.

  That evening, after hearing about Mr. Letchworth’s call, Harrowby formed the fear that the man intended to force a duel upon him, and nothing Isabella could say would convince him otherwise.

  It had not taken Mrs. Mayfield long to see an opportunity in her future son-in-law’s terror, especially when she lived in fear herself that something might happen to snatch Isabella’s prize away. She had learned enough of Harrowby to know that he lacked resolution. It was not inconceivable that, even after presenting Isabella to the Court as his fiancée, he would find a way to get out of the marriage if he wanted to. And if Mr. Letchworth, or anyone else, threatened him, he might find that sufficient reason to rethink a decision which had, in some respect, been forced upon him.

  The timing of their engagement, when Harrowby was supposed to be in mourning for his uncle, had always been inconvenient. But now, the threat of violence had given her just what she needed to persuade him to a secret wedding. Clandestine ceremonies were very fashionable. Whether because a great many young people married against their family’s wishes, which was often the case, or whether they simply hoped to avoid the traditional expenses of a public wedding, secret marriages were all the mode.<
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  And nothing appealed to Harrowby so much as being à la mode.

  It had not taken Hester’s aunt long to persuade him that a quick trip to his country house would remove him from Mr. Letchworth’s anger and provide him with a chance to surprise the Court. A few indelicate references had been made to the pleasures attending him on his wedding night without the interruption of an endless stream of visitors, who would expect expensive ribands for favours, and the riotous bedding by the bride men and bride maids, to be repeated early the next morning, complete with the drums and fiddles whom he would have to pay.

  Harrowby listened to all her arguments, and as Hester might have foreseen, gave in.

  So, although he might rather have remained in London to be fêted and to enjoy the attention of the gossips at Court for at least another week, he resolved on a secret ceremony. The journey to Hawkhurst would be made in the interest of discretion and his personal safety. Mrs. Mayfield had always longed to see Lord Hawkhurst’s country seat, and Isabella was as eager to visit her future home.

  The next morning, before Mr. Letchworth could call again, Harrowby went to obtain a license. Word was circulated that the Mayfields had gone to visit relatives in the North. Sir Harrowby was to be imagined retiring quietly into the country in view of his mourning for his uncle. And only Hester seemed to care about the grand hypocrisy of that particular lie.

  Their first night had been spent in Sevenoaks, after Mrs. Mayfield had worked on Harrowby all day. The initial plan had been for the wedding to take place as soon as they arrived at Rotherham Abbey. The Abbey had a chapel. The former Lord Hawkhurst’s chaplain could read the vows.

  But once inside the coach Mrs. Mayfield had thought of objections to this plan. What if the King became displeased when he learned that a nonjuring priest had performed the new earl’s wedding? Would he not expect one of his most faithful subjects to uphold the principles he had sworn to protect?

  Another clergyman would certainly be wanted, and that being the case, wouldn’t it make sense to look for one in Sevenoaks?

  After a day of sitting next to Isabella in the carriage, with her body pressed intimately to his side, and her hands caressing him skillfully whenever the occasion offered, Harrowby had been no match for his mother-in-law’s logic. The prospect of bedding Isabella even one day sooner had been enough to tip the scales.

  So, they had been married in the parlour at the inn in Sevenoaks by a minister the innkeeper had fetched. Harrowby had tipped the curate a guinea and his clerk a crown, and within twenty minutes, they had all been drinking healths to the happy couple.

  Isabella was now a countess. Her mother was ecstatic. And for two days, Hester had been subjected to the carryings-on of the lovers who, since the wedding last night, had made no effort to spare her blushes.

  Harrowby had repeatedly allowed that it had been “great, good fun” to sleep with his wife, and Isabella had also been gratified by their activities, if her adoring looks and surreptitious movements were anything to go by. Hester was well prepared to believe that the marriage act was enjoyable. Every person she knew with any experience of it had said this was so, and during her short sojourn in London, she had been faced with enough examples of indiscretion to be convinced that coupling was practiced more just for the pleasure of it than for its more religious purpose. But that did not mean that she wanted to watch Isabella and Harrowby pawing at each other all day.

  After two days on the road, she was looking forward to being anywhere other than in this carriage or with this company. And it was not only the lovers who tired her.

  Mrs. Mayfield was never a stimulating companion, but in her house she might be avoided for hours on end. She was happy now, but already she had begun prodding at Harrowby to get her way. Hester wondered how long it would be before she had complete control of him and all of St. Mars’s fortune.

  Two complete days and one entire night with this lot had stretched Hester’s toleration to its limits.

  Her aunt had insisted she come to wait on Isabella. She also wanted to hear her opinion on the economy of Lord Hawkhurst’s household before taking it over. And she most certainly wished to give as forward an impression of her own menage to the Abbey servants as she could, which bringing a waiting woman would accomplish. For Mrs. Mayfield had made it clear that they would both make their home with the new couple.

