Louise M. Gouge

by A Lady of Quality

  “Blunt?”

  “Money. Gold is best, but I’ll take wha’ever ya got.”

  Catherine shook her head. “I fear that Mr. Radcliff did not give me time to fetch my reticule.” Her own silly remark made her giggle, though she hardly felt merry.

  Bess laughed with her. “’At’s the spirit, girl. Be brave. Don’t do no good to cry.” She collected the bowl and spoon and set them aside, then tied the rope back around Catherine’s wrists. “I ain’t the best at knots, miss.” She winked. “If ya know what I mean.” She stood and walked to the door. “Just remember ol’ Bess if yer ever down this way again.”

  After she left, Catherine counted to ten, then tore at her bonds until a sound outside warned her. She clutched the ropes, trying to make them appear tied. She pulled her knees up to her chin and lolled her head to the side against the crate. Keeping her eyes open only a little, she watched Mr. Radcliff enter, study the scene, then leave. Before she could anticipate an escape, she heard the unmistakable metallic click of a key turning in a padlock on the door.

  *

  “If you will not give me the names of your accomplices, you will hang alone right outside these walls.” Hartley hovered over the small man who had taken part in the attack on the coach. The clamor of inmates in Newgate Prison was nothing to the clamor in Hartley’s chest. When the man refused to answer, he nodded to Ajax.

  From behind, the giant gripped the prisoner’s shirt and lifted him off the cell floor, a foreshadowing of his execution.

  “If you tell me where I can find them,” Hartley said, “I shall see that you are transported rather than hanged.”

  The man, little more than a youth, blustered a bit, but his bravado was beginning to fail him. “I don’t know where they are, gov’nor.”

  “’Ere now.” Ajax gave him a shake. “That’s milord to you, weasel.”

  “Awright, awright. Make the ape put me down…milord.”

  “Put him down, Ajax.” Hartley wanted to strangle the man himself, but that would not save Miss du Coeur. “Where does Edgar Radcliff meet with his henchmen?”

  “A tavern down in the Sanctuary. Sharp’s the name.” The man had the audacity to smirk. “Fer a few shillings, I’ll take ya there myself.”

  Hartley had hoped never to return to the Sanctuary, an ironically named area of poverty and crime. He beckoned to the keeper. “Put him back in the ward. Come, Ajax.” As he walked toward the maze of hallways leading out of the prison, the man cried out.

  “You promised to let me go.”

  “Only if your information is correct.”

  They rode back to his town house, where Mother and Sophia confronted him in his office and demanded to know of his progress. With no little difficulty, he calmed them with half-truths.

  “Have no fear. I shall find our Miss Hart.” His Miss du Coeur. His heart. “Now, run along and go shopping or something while Ajax and I make our plans.”

  Sophia protested, but Mother seemed to understand that female hysterics would not help the situation, for she led Sophia away with promises of new bonnets and slippers.

  “Send a footman for Fleming,” Hartley said to Ajax as he strapped on a sword. “Tell him to make all haste.”

  “Aye, milord.” The giant left for a few minutes. When he came back, another man followed him into the room.

  “Greystone.” The viscount’s arrival dampened Hartley’s spirits considerably. He had no time for socializing. “What are you doing here?”

  “Good to see you, too, Hartley.” The viscount snickered.

  “Sorry. It’s just that I am in the middle of a mess that requires sorting out straightaway.”

  “And you do not call upon your friends to help?” Greystone settled his fists at his waist, brushing back his jacket. Only then did Hartley see a brace of pistols across his chest and a sword sheathed at his side.

  “Ahh,” Hartley breathed out. Help from an unexpected corner. “How did you know?”

  From inside his brown jacket, Greystone whipped a dingy monogrammed handkerchief no self-respecting gentleman would carry. “I owe you for helping me rescue my two little climbing boys.”

  Hartley grew more encouraged. “What does that handkerchief have to do with it?”

