“No, you do want them to know each other better. That is your hope, for that is when such romantical and immediate adoration is most like to fade. It is hard to remain a hero or a damsel in distress when one is forced to see the other as a mere human being making dull conversation.”
“Is that so?” Talbot asked. “Am I to assume that I am not longer a romantic hero in your eyes, Amelia?”
Miss Mapleton raised her prettily gloved hand to her mouth to soften the sound of a sudden giggle. “If you have been anything in my eyes, Mr. Talbot, since first we met, it is a villain and an ogre, not a hero. And you should not be calling me Amelia. It is most improper and that is twice you have done so.”
“Oh, I have done so more than twice, Miss Propriety,” grinned Talbot. “I distinctly recall having done so after you had driven my curricle and then jumped down and calmed Mouse. And I did when we danced tonight. I am not quite sure that I did not do so at Geordan’s dinner in the kitchen, but if I did not, it was an oversight, for, indeed, I meant to.”
Amelia’s eyes met his beneath the soft glow of the lanterns and the oddly confused look in them made her lips more kissable than they had ever been. “You will think me more of a villain, Miss Mapleton, if you continue to look at me in that particular manner, for I shall not be able to refrain from kissing you.”
“Oh!” gasped Amelia, quickly turning away, but she did not take her hand from his arm, nor quicken her pace in the least.
“IT is n-not your f-fault,” Geordan assured Lydia, neither of them aware that Amelia and Tony had fallen a good way behind. “L-Lots of p-people are af-fraid of horses.”
“No one that I know,” Lydia sighed. “Everyone in my family is very horsey and all my friends, too. They are like Pamela, always wanting to show off some fancy hack they have purchased or put some silly hunter through its paces. I am a very good dancer, Geordan. I can play the pianoforte and I do not sing too badly, but I shall never, ever, get on another horse again, no matter how much of an outcast it makes me.”
“Well, I sh-shouldn’t make you do so if you did n-not wish to,” replied the earl seriously. “B-But sometimes there are things you only think you do n-not wish to do because you are af-fraid you c-cannot do them. I w-was afraid to walk once, because I thought I c-could n-not. But my mama and my papa g-got me to t-try anyway. I did n-not do it very well at f-first, b-but now you cannot even t-tell how badly my legs were b-broken.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Lydia. “Geordan, I did not know. Was there some kind of accident?”
“Y-Yes, but I do n-not remember it. When you c-come to my mama’s p-party, if you decide you would l-like to ride again, I w-will try to t-teach you.”
“Lady Rutlidge is giving a party?”
“Y-Yes, and you and your s-sister are to c-come. You w-will, won’t you? We are all going out to, to Westerley.”
“Oh, we shall be delighted to come,” squeaked Lydia, giving the earl’s arm a squeeze. “It was you who thought to ask us, was it not? You are so very sweet and thoughtful. Will there be dancing? How many people are to go? Shall I ride in your mama’s landau again, and will you ride with me?”
The earl, overcome by such a rush of questions and unable to field so many at a time, stopped in his tracks and stared at the young lady. “D-Devil!” he exclaimed. “You are the b-best, f-fastest talker I have ever h-heard. I c-cannot remember h-half of what you asked. That is a t-trouble about being s-slow I d-did not realize. No one has ever t-talked so f-fast to me before.”
Lydia, glancing behind them and discovering happily that Mr. Talbot and Miss Mapleton were deeply involved in a conversation of their own and had dropped quite far behind, put a gloved hand against the earl’s cheek and, standing on her toes, kissed him softly on the lips. “You are not like anyone I have ever met before,” she whispered to him with a smile. “I do not think you care whether I am beautiful or lively or impish or dance prettily, or even ride well.”
“N-No,” the earl said. “I d-don’t.”
“You just like me for me,” sighed Lydia happily.
“N-No,” said the earl. “I love you for you.”
“Oh, Geordan,” breathed Lydia, the lantern light making golden sparkles of her hair. “We have barely met.”
“I g-guess I am s-slow at everything b-but falling in l-love,” he grinned lopsidedly. “It is T-Tony who is s-slow at that.”
