by Joan Smith
“Right. I’ll order her a bottle of brandy. Make sure she doesn’t make herself sick with it again. With luck, she’ll doze off before La Rue comes.”
“That was what I had in mind,” she admitted, rather sheepishly.
“How do you put up with the harridan? I had thought Spain was bad. It was a holiday compared to being with her.”
“Why do you stay with her? You have had a dozen chances to leave.”
He gave her a gently chiding look that sent the blood pounding through her veins. “Why do you think I stay, Marianne?” he asked softly and took her two hands in his.
“You—you had better go, John.”
“I’m on my way, love.” He placed a fleeting kiss on her lips and walked quickly out the door.
Marianne stood motionless a moment, enjoying the tingle on her lips and the joyful glow that engulfed her.
Chapter Fifteen
At eleven o’clock, Macheath returned to the duchess’s room. Marianne had joined her some time before and was reading the journal aloud to her mistress.
“What kept you so long?” the impatient duchess demanded.
“You forget I had to bathe, change, eat dinner, let it be known in the taproom I was leaving for London, leave, and return circuitously on foot to slip up the backstairs. All things considered, I think I made excellent time. La Rue is playing cards belowstairs. He won’t come before two or three in the morning.”
“I have been thinking it’s a pity I had the lock repaired. Will he be able to get in, do you think?”
Macheath looked at it, drew a small metal tool from his pocket, stuck it in the lock, and turned it with no difficulty. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Your Grace.”
“What is your Miguel up to? Keeping an eye on La Rue, is he?”
“He’s playing cards with him.”
“Odd name for an Englishman, Miguel.”
“He is not English. He’s Irish. A Spanish woman gave him the name.”
“A light-skirt, I wager. He was wise not to marry a foreigner. I have no opinion of foreigners.”
“Unusual, Your Grace,” he said blandly. “You usually have an opinion on everything.”
As the duchess did not offer him a seat, he found himself a chair and sat down. Behind the duchess’s back, Marianne held up the unopened bottle of brandy Macheath had sent up. Her Grace hadn’t touched a drop of it. She wanted to be wide awake for whatever transpired later.
“Why don’t we play a few hands of cards to pass the time?” Marianne suggested. She knew her mistress liked to have a glass by her when she played cards. She would not allow herself to become inebriated, but it would get the bottle open at least, and when the game was over, she would likely keep sipping.
“A pity we hadn’t a fourth and we could play whist,” the dame said. Whist was her game of choice, but she was no stranger to vingt-et-un or even, when she was reduced to playing with her servants, Pope Joan or All-Fours. They settled for vingt-et-un, to be played at the desk with the duchess in the one comfortable chair and the others with their legs twisted at an awkward angle at the sides of the desk.
“Would anyone like something to drink before we begin?” Marianne asked.
“That brandy looks tempting,” Macheath replied promptly.
“No brandy, Captain,” the duchess said. “We must keep our wits about us.”
“I have a hard head, ma’am. We drank a little more than usual in the Peninsula, you must know. I can handle it.”
“An army man, eh? I thought as much. Dragoons or infantry?”
“Cavalry, Sixth Division.”
Her interest in this was to determine whether he could afford a horse when he entered the army. The better class of man was in the cavalry.
“A sergeant?” she ventured.
“A colonel, actually.”
“Promoted on the field of battle, eh? It is an excellent way for a penniless fellow to get ahead in the world. That won’t do you any harm when you are looking for a post in London.”
As they spoke, Marianne poured the amber liquid slowly into his glass at the table, watching as the duchess eyed it covetously.
“Perhaps just a wee tot for me, well watered,” she said finally. “My throat is dry, here by the grate.”
Marianne poured her a tot and let the duchess water it herself. Marianne drank water flavored with a few drops of brandy.
As the game proceeded, Macheath poured himself another glass and offered the bottle to the duchess. She complained of the weakness of her brew and fortified it with another splash of brandy. Macheath and Marianne made sure she enjoyed a winning streak, to lessen her fears of losing a few pennies at the game.
