by Sandra Heath
Rowe and Dillington were already making good their escape, and Kit looked anxiously at the surgeon. ‘But should we move him?’
‘Would you have him arrested and flung into jail? Listen, the whole neighborhood’s been aroused. The alarm’s already been given, you may count upon it! If we can get him to my house, we’ll avoid detection, and I can tend him as best I can.’
‘Will he come through it?’
The surgeon shook his head. ‘He won’t see another dawn.’
There were shouts coming from the village now. The surgeon was anxious. ‘Please, sir! We must get away from here!’
Kit nodded then and helped the man to lift Tom’s unconscious body. Followed by Dudley, who’d rescued the pistols, they moved as swiftly as they could back out into the lane and toward the village, where there were lights in many windows now. They reached the sanctuary of the surgeon’s house without anyone seeing them and were safely inside as the first Bow Street Runners ran past.
9
As the morning progressed, the early sunshine was replaced by rainclouds, and before noon it began to rain heavily, with now and then the familiar roll of distant thunder.
It was quiet in the bedroom at the surgeon’s house as Kit stood looking out of the rain-soaked window at the chimneys of Holland House across the fields. The change in the weather had swiftly dampened the enthusiasm of the Bow Street Runners and constables who’d swarmed over the meadow, and they’d soon abandoned their search for the guilty parties who’d met at dawn on Lord Holland’s land.
Rowe and Dillington were long since back in London, having evaded the hue and cry by managing to reach the barouche and driving off before the alarm had been fully raised. Now they were ensconced in Rowe’s fine Berkeley Square house, where a fashionable physician had deftly attended to his lordship’s unfortunate ‘hunting’ wound.
Looking out of the rain-soaked window, Kit couldn’t help marveling that poor Tom had been carried safely back to this house without detection. Mr Thomson’s residence stood close to the Horse and Groom, in full view of many of Kensington’s dwellings, and yet no one had seen the furtive little party slipping back through the dawn light, carrying a mortally wounded man.
Kit turned, looking at the bed where Tom lay, still clinging to life. His face was gray and there was fresh blood oozing onto the dressing the surgeon had placed over his wound barely a minute before. His life was ebbing slowly and inexorably away, and there wasn’t anything his friends could do but stand helplessly by.
Dudley’s thin little face was sad as he stood by the door, watching as Mr Thomson leaned over the dying man again.
Kit went closer to the bed. ‘How is he?’
The surgeon shook his head. Unexpectedly Tom stirred a little, his lackluster eyes flickering and opening.
Kit sat on the edge of the bed, taking one of his cold hands. ‘Tom? Can you hear me?’
The weak fingers moved barely perceptibly. ‘I hear you.’ The once-strong voice was a shaky whisper, only just audible.
‘Is there anything you wish me to do for you?’
‘My-my affairs….’
‘I’ll settle everything.’
‘Kit…?’
‘Yes?’
‘You gave your w-word.’
‘I know.’
‘Don’t let me down.’
‘I won’t.’
‘I l-love my sister, Kit. You-you’ll soon love her too.’
Beads of perspiration dampened the dying man’s forehead, and the effort of speaking seemed to have drained him of his final strength. Kit felt the weak fingers begin to relax, and then they were completely still. He looked anxiously at the ashen face. ‘Tom?’
But the gray eyes were lifeless. Tom Cherington was dead.
There seemed no end to the rain as Kit drove back to London with Dudley. Thunder growled dismally across the low heavens, and the two in the carriage said nothing; they were both lost in their own private thoughts and memories of the man who’d so needlessly left them forever. They’d both miss Tom Cherington very much indeed, and they were both aware of a perverse, unspoken anger, directed not at Rowe for killing him, but at Tom himself, for having gone so willfully into the duel. That willfullness now thrust an awful sadness upon those he’d left behind.
As the carriage drove past wet Hyde Park, Kit looked out and saw some stalwart gentlemen riding in their fine clothes, ignoring the dreadful weather. He watched them without really seeing, because all he seemed able to see in the rain-washed glass was the reflection of Louisa Cherington’s smiling face. He’d given his word; he’d promised to marry her without delay.