  “I left it as a gift for the woman who was guarding the boys. She just sent it back with a note that I might be interested in purchasing another bit of cargo left in her care.” Greystone waggled his dark eyebrows and smirked. “She urged me to bring along the pretty boy with the curly blond hair who backed down a dozen wharf rats. I could only assume she meant you.”

  Hartley would have rolled his eyes at the woman’s description of him, but there was little time for such antics.

  “Shall we go, then?”

  Saddled horses were brought around from the mews, and they mounted just as Mr. Fleming arrived.

  “Best let me lead, my lord,” the former secretary said. “I know the Sanctuary all too well.”

  Hartley glanced at Greystone for approval. The viscount nodded.

  “Lead on, then.”

  The quartet rode through central London toward the parish of Westminster as quickly as traffic permitted. Passing the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey, they reached Old Pye Street, then headed into the labyrinth of dark lanes and courts that comprised the Sanctuary. The last time he had come this way, Hartley had followed Jeremy Slate, the excellent Bow Street Runner who had led them through a dense night fog. Today the morning sun tried in vain to illuminate the garbage-strewn alleys, but at least they could see where they were going.

  The closer they traveled toward the Thames, the stronger the stink from garbage, waste and animal carcasses floating in its currents. Hartley had a sudden longing for his country estate, where the river ran free of refuse and smelled of spring. Once this was all over, he would take Miss du Coeur there—if she would marry him. But why should she when he had played into Edgar’s hands so easily? And how could he have thought he would make a competent diplomat, someone who could discern the motives of foreign powers, when he had not even discerned the evil in his own cousin?

  “That must be the stable where we left our horses.” Greystone pointed his riding crop at an unpainted shed that looked as if it might topple at any moment.

  “Can we trust the ostler?” Hartley directed his question to Fleming.

  “Aye, milord,” Fleming said. “He’s an honest man despite his location.”

  “Very well, then, proceed.” Hartley once again fell in behind the erstwhile secretary.

  Once the horses had been secured, they made their way to Sharp’s Tavern, another building that appeared unlikely to survive the next winter’s winds.

  “Ah, memories,” Greystone quipped.

  Hartley snorted. “Does your new bride know you are risking your life on this undertaking?”

  “Of course not.” The viscount snorted. “I have learned the hard way that one never tells the ladies anything until the danger is over.”

  Now Hartley snorted. His friend’s bride was a lovely, refined lady, but she had not been challenged quite like Miss du Coeur, who had been in the thick of the fight on the road to Dover. While he would not like to see her in such danger again, she was well equipped to face it without hysterics.

  The memory of her handing him the bloody sword blasted into his mind. How on earth could he have accused her of trying to murder him? She had gone against every feminine instinct and saved his life by striking down one of the would-be assassins. He stopped suddenly, unable to comprehend his own absurdity.

  Ajax bumped into him from behind, almost knocking him to the ground, and knocking some sense into him in the process. “Sorry, milord. Is everything awright?”

  “Yes.” The urgent need to save her displaced his self-reproach and spurred him once again to action. “Let’s go.”

  Last time, because it had been dark, they had worn black capes and tried to blend in with the sordid types who inhabited the area. In daylight this t
ime, they marched into the tavern, making no attempt to disguise themselves or their intentions.

  The weasel-like tavern keeper, who previously had been the first one to flee Hartley’s sword, now cowered behind the counter that held abandoned drinks and bottles.

  “Where is everyone?” Fleming said in a conversational tone. “We thought there would be a party.”

  Hartley liked this man. He would have to hire him when all this was over.

  “M-milord, it’s just that…they was… We heard—”

  Fleming vaulted over the counter and snatched the stout man up by the collar. “Where is the lady? Do not dare to lie, or they will be the last words you ever speak.”

  The man pointed a trembling hand toward the back wall. “A shed. Second one over.”

  “Let us make haste.” Hartley dashed from the tavern with the others on his heels.

  They found several sheds and approached the second one. An open padlock hung from the door. Inside they found a small pile of ropes.

