by Joan Vincent
“I am going about this rather badly.” Geary hunched his shoulders and gave a reluctant frown. “I–I,” he managed to colour, “I am distracted by your beauty.”
The man is feigning this concern, Peace thought and started to rise.
Putting out a hand, Geary said, “I apologize. I assure you, I shall say nothing more on that head–without your permission.” His features turned grim. “My apologies. I must broach a topic that will cause you pain. But I need your help. I believe even now weapons, ammunition, and cannon are being collected for the French.”
Peace gazed at him in disbelief.
“I assure you, madam, I speak the truth. Already one ship has taken enough arms to fit a battalion. I believe another such shipment will soon be on its way.”
“That is impossible, sir,” Peace said and stood. “The men in Whitby do supplement their incomes by owling. But they smuggle only for the pleasures of life; brandy, wine, lace, silk. They hate Napoleon as much as I. As you.”
“You deny they smuggled flintlocks?”
“Of course not. Those weapons were for the English Volunteer Corps,” Peace replied spiritedly. “The Office of Ordnance stupidly had none available for the men.”
“In my conversations I did not find a great belief that Napoleon will invade England,” Donatien countered. “Why arm them? In fact, Major Simpson’s men–”
“The Volunteer Corp still meet once a month,” Peace said but frowned. “Did you say an entire ship of arms was sent to France?”
Geary solemnly nodded. “I must stop the next shipment. To the men here I am a gentleman on hard times. A Riding Officer willing to look the other way when it comes to their activities for certain consideration.”
“That is a dangerous game, sir.”
“But not so hazardous as the one your husband played.”
Pearl studied Geary. She could not decide how much he knew or how much he merely guessed. But the news that the War Office was aware of the shipment of weapons shook her. It confirmed too much she had feared. “Can you prove that another shipment is being readied?”
When he said nothing, Peace again asked, “Can you?”
“I shall take you to where the weapons are hidden.”
“If you know where they are, why do you not arrest those involved and take the weapons?” she asked sharply.
“Because I wish to have everyone involved and all the weapons. Word has it that more are soon to arrive.”
“You mean to arrest everyone involved? Even the innocent?”
“Innocent?” Geary’s eyes narrowed. “How can anyone who aids the tyrant Napoleon be innocent?”
The hatred in his voice chilled Peace. It told her he would be a dangerous enemy. She stiffened and met his gaze with a nonexistent calm. “The people here survive by smuggling. They may not realize what they carry.”
“But they break the law in any case.”
“You have never done so, monsieur?”
“Do I look like such a person?”
“Non,” Peace replied, stood and walked away from him.
Geary was behind her in an instant, a hand to her elbow. “Do you fear for yourself? I assure you–”
“I have no reason to be afraid,” Peace said, turning. She found herself but a few inches from Geary. His dark-eyed penetrating gaze startled her.
“Do not fear me, madam,” Geary said, his voice raw with the struggle of conflicting emotions. “I would never harm you.”
“I do not fear even Madame la Guillotine any more, Mr. Geary,” Peace bit out. “Nor am I a fool.”
“Then come with me on the morrow. See the proof.” When she hesitated, Geary added, “Your husband, madam, was a leader among the smugglers. Perhaps he discovered what was really happening. That may well be why he died. Surely you long to have his murderer found?”
Even though she had anticipated his question, it hit Peace hard. It would be best, she decided, to discover exactly what this man knew. “Where and when shall I meet you?”
“At the church of St. Cedds.”
* * *
London Early Hours of October 16th
Lucian watched Thornley refill the glass in Lucian’s hand through blurred vision. He tried to raise his other hand to rub his eyes but found it resisted moving. Lucian managed to flatten his palm momentarily against his chin before letting it drop back to his lap.
“Had too much, Merristorm?” Lade boomed and nudged Freddy Pinlar seated beside him at the table.
The words threaded their way to Lucian through a fog that had begun blanketing his mind three or four glasses ago. He shook his head and by concentrating, raised his glass to his mouth and drank. Through the growing haze he heard muffled laughter and saw fingers point at him unaware that some of the port had dribbled from his uncooperative mouth and down his chin.