Leaving the valet at the lodgings in New Bond Street, Kit went about his remaining sad duties as Tom’s second. He settled all his outstanding bills and made arrangements for his funeral in two days’ time at fashionable St George’s, Hanover Square. The interment would take place at the burial ground in Uxbridge Road, near Tyburn, because St George’s didn’t possess a graveyard.
Word of the duel hadn’t got out fully over Mayfair; there were just whispers that there might have been one. If Rowe’s fashionable physician had his suspicions about the so-called hunting wound, then for the moment he kept them to himself, and Kit explained Tom’s sudden death was the unfortunate result of a terrible fall from his horse. But there were still whispers, and it wouldn’t be long before names were circulating.
It was the early evening when Kit at last returned to his house in Grosvenor Square to change out of his tired clothes and take a well-earned bath. The house was a handsome four-story property built of red brick and occupying a prime corner location. It was reckoned one of the finest in the square, and certainly had the most handsome facade.
As Kit entered, he felt very low-spirited and tense. He needed to relax, but too much had happened, and too much had yet to happen, not least of which was that he had to go to Lawrence Park and seek what had to be a very painful interview with Louisa Cherington.
It felt good to take off the clothes he’d been wearing since leaving the Isle of Wight and step into the hastily prepared hot bath. He then took an early dinner, a cold chicken salad, which he ate at the gleaming mahogany table in the elegant dining room. Outside, the rain continued to fall. Thunder rolled from time to time, fitting weather for such a harrowing day.
He debated whether to go out to Lawrence Park tonight. The weather was very bad for traveling, and it would be late when he arrived, but he wanted to see Louisa Cherington and break the sad news to her of her brother’s death. He also wanted to get his first meeting with her over and done with. He didn’t know what he was expecting, he only knew that sooner or later he had to face her; he’d prefer it to be sooner, because his resolve might weaken.
The light was fading fast as he emerged once more into the rain to climb into his carriage. The roads were running with water as he drove again along the highway to Kensington. He didn’t look out as he passed the Horse and Groom, nor could he bring himself to glance up at the curtained bedroom window of Mr Thomson’s house. The rain made the light deteriorate quickly, even though it was August, and Holland House was a vague outline in the gathering gloom as the carriage left Kensington behind and drove on toward Brentford.
The road was worse than he’d anticipated, with so many deep puddles that the coachman dared not proceed with much speed. The flashes of lightning were becoming more frequent, stabbing the darkness with brilliant white light that was swiftly followed by threatening rolls of thunder. The carriage lamps barely pierced the murk, and the downpour shone silver as it sluiced past their light. By the time Brentford was at last visible ahead, Kit knew that he wouldn’t be able to reach Lawrence Park that night, after all; he’d have to take a room at one of the town’s many inns.
Lowering the glass, he shouted above the noise of the rain. ‘We’ll go no farther tonight. Stop at the first suitable hostelry in Brentford.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The coachman thankfully touched his dripping hat.
/> Brentford was the end of the first stage out of London, and consequently boasted many fine inns. Driving slowly along the High Street, the coachman glanced at the line of swaying signs: the Pigeons, the Catherine Wheel, the Green Dragon.… The Green Dragon seemed a more handsome establishment than the rest, and therefore more suitable. Clicking his tongue, he maneuvered the tired team into the inn yard.
As the carriage came to a standstill, some grooms came out to attend to the horses, and Kit alighted quickly, stepping through the rain toward the taproom door, above which there was a sign: ‘Under New Ownership Today.’
There was a drone of conversation in the taproom. A number of men sat playing cards, while others talked over their ale. The innkeeper was a burly, red-faced, rather harassed-looking man wearing a round-skirted, sleeved fustian waistcoat, with a starched white apron tied around his thick middle.
‘Good evening, sir. Welcome to the Green Dragon. May I inquire if by any chance you are Captain Lawrence?’