  “Look here.” Greystone pointed to the side of a crate, where delicate pink threads clung to the rough wood as if fine fabric had brushed against it and snagged.

  “She was here.” Hartley could smell her rose perfume even above the stink of the river. While the others searched for clues, he looked up at the small window. More torn pink material festooned the rough wood like signal flags. “She escaped.” He could not keep the laughter from his voice. “My lady is a wonder.”

  Fleming and Ajax traded worried looks.

  “That she is, milord,” the giant said. “The thing of it is, sir, this ain’t the best part of London for a decent lady to be out and about.”

  “And on foot,” Fleming added.

  A sick feeling swept away Hartley’s momentary optimism.

  “Let’s go find the woman.” Greystone headed out the door. “She knew we would be coming.”

  Back at the tavern, the proprietor was nowhere to be found. Fleming and Greystone searched the upstairs and returned just as the old slattern walked in the front door. Her face sported a recent injury.

  “There’s the pretty boy.” She grinned at Hartley, revealing a bloody front tooth. “And Lord Greystone hisself.” She sauntered across the room as if they were old friends, then turned serious. “The girl got out, milord, but the fancy gentleman what locked her up followed. I can’t say where she went, ’cause I don’t know.” She hung her head and sniffed. “If I’d a-known when she was gonna get out, I woulda got her to a safe place, but she left afore daylight.”

  Greystone patted her shoulder. “I believe you, Bess.” He fished a gold coin from his waistcoat and his old handkerchief from a pocket. “Here, take these. Why not find someplace else to live? Someplace where no one will beat you?”

  She swiped the handkerchief under her nose. “Maybe I will, milord.”

  “Where to now, milord?” Ajax chewed his lip like an anxious child.

  Panic threatened to envelop Hartley. Where indeed?

  “Let me go! Help!” A scream split the air, sending them all back out into the open. On the wharf by the river, his beautiful Miss du Coeur was struggling with two thugs who could not manage to subdue her. Her glorious brown hair was entirely undone and blew in the wind like a banner. Racing toward her, Hartley pulled out a pistol but feared to discharge the unreliable weapon lest he hit his beloved. The others reached the scene with him and drove off the ruffians, who fled like the cowards they were into the labyrinth of vice and depravity.

  Flung aside by the criminals, Miss du Coeur reeled toward the edge of the wharf.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Terror ripped through Catherine as she slid across the muddy wharf, unable to gain a foothold with her tattered satin shoes. What a fool she had been. Now she would die without ever telling Lord Hartley that she loved him. His last memory of her would be words filled with misguided hatred.

  In the slimy muck below her, she saw her own reflection move closer. Something clenched her around the waist. An arm, a very strong arm!

  “My lady.” Lord Hartley’s unmistakable voice breathed into her awareness, and for a moment, she knew nothing but awe and relief.

  “Hart—” Thank You, God!

  “My heart!” He pulled her into his arms a half second before she could plunge into the murky, disease-ridden depths.

  “Cowards, the lot of them.” Mr. Fleming’s voice reached her consciousness. “Shall we pursue them, my lord?”

  “No.” Lord Greystone stared off in the direction they had gone. “No use going any deeper into this den of iniquity. Do you not agree, Hartley?”

  Lord Hartley was entirely too busy to answer, for he was holding Catherine and brushing her hair back from her face. She gazed up at him with love overflowing from her heart. And from the love and joy she saw in his eyes, she had not the slightest doubt that he returned the sentiment.

  *

  Catherine rested her head on Lord Hartley’s shoulder, ignoring the discomfort of the saddle. Seated in front of him on his horse, she would not tell him she could ride more easily behind him, for that would mean his arms would not encompass her like a warm blanket, as they now did.

  They had said little at the wharf. In spite of their angry duel of words at their last meeting, nothing seemed more important than just holding each other in an almost desperate embrace. And now getting safely out of this horrid place called the Sanctuary took precedence over explanations and pleas for forgiveness. Yet Catherine knew she must make those pleas a priority as soon as possible.