“Leav’ fellow ta’lone,” Thornley ordered with false drunken pomposity. He clamped a hand on Merristorm’s shoulder. “Shouldn’t make fun of m’friend.” He began to refill Lucian’s glass from the bottle that sat on the floor between their chairs.
“Why don’t y’share?” Freddy Pinlar demanded across the table.
Thornley filled Lucian’s glass and then topped off his own with what remained in the bottle. He shrugged at Pinlar as he offered the empty bottle to him.
“Think it a jest do you?” Pinlar asked, surly.
Lade thumped a bottle in front of the man. “Speakin’ o’ jests,” he said expansively and looked at Thornley with a mean-spirited sneer. After a drunken chuckle he continued. “Tell ever’one ‘bout that little ‘jest’ you thought we ought ta play on Merristorm next time he drank himself senseless.”
Lucian heard his name and raised his head. When had his eyelids grown so very heavy? He raised his glass. “A toast to . . . death.”
“He’s beastly foxed,” Pinlar snorted.
“His pater’s the beast for refus’in us membership in that club o’ ‘is,” Fowler snarled. “’Haps we should repay the debt.”
Thornley saw Lade nod agreement and lowered his head to hide his smile.
The glass fell from Lucian’s fingers as he lowered it.
“I think he’s ripe for the jest,” Lade said, a hint of malice colouring his words.
“Jest? Explain it,” Pinlar demanded excitedly like a hound who had caught the scent.
“’Twas nothing,” Thornley insisted. “Merristorm and I should take our leave.”
“Tell ‘bout the jest first,” whined Henry Fowler. “It’s been an age since we’ve enjoyed a practical joke.”
“I’ve thought better of it,” said Thornley with a theatrical wave of his hand as if to shoo away the idea.
“Lade, tell us,” asked Pinlar peevishly.
“Something about putting Merristorm on the stage going up the Great North Road after he had drunk himself senseless.”
“That’d be a fine one,” chortled Freddy.
“Take Merristorm down a peg or two.” Fowler raised his glass in salute. “Let’s do it.”
“Gentlem’n,” Thornley managed a good pretence of slurred words. “I withdra’ idea.”
“Too late,” Lade told him. “Think of all the wagers. What stop he regains his senses. How many days it’ll take him to find his way back to London.”
“I’ll put a pony on ten days,” Pinlar squealed in delight.
“Count me in for a baker’s dozen,” Fowler thumped his hand on the table.
“I don’t think I want to deal with an angry Merristorm,” Thornley told them. He put a hand to Lucian’s shoulder and gave him a shake.
Lucian slumped forward, his head hitting the table with a thud.
“Thornley,” Lade commanded the man’s attention. “Didn’t you say a mail coach left Holborn every morn at six?”
“Well, yes, but I protest,” Sir Brandon spluttered. “Chap’s in no condition.”
“That’s the idea,” Fowler chortled but Merristorm stirred. He choked into silence, his gaze rivete
d on the crow black hair on the bowed head.
“Lade, order your closed coach afore he regains his senses,” Pinlar advised.
Thornley, pleased that the sense of urgency proved contagious, protested.
“Since when do you play the part of marplot?” Lade objected. “Should Merristorm prove troublesome on his return to London we’ll swear you blameless.” He shoved Thornley forward and motioned for Pinlar and Fowler to bring Merristorm.
Shortly after six in the morning pot valiant and partially blinded by the thick yellow fog, Lade reined the teams around the corner into the coach yard too fast and too sharp and almost toppled the closed coach. Swearing and sawing on the reins he yawed it to a halt near a coach bearing the Stamford mark.
With raucous shouts of abuse, Fowler and Pinlar stumbled out of it. With a hostler at his team’s head Lade alighted and led the way to the coach office.
Inside Lade’s coach Thornley pulled a small vial from his waistcoat pocket. He prodded Lucian’s head up against the squabs and then pinched the man’s nose shut. When Merristorm opened his mouth to breath, Sir Brandon poured the contents of the vial down his throat.