“I—I love you, too,” stammered Miss Lydia shyly. “But Pamela says I am hen-witted and all in love with every gentleman I see. I am too stupid to be trusted, she says.”
“I do n-not think you are s-stupid at all,” the earl answered quickly. “You should n-not listen to your s-sister when she s-says that. She is wrong.”
LORD MAPLETON, in the shadow of moonlight behind the stables with the music echoing faintly in his ears, held Lady Mapleton in his arms and kissed her soundly. “Now, go back inside and enjoy the remainder of your ball, my love, and do not worry.”
“Max, must you go tonight?”
“Yes, I must, Kate. It is more important that I go tonight than ever before. Now hurry back to the house before someone sees you and wonders at your having a dalliance with some ruffian from the stables. That would be most difficult to explain. No one will wonder at it that they do not see me about. Fathers are quite dispensable on these occasions. Smile, love,” he encouraged her as he mounted his grey. “I will not be so terribly late returning. You may expect me before two, for I do not intend to linger.” And at those words, he blew her a kiss and rode slowly from the stable yard.
Catherine Mapleton walked slowly back toward the house, diverting her path so that she might stroll through the garden and enter by the garden door. As the lanterns began to wink around her, a smile crept slowly to her face. The lanterns had been Max’s idea. “You may not have a ball without them,” he had teased her. “I should be crushed if I could not sweep you off onto the garden paths and kiss you beneath those bits of coloured light.” Which he had done, she acknowledged with a little nod and a big smile. He had swept her off down the paths earlier that evening, and she had been very grateful that none of the young people had discovered them at the time. She lingered for a moment, noticing that the air had grown more crisp, and then with a determined step increased her pace so that no one should notice her absence from the ball.
BEAR and Coffee, having appropriated a gig from Cap’n Sutter’s stables, arrived at the gathering place much earlier than usual. They were present, in fact, for the arrival fo the deframers’ self-appointed saviour, Zachariah Wolfe, and his entourage, which included a number of rough, heavily-muscled individuals, some of whom carried short swords or pistols.
Wolfe, a stocky, grey-haired man of close to fifty years, with an expressive countenance, a large, crooked nose that had been broken and healed more than once, a deep bass voice, and affectations of gentility, appeared an amazingly unsuitable candidate to bring relief to a near-panicked and desperately downtrodden portion of the population of London. He seemed more, at first sight, like one of the middle class or even the gentility upon whom the majority of those present laid blame for their abominable situation and against whom they could easily be brought to wreak vengeance. His message, to this point, had been one of some moderation, of attacking and demolishing machinery and burning buildings, but avoiding any face-to-face confrontations with those who supposedly had brought this economic crisis of industrial revolution upon the masses. From where he had come, where lay his previous interests, how he had lived before his sudden appearance among the deframers almost three years ago, no one appeared to know. Not that many of them had given the question of his background much consideration. His appearance had seemed like a godsend.
The deframers had ben without a leader since the quiet beginnings of the crisis. As early as 1800 they had wandered restlessly, without unification or support, carrying messages of impending doom to others of their class. No one had taken them seriously. They were unable to discover any certain one among thei
r ranks who was willing or able to walk forward, waving the flag of their misery before the eyes of the elite. Every year more and more of their fellows met with economic blight and loss of employment. Their government ignored them, pretending, they thought, ignorance of their precarious situation. Therefore, when Zachariah Wolfe emerged in his flamboyant, theatrical way from the cocoon of his dubious past, he was welcomed. His words were his entrée, his qualifications, and his source of power.
Bear and Coffee’s early arrival had gained them a position on the very edge of the celebrated man’s entourage, and there they lay in wait, a great deal of apprehension apparent on their faces and in the restlessness of their actions, for the man called Justice. He rode into the meeting late, Wolfe having already begun his speech, and dismounting, he led his horse through the throngs and to the very front of the crowd. A slight hesitation in Wolfe’s voice and the quick flicker of his eyes to the place where the man stood acknowledged his arrival. Bear and Coffee shuffled through the barrier of Wolfe’s ruffians, gaining entrance to the inner circle by the simple expedient of stating that they needed to speak with Justice. As they arrived beside him, he glanced once in their direction and then returned his gaze to the platform. “Been a while,” he said to them without taking his gaze from the saviour. “What kin I do fer the two o’ ye?”