  As they wended their way through the filthy, crowded streets, several disreputable sorts shouted vulgar comments in their direction, calling her attention to her tattered clothing and unbound hair. When she looked up into Lord Hartley’s eyes, he gave her a rueful smile. “We shall find a hackney as soon as possible.”

  “Never mind this lot.” Lord Greystone rode up beside them. “They have no idea who we are and will have no opportunity to besmirch our names.”

  Nevertheless, Catherine bowed her head and let her hair cover her face like a shield. Through the uncombed strands, she saw Mr. Fleming riding ahead, making a way for them through the crowds. When this adventure was over and done with, she would have to tease him and suggest he become an actor. Still, although he had posed as a secretary, somehow she had always felt safe in his presence. Now she understood why.

  Once they left Old Pye Street and neared Westminster Abbey, Greystone hailed a hackney, and Catherine was handed down into its cloistered interior. She looked up at Lord Hartley, aching to be back in his arms again. His green eyes reflected that same sentiment, or so she liked to think.

  “Do not look so bereft, Miss Hart.” Lord Greystone gave her a fraternal grin. “If Hartley wishes to ride with you, I shall be your chaperone.”

  The driver eyed her suspiciously, and in that moment the entire wretched business caused her face to flame. Without answering the viscount, she shrank back into the darkest part of the two-passenger carriage to hide her embarrassment.

  Disappointment clouded Lord Hartley’s eyes. “To Blakemore House,” he said to the driver, then directed his horse to proceed down the street.

  Within the half hour, the small procession arrived at the mansion. Lady Blakemore whisked Catherine away to her bedchamber before anyone had a chance to say anything more. The countess ordered a bath and a light repast and demanded an accounting of the past sixteen hours.

  After telling her story, Catherine succumbed to exhaustion and slept far into the next afternoon. When she awoke, it all seemed like a bad dream, except for a few scrapes, the painful ache in her heart and the warm memory of Lord Hartley’s strong arms clutching her before she could fall into the foul waters of the Thames.

  *

  Hartley paced Lady Blakemore’s drawing room until he feared he would wear a hole in the red-and-gold Wilton carpet that lay in front of the hearth. He had counted the earl’s ivory figurines—there were twenty-seven—counted the seating and
concluded that forty-one individuals could be accommodated comfortably in the five groupings of chairs and settees. He then examined the repaired wallpaper that hid the secret door.

  Blakemore explained that he had not used the door since he was a boy and never gave it a thought. Nor could he guess how Edgar ever found it. They decided that a man intent upon evil would have no compunction about searching his employer’s home for any convenient device to use in his malicious schemes.

  Just hours after they had rescued Miss du Coeur, Edgar had been apprehended boarding a ship about to set sail for China. He now waited in Newgate Prison for his trial. After Blakemore explained the extent of his cousin’s murderous plans, Hartley could not bring himself to visit him. He did manage to send a note promising to take care of Emily and Marcus; however, Edgar had responded that he had never cared much for his wife and son and was pleased to be rid of them. Such a man deserved no mercy, but Hartley still could find no satisfaction in the idea of his cousin’s execution. Perhaps he should be sent to Bedlam rather than hanged, for surely some sort of madness had driven him all these years.

  These activities and musings did nothing to alleviate his impatience as he waited to learn whether Miss du Coeur would receive him. He had paced this room for over two hours, and still she did not appear.

  At long last, the door opened, and she entered. Actually, she peered around it as if checking to see whether it was safe to come in. She looked so beautiful in her pink walking gown, so shy, so utterly appealing, that he laughed for joy over seeing her at last.

  “My dearest heart, do come in.” Startled by his own words, he wished them back. What if she did not love him in return?

  “Dearest Hartley.” She ran into his arms, sobbing. “How can you ever forgive me for all of my lies? How could I have been so foolish?”

  He held her for a moment, savoring the scent of her rose perfume, the nearness of her being, the joy of her returning his love. “Which question would you like me to answer first?”

  She laughed and cried at the same time. “You choose.”