Choking, Lucian instinctively coughed and spewed what he hadn’t swallowed into Thornley’s face.
“Damme you,” Sir Brandon swore and pulled back his fist. But Lade’s spiteful laughter marked the two men’s return. He hastily wiped his face and stuffed the square of linen into the pocket of the caped greatcoat into which they had wrestled Merristorm.
“Is he ready?” Pinlar asked leaning drunkenly on the door.
“Bid your adieu’s,” Lade told Thornley.
“You mean to do this?” Sir Brandon asked loud enough to draw the Stamford coach’s hostler’s attention. Satisfied he had proof of his protest he pulled Lucian’s arm over his shoulder and tugged him toward the door.
“Take him, blast you,” Thornley grunted. Lowering the dead weight of the unconscious man he paid little heed when the side of Lucian’s head banged against the door frame.
“Careful there,” Lade cautioned sarcastically. He caught the tall form and kept Merristorm upright as Pinlar grabbed a hold.
“Lah, he must still be fifteen stone,” protested Pinlar as they dragged Lucian toward the mail coach.
“It’s all the port he guzzled,” Fowler chuckled.
Both men laughed, almost dropping their burden. Thornley followed carrying Lucian’s beaver hat.
Lucian tried to bring his lolling head upright when they halted before the Stamford coach’s door. He opened his eyes but couldn’t focus. He heard the Earl of Lade but the man’s words, an unintelligible jumble faded as consciousness fled.
Thinking Lucian conscious Lade kicked at Merristorm’s calf to prod him to take a step up. That proving fruitless he stepped back. Pinlar and Fowler half threw Lucian up and onto the floor between the seats.
“You can’t let him lay there,” Thornley protested fearing Lucian would simply be thrown out when the other passengers tried to get into the coach.
Lade motioned Fowler to climb over Merristorm’s legs. Pinlar followed him. Both men cursed as they wrestled the dead weight up onto the seat and wedged Lucian into the far corner with his back to the horses.
Thornley surveyed the struggling pair with great satisfaction. When they climbed down he stepped up and clapped Lucian’s low crowned beaver hat on his head so that his face was more or less concealed. That done, Sir Brandon jumped down.
Pinlar slammed shut the door. He hooked Lade’s arm as well as Fowlers. The threesome staggered back to the coach.
Hard put not to shout his triumph, Thornley followed them at a forced staid pace. He estimated the laudanum he had forced down Lucian along with that in the drug-laced wine the man had downed would render him unconscious until late in the day or the morrow.
From the corner of his eye Thornley saw a heavy man with an equally stout wife plodding toward the Stamford coach. Their stained and worn clothing made them fitting companions for Merristorm. Sir Brandon was less pleased by the old man led by a young girl and followed by a tallish young woman that came after them. On second thought he decided their clean and prim dress bespoke the prudish–the sort that would either ignore or taunt a fellow passenger far gone in his cups.
By the time Lade had turned his coach the driver of the Stamford roared, “Let ’em go.”
A deep satisfaction filled Sir Brandon as he watched the guard atop the Stamford bleat a warning through his yard of tin. Then its team thrust against their collars and jerked the coach into motion toward the North Road unknowingly implementing his vengeance.
“Revenge shall be sweet,” Thornley mused. How easy it had been. If all goes as well as this– Sir Brandon shook aside a suspicion of disaster. Arrangements had been made to avoid that. By the time he followed Merristorm to Whitby Lucian would be a common vagrant. Sweet revenge indeed.
Chapter Five
Barnet, Middlesex Morning October 16, 1810
Ruth paused on the step as she climbed back into the mail coach. The long lanky man had not stirred during this first change of horses. He remained slouched low on the seat, motionless, while the other passengers enjoyed fresh milk or a glass of ale.
Ruth thought it looked a most uncomfortable position even if he was insensible. “Beastly drunk,” the merchant had insisted.
Ever since the deep yellow fog had lifted permitting light to enter the coach Ruth had thought there was something about the man. Something familiar. A strong desire to remove the hat that covered his face persisted.