“Need to talk with ye, Justice,” Coffee answered, his hand flexing nervously.
“So, talk. I’m listening.”
“No, Justice, me lad, we be needin’ ta talk ta ye in private like. Carryin’ a message we be, from a friend o’ ours,” Bear explained further.
“What, he cain’t carry ’is own messages?”
“He been a’carryin’ of ’em, Justice, but he ain’t been able ta meet up wi’ ye. Over in Manchester ye were fer th’last three meetin’s, an’ him here awaitin’ on ye,” sighed Coffee.
“I’m here tonight though, ain’t I?”
“Aye,” agreed Bear, “only Tony ain’t. Tied up, he be. Cain’t be gittin’ away.”
“Destiny,” Justice murmured, “a twist o’ fate. Step this way, me lads, an’ we’ll ’ave a word or two.” An arm on each of their shoulders, Justice urged them forward and behind the platform. “Now, gentlemen,” he said, as the three of them slipped into the shadow of the tree line, several yards behind the speaker’s stand, “I cannot take th’time ta tell ye what it is I be about. But know this: I am come to a decision what affects ye both. How did ye come to be here? Ye did not walk?”
“We come in a gig, Justice,” Coffee answered, perplexed. “Why? ’Tis no matter to ye.”
“Aye, but ’tis, Coffee, fer I be wantin’ ye ta leave, fast like, an’ if ye be afoot, why then I’d be needin’ ta come up with a bit a blood an’ bone fer each o’ ye. Where is this gig?”
“Justice, are ye mad? All we be needin’ is a few minutes o’ yer time,” Bear growled.
“Not now, not now. I am about ta be in a bit o’ a scrape, me lads, an’ I don’t mean fer ye ta be mixed up in it. I want ye should climb aboard that gig an’ head back up the path ye came down. Wait fer me at the Broken Bone. Behind o’ it, in th’trees. I’ll find ye. Go now. Quickly.”
Bear and Coffee stared at the man without moving.
“Ye’re mad alright,” Coffee mumbled. “I kin see it in yer eyes.”
“Ye can’t,” Justice grinned. “Yer making it up. Now go. I’ll not be tellin’ ye agin!” And with that he left the trees, walked back around the platform, and into the front of the crowd.
Bear and Coffee looked at each other and shrugged. “I cain’t figger it,” Coffee frowned, “but I reckon whatever th’scrape be, he ain’t akiddin’ us about it. Ye want ta go, Bear?”
“I reckon we’d better,” Bear growled. “But if ’e don’t show ’is face like ’e says, we’ll come back ’ere after ’im.”
Lord Mapleton watched from the corner of his eye as Bear and Coffee emerged into the crowd, crossed to the little gig, and climbed in. He watched until it had drawn beyond his vision, and then waited some more. They must be gone by now, he told himself at last, and then he waited even longer just to be sure. He knew those two had come to the earl’s assistance. He had had the entire story from his children. He would not have either of them involved in the fracas, if fracas there should be. There were many of these people he would rather not see involved in it, but he could not walk from group to group and whisper to them to depart. And after eight months, neither he nor his fellows had been able to devise a plan for snabbling Wolfe that did not involve danger to the deframers. Wolfe was impossible to come upon unguarded. His abode remained unknown. The only place in which he was readily accessible was ascending or descending a platform at a gathering. Max sighed nd wished again that they had not agreed to apprehend the man alive. It would have been a simple thing to shoot him. At the range he had now, the man would have crumpled immediately.
Above him, the deep bass of Wolfe’s voice rolled out over the crowd. Max studied the pliable face as it expressed anger, righteousness, despair and rebellion. In two days, Max knew, Wolfe planned a final gathering—a gathering a which he would stir these desperate, frightened people into acts of terror against the throne and their countrymen—a rebellion smaller that than which had toppled the French aristocracy, but equally as dreadful for those caught up in it. Wolfe’s plan was to arouse the London deframers to a pitch of violent from which they could not retreat and then to slide quickly into Manchester and Portsmouth, Nottingham and Liverpool, and to fire off the gatherings there one after the other like a series of cannon shots. Seditious meetings had occurred before, and uprisings sprouted among the deframers, but never had there been behind it one man with an organized plan and the means to accomplish it.
