The Birth of Blue Satan

by Patricia Wynn

  “Scoundrels!” Mrs. Mayfield yelled like a fishwife. “You shall both be hanged for this!”

  The more courteous of the two begged her not to be afraid. He spoke tensely, as if he waited for something important. “You will not be harmed, but you must do as we wish.”

  Harrowby had begun to descend, and as his head emerged from the coach, he made a shaky attempt at joviality. “Never travel with money, y’know. I’ve heard stories about you chaps. You may take what little there is and be off. It won’t do to frighten the ladies, y’ know.”

  This diverted their highwayman. “In that case, you will not object if I check your pockets myself.”

  The man on the horse loudly cleared his throat. Hester was surprised to see a disapproving frown on his lips. She quickly returned her gaze in time to see the man in blue roughly turning out Harrowby’s pockets.

  “Hey, there! Impudent fellow! You will be called to account for this!”

  “Undoubtedly, but the temptation is much too great. What have we here? A gold watch and a signet ring? These will do very nicely, along with your purse. And you must have forgotten these guineas in your waistcoat pocket, for I’m certain you wouldn’t have lied to me, when if I were angered, I just might shoot you.”

  “No! That is—yes, yes! Take the guineas and begone! But you should leave me the signet ring—it was just bequeathed to me.”

  Their robber went still. In a moment he spoke, in a voice that chilled her. “But I have conceived quite a fancy for this ring. I am sure you would not wish to refuse it to me. Would you?”

  “No—take the blasted thing! And I hope they hang you for it! I had heard that you chaps comported yourselves in a gentleman-like manner, but I can see that it was all a hum! Just let me go!”

  “Not so fast.” With a bow full of irony, the highwayman took a few steps back from him. Then he purposefully turned towards Isabella, and his mocking smile softened until Hester could see both yearning and passion on his lips. She felt a powerful jolt as she recognized St. Mars.

  She couldn’t tell if Isabella knew him or not, but as he moved towards her, the girl let out a terrified shriek. “Harrowby, help!”

  Her terror startled St. Mars. He halted, then started towards her again, his arms outstretched. Hester heard him whisper, “Isabella, do not be afraid.”

  Hester doubted she heard him before shrieking louder and backing away. He halted again, stunned. Then, as his mouth turned fierce, he grabbed her by the shoulders, as if he would shake her to death.

  Isabella fainted in his arms, and her mother screamed.

  Hester started forward to help, but a shout from the other man stopped her. Bleeding inwardly at the grief on St. Mars’s lips, she called gently to him, “Please, sir. It will be of no use. She has given—she has nothing left to give you.”

  Then she added, in a voice she hoped that only he could hear, “They are already married.”

  She hoped he realized that she knew him, but that he must no longer hope for Isabella’s love. Isabella had made her choice, no matter how foolish it was. He would not be able to shake her into loving him.

  Still holding onto her cousin, he gazed quickly up at Hester. The moon had risen, breaking over the trees to cast a soft glow of light. He must have seen the plea on her face, for he gave a sudden hard nod—a gesture that hovered half way between fury and heartache—before scooping Isabella up and in two quick strides, replacing her in the carriage.

  Mrs. Mayfield, who had been too startled for speech, uttered a hysterical cry.

  Harrowby had started an ineffectual protest the moment the robber had touched his wife, and now he said on a gasp of relief, “Oh, I say!”

  Abruptly turning his back on those two, St. Mars strode by Hester without even a glance her way. She felt the punishment of having been the one to tell him. The weight of his disappointment pressed a dull pain inside her breast.

  They watched him quickly climb into the saddle of a waiting horse and signal to his friend. The other man turned in their direction, his pistols lowered. Hester ached, fearing she would never see St. Mars again.

  Then, before anyone could budge, St. Mars spurred his horse in her direction, swooped down, and grabbed her by the waist. She felt the air being knocked from her lungs, her feet leaving the ground, a turn in mid-air, and the connection with his pommel as she was swept up into his arms. In a wink she had flown to the back of a horse and was galloping away through the trees.

  Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains,

  And mighty hearts are held in slender chains.

  Say why are Beauties praised and honoured most,

  The wise man’s passion, and the vain man’s toast?

  Why decked with all that land and sea afford,

  Why Angels called, and Angel-like adored?

  Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved Beaux,

  Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows;

  How vain are all these glories, all our pains,

  Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains:

  That men may say, when we the front-box grace,

  ‘Behold the first in virtue as in face!’

  CHAPTER 15

  It had all happened so fast that Hester had barely had time to register the shock on her companions’ faces.

  With the breath knocked out of her, she gasped for air and felt St. Mars’s strength holding her on, as the trees flew past them and the wind whipped her hair into her face.

  They had not gone far before he slowed to a more rocking gait, and she could begin to feel the thrill of resting within his arms.

  He had one crossed in front of her breast. His other moved against her back as he directed the reins. To keep from falling, she had to lean into his chest. Not daring to peer up, she remembered the look he had given as he had ridden towards her.

  For one instant—and one instant only—she feared what that determined look might mean.

  Before too long—in fact, in much too short a time to suit Hester—they emerged into a clearing where St. Mars paused. He spun his horse around once, as if to check the area before bringing it to a halt. Then he jumped to the ground and reached up to swing her down.

  “Sir?”

  Hester had forgotten the other rider until she heard his horse crackling through the brush behind her.

  “Take Penny and walk her. I would like to speak to Mrs. Kean.”

  He had understood. Her shoulders, which had grown taut, relaxed.

  “Is this a good idea, sir?” The servant lingered.

  “Whether it is or not doesn’t concern me right now. Please leave us alone.”

  “Yessir.”

  The man, who was clearly a servant, took St. Mars’s reins and led both horses away. As their hoofbeats faded behind some trees, St. Mars ripped off his mask and hat, tossed them down, and started to pace. She could just make out his features, lit by a three-quarter moon.

  The shadowy clearing was small. He could only take a few steps before being forced to retrace them. He paced them again and again, never looking up or uttering a word. Even the open air seemed too confined for him. Like Mrs. Mayfield’s parlour, it was too constricted to contain his energy. But at least the walls of this room were trees, its ceiling the sky, and its plaster branches of leaves. He belonged out of doors in a way he had never seemed to inside.

  Through the dark, Hester made out the black ribbon that confined his hair at the nape of his neck. Having never seen him without a brown wig, she was struck by how handsome he was with his own fair hair worn in such a casual fashion. He seemed unaware of his magnificent cloak as it swirled about his limbs at every turn.

  “She did not know me,” he said in a strangled voice. “She should at least have known me.”

  He did not speak again for what seemed a long while, then suddenly, he glanced up and around as if searching for something he had forgotten.

  “I’m very sorry,” he said. He averted his gaze, as if only now regretting his im
pulsive behaviour. “I have no chair to offer you but that fallen tree over there.”

  Hester looked in the direction he indicated and spied a large trunk on the ground. She thanked him and walked the few steps to settle herself on it. In truth, the last quarter-hour had been so exciting, she was relieved not to have to stand.

  Her calm reaction to his invitation seemed to soothe him. But she had no sooner sat than St. Mars resumed his pacing.

  After a few more minutes of silence, Hester offered, “You have my sympathy, my lord. I can only imagine the disappointments and shock you have suffered in the past several days.”

  He gave a mirthless laugh as he glanced up in the dark. “Disappointments and shock—you put that quite accurately, Mrs. Kean. Tell me—how long has your cousin preferred mine for a husband? Did her love for him begin the instant he gained my fortune, or am I to believe that his manners were always more engaging than mine?”

  Hester had prepared herself for the question, but his bitterness still had the power to make her wince. “As strange as it may seem, my lord, Isabella has always evidenced a certain preference for Sir Harrowby.”