By midnight, she was becoming querulous that La Rue had not come. “Doesn’t he realize I must be up early in the morning? It is very thoughtless of him to wait so long to come to steal my jewels.”
“He may be waiting until the lights are out. He wouldn’t come while you are up and awake,” Marianne said.
“Of course! What a set of ninnyhammers we are! He may have been listening at the door for all we know, and here we have been gabbling like tinkers. Douse the lamps at once, Marianne.”
“I really don’t think he will be here for a few hours yet,” Macheath said.
“Devil take him. I need my sleep. I shall have a little lie-down in your room, Marianne. You come with me. Macheath can wait here in the dark. We don’t want La Rue to hear any voices when he comes. That is nine pence you owe me, Macheath, and you owe me thruppence, Marianne. I shall take it off your next quarter’s wages. I wouldn’t want to leave you short of funds in London.”
Macheath handed her her winnings, which she put into her reticule with satisfaction. He felt a stab of pity for Marianne, to think three pence could be considered a sum worth worrying about. The duchess bustled Marianne into the other room. Her Grace lay on the bed, fully dressed.
“Leave the door open a few inches so that we shall hear if Macheath needs our help,” she said. “You might just have the poker handy. I’ll let you wield it. My shoulder is acting up since my dunking in the river.”
“We should extinguish the lamp in this room as well, Your Grace. That will make it look as if no one is awake here, either.”
“Yes, go ahead, but mind you don’t fall asleep. Wake me the minute you hear La Rue. I want to get a look at the scoundrel.”
“Very well. I’ll just sit here by the grate where there is a bit of light.”
They settled in for the vigil. The duchess was not inebriated, but she was thoroughly relaxed and after half an hour, Marianne heard those snuffling sounds that indicated her mistress would soon be snoring. When the snores became loud and regular, she tiptoed to the adjoining door. Across the room she saw Macheath. He had placed a blanket and some pillows on the floor and lay by the grate with his chin propped on his palms, staring into the fire. The leaping flames cast flickering shadows over his face. He looked pensive. Not worried, exactly, but not easy in his mind, either. When she went forward, he rose and offered her his hand.
“She’s sleeping,” Marianne said softly.
“So I hear. She sounds like a grampus. Sit here by the fire. Do you want a blanket for your shoulders?”
“My shawl will do,” she said, sitting beside him. When he arranged her shawl, he left his arm over her shoulder. “Have you heard anything yet?” she said, pretending not to notice.
“No. It’s still early. When we hear him fiddling with the doorknob, I want you to run into the other room and close the door.”
“My mistress wants me to leave it open.”
He looked at her with a quizzing grin. “What a good little girl. Do you always do what you’re told?”
“I am not so biddable as that. Only when it is my employer who speaks. Are you really going to accompany us to London, or did you just pretend to conciliate her?”
“I’m a man of my word.”
“You obey, when the alternative is a brush with the law, you mean.”
“That is not why I agreed to go.” He reached out and folded her fingers in his warm hand. “You know why I am going. I have been feeling for some time that I have been on the scamp lay long enough. If I found some position at Whitehall, I might do more good than I can on my own. Do something to help all the veterans, I mean, not just the few I can give my ill-got gains to.”
“I’m happy to hear it, John. What you do is too dangerous.”
“Very true. One never knows when he will run up against a tyrant like the duchess.” He smiled softly, with affection glowing in his dark eyes. When he spoke again, she heard a serious note in his voice she hadn’t heard before. “Since meeting you, I realize the need of a more settled life. I cannot ask you to marry me yet, but one day ...”
It was the most commitment Marianne could expect from a man in his position, and she was more than satisfied with it. As she studied Macheath’s face, bathed in darting light and shadows, she knew she would wait as long as it took, forever if necessary. She had set out on this journey hoping to meet some dull provincial gentleman in need of a wife, and she had found her dream lover. A handsome, dashing hero, even if he was an outlaw.