Zachariah Wolfe was approaching the end of his speech. Max knew, because Max had been present at the writing of the thing. As the deep bass voice boomed out the final sentence and the crowd began to roar, Mapleton stepped forward and strolled languidly to the steps down which the man must come. None of the ruffians thought that odd. They were present to protect the great Wolfe from enemies or harm at a crush of overzealous followers. They were not present to protect him from the man called Justice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ZACHARIAH WOLFE, beaming with triumph and self-satisfaction, came proudly down the wooden steps at the side of the platform. Mapleton extended his hand, and Wolfe reciprocated. Max’s fingers clasped the man’s wrist; his arm jerked powerfully toward himself and brought the stocky insurgent stumbling down the last step. A pistol fired and another and a third. Shouts and screams rose into the night sky. The bodyguards started toward the platform, but seeing Max push Wolfe toward the rear of the platform and give them a hurried nod, they accepted that Justice was getting Wolfe to cover and turned back to the crowd. Again the guns fired and again, and on three sides of the clearing, lines of uniformed men emerged from the trees. Wolfe’s entourage broke for their horses. Members of the Guard swept them up as though they were so many wood shavings on the floor of a carpenter’s shop. The deframers grappled about them for weapons. Knives, rocks, cudgels appeared in frightened, desperate hands. And then a hiss and a whistle sounded near the bonfire, and heads turned. An explosion ripped the air, and high in the night sky a shower of red, white and blue sparks erupted int the blackness, pulsed lik a great evening star, and then began to sink into oblivion. When the stunned deframers looked back to the Guard, those gentlemen had disappeared.
Max, planting a pistol firmly in Wolfe’s back and twisting his arm tightly upward between the heavy man’s shoulder blades, shoved him into the cover of the trees only seconds before the fireworks faded. “Turner,” he ordered as loudly as he dared, “take this wretch.” A man looking very much like a footpad in a catskin vest, patched breeches, and worn half-boots, and sporting a curly beaver on his pate, stepped into Zachariah Wolfe’s field of vision and swing a cudgel down upon his head.
“Got ’im,” grinned Turner. “Ye kin let go of ’is a
rm now.”
Max released his grip and Wolfe thudded to the ground.
“Here, boys, let’s ’ave a hand wi’ the gen’leman,” Turner hissed, and three men, equally as unfashionable as Turner, stepped from the trees. It took all four of them to bind the heavy man securely, swing him up across the back of a skittish mare, and secure him there. “Ye comin’, Justice?” Turner asked, as one of this fellows led four more horses out to where they stood. “We best git movin’ afore th’shock wears off an’ they come lookin’ ta see if this bloke’s awright.”
“No,” Mapleton answered distractedly, “you take him in, Turner. I have better things to do this evening.”
“Right ye are, guv,” Turner replied, and with a curt nod he and his compatriots mounted and rode off with the unconscious Wolfe in the direction of the Thames.
Lord Mapleton turned back toward the clearing and made his way cautiously back to the platform. The deframers were buzzing with excitement. Most of them were relieved that the Guard had disappeared and had no thought of going after them. Others shouted that they ought to free Wolfe’s bodyguards. Still others roared that Wolfe had disappeared and they ought to go out searching for the man. Fistfights were breaking out amongst them simply from the shock of what had almost happened and the frustration of not understanding a bit of it or knowing what to do.
“Go home!” a loud voice roared at them, and those who heard ceased their debates and turned toward the sound. “Go home!” Justice roared again from the top of the platform he’d just ascended. “We be lucky this time. They did not git what t’was they came fer. An’ they not be meanin’ ta mow none o’ us down. Git home afore they change their minds an’ we all be dead!”
A plethora of stunned faces watched Justice descend the platform and stroll wearily toward his horse, which stood with reins planted beneath a large stone. He freed the reins, mounted the trembling steed, and made his way carefully through the crowd. “Be Zachariah free then?” a voice called up to him.
Amelia's Intrigue (Regency Idyll Book 1) Page 24