  He halted as if she had slapped him. Then, after a moment’s pause, he spoke in a humbler tone. “I hope you will pardon me, Mrs. Kean. I seem to have expressed myself in an abominably conceited way. I did not mean to suggest that anyone should prefer me to my cousin.”

  “Please believe me, sir, when I say that I meant no rebuke. It is impossible for me to comprehend how she can have formed a preference for a man as silly and witless as your cousin, but she has.”

  She was relieved to hear his chuckle. “Thank you, Mrs. Kean, for that balm to my vanity. I am glad to find that your innate good taste is as sound as ever.” As he stood before her, his smile faded and his gaze sought the ground.

  She tried to help. “Knowing how much you—loved Isabella, it has pained me to see her affections directed elsewhere. But she does care for Sir Harrowby, my lord. I cannot say that she might not have come to love someone else, but my aunt gave her no time or opportunity to choose.”

  His tone grew hard. “This is her doing, then?”

  Hester nodded, no longer caring if her aunt’s character were exposed to him in all its ugliness. “She has been determined to make Isabella a splendid match. When the Duke of Bournemouth became engaged to another, and you disappeared, she threatened to marry Isabella to Mr. Letchworth if she did not catch your cousin. And the only thing that made Sir Harrowby acceptable in my aunt’s eyes—for, as you know, she had always discouraged him before—was his increase in fortune.”

  “The Duke of Bournemouth did not offer for her?” he asked sharply.

  “No, an announcement was made that the king has arranged a marriage for him—to the daughter of a German prince.”

  Hester did not understand why this news seemed to excite him. She started to ask him, when he said, “And she would have married her to Letchworth. Ye gods, it doesn’t bear thinking about!”

  “She was encouraging him to feel hope until your cousin proposed. I am afraid he took the news very badly, which is one of the reasons that they were married secretly last night in Sevenoaks.”

  “Poor man.” He spoke absentmindedly. After a few moments, he glanced over at her and said, “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Kean. My mind was wondering.”

  “You must not think of it,” she said, painfully aware that it was the thought of Isabella that had distracted him. “What is it that bothers you about his Grace, my lord?”

  He shook his head dismissively. Then, seeming to think better of her interest, he stood for a moment, irresolute, before abruptly sitting beside her on the fallen tree.

  With his elbows on his knees, he wearily raked his head. “I have been trying to discover who killed my father. And I have reason to believe that his Grace of Bournemouth might have done it.”

  Hester’s stomach gave an uncomfortable leap. “What reason would that be, my lord?”

  His hesitation reminded her that she had no right to ask. She was about to withdraw her question, when he answered, “This is something I have told to no one. Not even to Tom, my servant, even though he has sacrificed his security for me.”

  He turned towards her and in an earnest voice said, “It is not a comfortable secret, Mrs. Kean. You may wish I had not told it to you, yet I’ll admit that I have more than once wished for your advice.”

  He leaned closer. “Will you hear it, and will you promise never to repeat a word? I know this is much to ask, but you have been my friend before, and I have never been more in need of one than now.”

  Hester was stunned that he had thought of her at all. A warmth spread from the bottom of her heart to the tips of her limbs. She answered without the slightest hesitation, “I would be honoured to assist you, my lord.”

  Even in the dark, she could sense his relief, which was all the reward she asked. Then, she listened in fascination, as he told her of the Duke’s peculiar request at his father’s funeral, of the papers he had found implicating him and others in a Jacobite plot, and of his certainty that the Duke was the only man on his father’s list who had changed his allegiance to King George.

  “Oh, dear.” She felt a flutter of danger in her veins. “I can see why you suspect him, my lord. What may I do to help you prove it or disprove it?”

  His startled laugh took her by surprise. “My dear Mrs. Kean, I believed—no, I knew you would not disappoint me, but your willingness to help is a greater blessing than I would have dared to hope for.”

  A blush suffused her from the pleasure in his voice.