“How long do you remain in London?” he asked.
“A week, then a week in Hertford, and a few stops on the way back to Bath. It is so far away,” she said, sighing to think of Macheath in London, on the other side of the country.
The duchess’s snores were a counterpoint to their conversation. Between fearing she would wake up and listening for La Rue to come, they were on edge. They sat together before the dancing flames, listening for a sound as they gazed at the fire and each other.
“You look like a devil, with the fire reflected in your eyes,” she said.
“You look like an angel. An angel with her hair on fire.” His fingers twined lovingly in her tresses, which caught the firelight and reflected it.
“I’m glad you’ll be staying in London,” she said. “La Rue or McGinty or someone might turn you in if you stayed here.”
“No highwayman would turn in a fellow scamp. His life wouldn’t be worth a brass farthing. The other scamps would take care of him. It’s an unwritten law. Would it bother you if I was turned in?”
She looked up to see him staring down at her. “You know it would.” Then she gave him a pert smile. “ ‘A simple country gel’ like me.”
“You left out the best part. ‘Imagining she is in love.’ Are you imagining it, I wonder? Bowled over by my reckless derring-do?”
“I never said I was in love.”
He tilted her chin up and pressed his mouth to hers. “You said it,” he told her, with smug satisfaction, then he kissed her hard on the lips, to prove it to himself. The blood quickened in his veins as she responded to his ardor.
He was suddenly seized with a reckless impatience to get on with the night’s work.
“I’m going to run down and ask Rooney to see what is afoot in the card parlor. I hope La Rue hasn’t drunk himself into a stupor.”
“Oh dear. Do you think he might have?”
“It’s possible. Don’t worry about it. If he has, I’ll see Rooney sobers him up before dawn. I’ll be right back. Don’t let anyone in but me.”
“Of course.”
He rose and went out the door, warning Marianne to lock it behind him. She tiptoed into the next room to see that the duchess was comfortable. She snored on, oblivious to the world.
Chapter Sixteen
When the light tap came at Marianne’s door a little later, she assumed it was Macheath and went running to answer it. Even when she saw the black mask and the pistol, she thought it was Macheath. He was wearing his mask so he would not be recognized, as he was supposed to be in London, and was carrying his pistol for defense. The other masked man behind him would be Miguel. But as she looked more closely, she realized the larger man was not Macheath.
He had not been wearing soiled buckskins and a rough jacket. The hand holding the pistol was not his well-manicured hand. These details flashed through her mind in a second. That was enough time for the intruders to get a foot in the door and overpower her. Just as she opened her lips to shout, one of them clamped a rough hand over her mouth. The other yanked her arms behind her back and tied them together.
By the time the gag had been stuffed in her mouth and the blanket thrown over her head, she was fairly certain the men were La Rue and a cohort—likely McGinty.
She flailed and kicked and tried to spit out the dirty rag. All was in vain. The gag was not only stuffed into her mouth but tied behind her head. One of the men held her tight. They spoke in whispers, their voices muffled by their masks. She heard the words “blunt” and “jewelry,” and so they had come looking for what else they could steal from the duchess. She heard one of them moving about the room quietly, opening drawers, rifling the duchess’s belongings. The other held her immobile. Then she heard the awful words, “We’ll take the chit. She’ll do as well—better. We’ll hold her to ransom.”
“Aye,” the smaller man said in leering accents that she recognized as McGinty’s. “Macheath’ll pay handsome for the wench.”
The larger man lifted her into his arms without speaking another word and carried her through the corridor, down a flight of stairs, out into the chilly night air.
When Macheath went belowstairs, Rooney told him no one had left the card parlor. Macheath wasn’t surprised. He was sure La Rue and McGinty would wait until two or three o’clock before paying their visit to the duchess’s room. He had time to have a look around outside. Nothing unusual was going forth there, either. He went to the stable to see what mount La Rue was riding that night. He had two: a black stallion he used for robbing coaches and a bay mare he rode at other times.