The man’s tanned hands reminded Ruth of Lucian Merristorm. Dishevelled, disreputable, dissolute. Everything to scandalize a vicar’s daughter. Especially his mesmerizing dark eyes that bore unbearable pain in their depths.
His hard sinewy body, his provocative lips, the power of his lean tanned fingers had tormented Ruth while she kept watch during the night so her father could not escape her again. His eyes and the tortured soul she had caught sight of in their depths haunted her dreams whenever she nodded off.
The stout woman behind Ruth loudly cleared her throat.
It was meant a rebuke for her unladylike ogling of the man. Ruth smiled wryly. She stepped up into the coach with a silent acknowledgement of that fault but refused to admit how deeply Mr. Merristorm had affected her. Sitting on the edge of the seat Ruth offered her hand to her father.
When he accepted it she pulled him up and in. She found his weight light despite his height. It reminded Ruth of how frail he was in body never mind the bouts of forgetfulness that were occurred with growing frequency.
Shying from such thoughts Ruth forcefully slid over to make room on the seat for her Father. Her derriere collided with the solid heap of insensible man at the other end of the seat.
“I am sorry,” Ruth said automatically. She hurriedly wriggled closer to her father and sat back. Then Ruth realized the man’s hand lay beneath her. Heat rushed to her cheeks.
Ruth fumbled beneath her skirts and tugged his hand free and laid it in his lap. Her face grew warmer beneath the glare and tisk of condemnation from the merchant’s wife.
A tingle had run through her at the contact with the stranger. Very like the awareness caused by Mr. Merristorm. Had that been insignificant after all, she wondered. A spinster’s counterfeit thrill?
“Best take a care with yer gel,” warned the stout merchant’s wife. “Mine would ne’r dare be so brazen.”
“It would have been far worse to remain seated on his hand,” Sampson Clayton returned with some of the spirit Ruth seldom saw anymore. “Despite his present state he is a creature of our Lord and deserves respectful treatment for that reason, madam,” the vicar told her.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. Her lips pressed into a thin line, she tossed a piercing glare at Ruth but said nothing more.
“Thank you, Father.” Ruth gave his hand a gentle squeeze.
Moments later the driver shouted and the coach lurched into motion. Ruth and her father,
with their backs to the horses, braced to keep their seats. She instinctively put out an arm to hold the unconscious figure in place. When the merchant’s wife clucked loud disapproval at this, Ruth held her arm against the man longer than necessary.
Seeing Marietta’s quizzical frown Ruth realized how foolish and headstrong this was. She was never foolish and seldom stubborn. With a negligible shrug of apology to her sister, Ruth tucked her arm against her side and clasped her gloved hands.
“Are you all right, my dear?” asked Sampson.
The sympathy in his voice turned Ruth to her father. She met his steady gaze and smiled. “Yes, Father. Are you warm enough?” Ruth reached across and buttoned his greatcoat. When she gave a gentle squeeze to his hand he muttered something in Greek.
“The journey is long, Father,” Ruth replied in kind but his eyes had that empty cast. She prayed and soon he closed his eyes and nodded off.
At least Father cannot wander off or anger anyone while we are in the coach.
But you better watch him like a hawk during the stops, her sensible side cautioned.
Ruth sighed her agreement. She tried to turn her mind to Whitby and how to manage once they arrived there but the stranger’s exotic scent lured her thoughts astray. From the first Ruth had recognized it beneath the powerful overlay of brandy. It reminded her strongly of Mr. Merristorm.
Part father’s shaving soap, part what? Some herb? Ruth drew in a slow deep breath. Patchouli?
The coach hit a deep rut in the road and bounced out of it. The passengers flew up and plumped down hard. The low crowned beaver tilted and fell into Ruth’s lap. Its owner slid half off the bench.
Ruth’s brow puckered with question for only a second. The features, though slack and harshened by unshaven overnight stubble and a darkening bruise on the right side with a fresh cut above it, were instantly remembered. Everything that had appeared familiar about the man shifted into place.
A cry of outrage pierced Ruth’s shock. She saw the stout merchant push and hit at Merristorm’s legs which now pressed against his.