  He continued, “I have wanted to ask you if you remember what time the Duke arrived at Lord Eppington’s ball.”

  She pondered. She could certainly remember when her aunt had noticed his arrival. Mrs. Mayfield had always made sure of the presence of Isabella’s suitors.

  “He came later than we did, and we arrived at ten o’clock because Isabella had promised a dance to someone at that hour.” Hester instantly regretted reminding him of Isabella. She was grateful for the darkness that concealed his reaction, though his body did seem to shift. “I cannot say for certain, but he must have come near eleven o’clock.”

  He turned away as if to think. “That was before I was attacked in the street. And the attack was designed to throw the blame on me. Whoever killed my father overheard our quarrel and waited until I was gone before entering the library to murder him. The argument must have given him the idea of making me his scapegoat, but he had to make it look as if I was the person who had been wounded by my father’s sword.”

  He mused a few moments. “If his Grace did it, he would have had to ride to London in time to dress for the ball. But he could have sent a footman or another servant to attack me.”

  “When would he have left the Abbey?” Hester asked.

  “Half an hour or so after I did. My father kept country hours, and I spoke to him before breakfast. I came to town after dark, but I would have arrived at the ball much earlier if Philippe, my valet, had worked faster or if I had not been attacked.”

  “Is his Grace capable at his age of making that ride in one day?”

  She could tell that her question was one he had asked himself.

  “He could have when younger for certain. He fought in the war with Marlborough, which would have meant long days in the saddle. And he must have a dozen horses, at least, that could handle a journey at top speed. He never misses a meet at Newmarket.”

  “But, what about now? Is he still able to ride that distance and appear at a ball in the evening?”

  “I don’t know. I suspect he could, but whether he could conceal his fatigue and a wound to his arm—that is what I cannot decide. How did he seem to you that night?”

  Hester began apologetically, “I was not looking at him with that sort of question in mind, so I cannot be sure, but I do not think there was anything extraordinary in his appearance or his manner. The only thing I noticed was that he only stood up for on
e dance with Isabella, which, at the time, made me believe he had lost interest in her.”

  “It might have been because he was fatigued.”

  She agreed reluctantly, then added, “I know my aunt feared it was due to a loss of interest because she began to grow desperate at that point.”

  She wanted to be as honest with him as he had been with her. “Her eagerness to see Isabella well married had as much to do with her troubles, you see, as it did with ambition. She has large gambling debts that must be paid.”

  St. Mars gave her a sideways glance, before shaking his head ruefully. With a touch of wry humor, he said, “I thought there was nothing more you could tell me to depress me, Mrs. Kean. But now it appears that not only has Harrowby made off with my title, but I must also watch my fortune be wasted on Mrs. Mayfield’s gambling debts. At least that is one aspect of the business I don’t have to envy him.”

  Hester admired his ability to laugh even in these disheartening circumstances. She wished she could reach out and stroke his hair.

  Unwilling to let this feeling run away with her, she referred to something else that had been on her mind. “Has it never occurred to you, my lord, that Sir Harrowby has benefited more than anyone else from your misfortune?”

  “You are asking if he could be the murderer?”

  “Yes, that is what I must wonder, although I know it sounds preposterous.”

  A sudden shaft of moonlight illuminated his face and she saw a quick grin, soon tinged with grief. She wondered if he had thought of his father . . . or Isabella.

  “I admit, I have a hard time envisioning Harrowby as a villain. He has never been a good horseman, and you’ve seen how long it takes a carriage to make the journey here.”

  “If his ambition were as large as the stakes, would he never be able to ride a horse?”

  Her suggestion sobered him. “You are right. I should think of it that way.” He pondered again, then said, “I know how you can discover it for me if you will, Mrs. Kean. My valet, Philippe, is still loyal to me, and if I know anything about Harrowby, I know that he has coveted my valet. Not enough to do murder to get him, perhaps, but he will quickly overcome any scruples he has in employing my servants for himself. He will most assuredly employ Philippe.”