The bay mare was in one stall, McGinty’s cob in another, so they were still at the card table.
“Looks like La Rue ain’t planning a job tonight,” the ostler said with a knowing grin.
Macheath checked out the duchess’s team while he was there, and had a word with her groom to see if the carriage was fit to travel. Over the days, he had achieved respect, if not quite friendship, from the servants.
“Her Grace wants to continue on to London in the morning. She plans to leave around nine.”
“I’ll be ready and waiting,” Beeton assured him.
As Macheath headed back to the inn, he began to wonder about those mounts in the stable. La Rue and McGinty would want to make a fast getaway. They’d go down the backstairs after the robbery. If they went out that little side door that led to the brewhouse, the most convenient place to tether their nags would be the mulberry tree behind the house. It would be more private as well. Were the mounts in the stable a red herring? Did they have other horses waiting behind the brewhouse? He decided to have a look.
His route took him past the window of the card parlor. He ducked down to avoid being seen as he passed. He looked behind the brewhouse and saw the nags were there—Diablo and a pigeon-gray mare he recognized as belonging to a friend of McGinty’s. McGinty rode it from time to time.
When he returned, he was surprised to notice the window of the card parlor was open. La Rue liked his cigar, but on a chilly night like this ... Macheath went forward and crouched below the window, hoping to overhear their conversation. There wasn’t a sound from within. It must be a tense game. He waited, and when the silence continued for sixty seconds, he lifted his head and peeked inside. At first glance, the room looked empty. There were no shoulders bent over the table. Had they decided to play somewhere else? Odd Rooney hadn’t mentioned it.
He took a closer look—and saw the cards strewn over the board. There was someone in one of the chairs, dead drunk, with his head resting on the wood. Miguel! Impossible. Miguel could outdrink a camel. His drink had certainly been doctored to render him unconscious. Macheath clambered in the window and ran to Miguel. Only drugged, not dead, thank God. The open window told him why Rooney had not alerted him. La Rue had slipped out the wi
ndow to avoid being seen.
Macheath dashed out to have a word with Rooney. “They’ve gone out the window. Miguel’s been drugged. Look after him for me, Rooney. Their mounts are still there. They must be abovestairs now.”
“Shall I go up with you?”
“I can handle them. But how did they get past your desk to go upstairs? Did you leave it unattended?”
“That I did not!”
He tossed up his hands. “They didn’t pass the desk, of course. They used the backstairs.”
“Must have done. The game was still on a quarter of an hour ago. I took in a pitcher of ale. Your man looked fine then.”
A small smile curved Macheath’s lips. “I’ll be down presently,” he said, and drawing out his pistol, he headed for the stairs.
He took them two at a time, expecting to find La Rue rummaging around in the duchess’s room. He was not very worried. They hadn’t had time to hurt Marianne. He saw the door to the duchess’s room hanging open. He tiptoed forward, every nerve stretched taut. And when he got there, he saw the room was empty. A glance told him La Rue had made a quick search. Drawers hung open, pillows were scattered on the floor. He noticed the adjoining door was closed, and the fierce pounding of his heart dulled to a thud.
He’d have to go after La Rue, but first he wanted to confirm that Marianne and the duchess were all right. Marianne must have scuttled into the next room and closed the door when she heard them coming. She was probably there now, cowering behind it, thinking the sounds she heard were La Rue, come back to terrify her.
He went to the door. “It’s me, Marianne,” he called softly. When the door didn’t open, he drew it open and peered in. The duchess lay peacefully in her bed, but of Marianne there was no sign. He threw the door wide open and went in, heart pounding. He lit the lamp on the toilet table and turned it up to its full brightness to look all around. Marianne was gone. His heart was a block of ice in his chest. As if moving on strings, he went and looked into the clothespress, the only article in the room large enough to conceal a body. It held only gowns and pelisses. She was gone. La Rue had gotten her.