  Feeling her neck grow stiff from resting her head against the cushions, Hester sat up to look outside at the passing scenery. They had left Sevenoaks that morning, with the intention of reaching Cranbrook tonight. This second leg had been much rougher than the first, since they had left the turnpiked portion of the road at Woodgate. From that point on, the surface of the highway had been so poor that they had lurched over ruts as deep as their wheels, and a rain earlier in the day had made the clay so slippery, that if not for the skills of Lord Hawkhurst’s coachman and the excellence of his vehicle, they would surely have turned over in a ditch.

  The rain had mercifully stopped near noon, but it had delayed them by an hour or more. Isabella, on whom the motion of the carriage had begun to wear, had begged her new husband to let them put up for the night in a village nearer than Cranbrook. She had cajoled him with the promise of their conjugal bed, seeming to look forward to a resumption of the previous night’s activities even more than Harrowby did.

  But on this he had shown a degree of firmness Hester had never witnessed in him before, since he was absolutely convinced that there was no inn between Tunbridge and the George in Cranbrook that could provide the level of comfort he required.

  The length of the journey began to wear on them all. Even Isabella and Harrowby could not keep up a lewd banter forever, not when they had enjoyed so little sleep.

  Quiet eventually fell. Isabella and her mother settled their heads to rest, and Harrowby dropped his jaw in a doze. Hester used this first peaceful silence to peer through the marvelous glass on Lord Hawkhurst’s coach to gaze on the rolling hills and thickening woods of the Kentish countryside.

  The woods had grown denser with every mile, and she understood herself now to be in the Weald, or the Wild of Kent. Having come from a county in which a tree was scarcely to be seen, she had been astonished by the number of ancient oaks, elms, and beeches and the wooded acres that seemed to cover leagues. The trees stood so tightly compressed in places that her eyes could not penetrate beyond the first few feet. Their branches, most still leafless from the winter, often met overhead. Whenever this occurred, daylight nearly vanished, due to the number and thickness of the limbs. Although by now Hester had accustomed herself to these eerie changes, she realized that the present dearth of light was due more to the lateness of the hour. Night was fast coming on. If Cranbrook lay more than a few miles farther on, they would not reach the inn before dark.

  The carriage plunged into a particularly deep rut, throwing them all off balance. It was all the four could do to keep from falling on one another. Then, before they could recapture their seats, a loud shout, followed closely by a pistol shot, startled them from outside.

  As they gripped their benches, hoping for the reassuring sound of their coachman’s voice, they heard a blast from the blunderbuss. It rocked the carriage before two more pistol pops assaulted their ears. Isabella shrieked and grabbed for Harrowby’s hand. A deep voice ordered, “Hands up!” And something clattered as it hit the ground.

  “Good lord!” Turning pale, Harrowby looked about the carriage as if searching for a place to hide. “Banditti, by gad!”

  The coach had rolled to a stop. The silence from their servants seemed ominous. Then the door flew open, they all gasped, and a polite voice said, “Ladies, may I beg you to step down?”

  Something in the voice caused a tingle in Hester’s spine—more than just surprise at being addressed in such a polite manner by a highway robber.

  But she could not see him because the door was hinged on her side. Isabella could, and something about him made her shrink back against the cushi
ons, calling on Harrowby to protect her.

  Hester had never been stopped by a highwayman before, though their numbers were alarming in the heaths and the woods about London. Each time a merchant or person of consequence was held up, there was a flurry of debate. Demands for a real police force, a hue and cry, and indignant reports from the people who had been robbed died down only to be repeated at the next offence.

  Hester felt a shove in the small of her back. “You go first!” Mrs. Mayfield hissed from beside her.

  As the one nearest the door, Hester had no hesitation in going. Her curiosity was nearly as great as her fear. So she gathered her skirts and bent to pass through the door.

  She felt a shock when a man gently took her arm to help her down. She glanced up and saw a masked face, the point of a dark cocked hat, and a pair of startling blue eyes. She could not be certain in the evening light, but they appeared to be friendly.

  Her heart gave an unreasoning skip. She felt she had seen those eyes before.

  As the man released her to help her aunt step down, she turned to examine him from the rear. He wore the most elegant cloak she had ever seen, with three huge shoulder capes, in a remarkable blue tint.

  “Madame . . .” He handed her aunt away from the door, then reached in for Isabella.

  “Better step back!” a gruff voice shouted at Hester and her aunt from the right.

  Startled, they turned to see a second man mounted on a horse in front of their coach. The coachman, guard, and postilions had all climbed down to stand with their hands in the air. This man had them covered with one pistol. The other was trained their way.