Kit looked a little testily at him. England was at war with Bonaparte’s France, and all military personnel were required to wear uniform at all times. Here he was, wearing a claret-colored coat and white corduroy trousers, with a jeweled pin of very unmilitary fashion reposing in his neckcloth, and this fool asked him if he was a captain! ‘Do I look like a Captain Lawrence?’ he inquired dryly.
The man was covered in confusion. ‘Er, no, sir, of course you don’t. I wasn’t thinking. I’ve been rushed off my feet today and don’t know whether I’m coming or going. It’s my first day here,’ he added by way of explanation.
‘Do you hope to survive to a second?’
The innkeeper cleared his throat, his face redder than ever. ‘How – how may I be of assistance to you, sir?’
‘By providing me with your best room for the night.’
‘I’m afraid the best room is already taken, sir, by the lady who is expecting Captain Lawrence. I have other rooms, though, all of them very fine.’
‘Then I’ll take one of them.’
‘Very well, sir. Do you wish to dine?’
‘No, but you can bring me a bottle of your best Burgundy – unless, of course, the same lady has taken that as well.’
The man looked as if he wished the ground would open up and swallow him. Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong today, and now he had to have a swell with a sarcastic sense of humor. ‘A bottle will be brought to you immediately, sir. If you will come this way, I’ll show you to your room.’ Picking up a lighted candlestick, he led Kit toward a low door, beyond which rose a steep wooden staircase.
At the top, the door of the principal bedroom faced them, easily identifiable by its intricately carved architrave. A little farther along the passage was the room selected for Kit.
The candlelight flickered and swayed as the innkeeper flung open the door. Apart from an immense, brocade-hung four-poster, so high off the floor that a small flight of steps was required to climb into it, the room was furnished with a wardrobe, a chair, a washstand, and a small table. Before the innkeeper set down the candlestick and went to draw the curtains, Kit saw that the window looked out over the rain-drenched main street outside.
The man turned to look at him. ‘I’ll have the Burgundy sent up directly, sir. Will there be anything else?’
‘No. Thank you. I’d like to be called before nine in the morning.’
‘Very well, sir. Good night.’
‘Good night.’
The door closed and Kit was alone. With a heavy sigh he removed his top hat and gloves, tossing them on the table. Then he took out Tom’s letter and the miniature of Louisa. He looked at the latter for a long moment. This was the face of the woman he’d promised to marry. But as he stared at it, the features and colors became blurred, and it was Thea that he saw.
A maid tapped at the door and came timidly in with a tray on which stood a glass and the promised bottle of Burgundy. She slipped hurriedly out again, evidently having been told that the gentleman in this room had a particularly acid tongue.
Kit poured himself a glass of the wine and then sat down in the chair. He seldom stayed in inns, and when he did, he loathed it. The rooms were so impersonal. Suddenly he became aware of voices in the adjoining room. The lady expecting Captain Lawrence was talking to her maid, and the wall was so thin he could hear every word.
‘That will be all, Johnson. Be sure not to return until I send for you in the morning.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘And remember, not a word of this is to get out. As far as Sir Ashley and everyone else at Lawrence Park is concerned, I’ve been visiting Lady Dales, who’s sick. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘And see to it that fool of a coachman knows it too. One slip and I swear I’ll have you both dismissed.’
‘We won’t say a word, my lady.’
‘You may go.’
The door opened and closed, and Kit heard the maid’s footsteps as she descended to the taproom.
Kit looked thoughtfully at the adjoining wall. The lady had to be the new Lady Lawrence, for she’d referred to Sir Ashley and to Lawrence Park. And here she was, waiting in an inn for a certain Captain Lawrence. Was it possible that she was actually keeping an assignation with her stepson?
Kit sipped the Burgundy. Yes, from what he’d heard of both of them, it was only too possible that this was what was happening, for neither of them appeared to possess many commendable qualities.
10
As Kit sat pondering what he’d heard in the next room, Geoffrey Lawrence was driving through the darkness and rain toward Brentford. He was wet and uncomfortable, and knew he’d have shown more wisdom by remaining in town for another night, but he’d promised himself the serving girl at the Green Dragon. The demimondaine had provided him with something of a diversion, but he hadn’t been able to put Louisa Cherington out of his mind; maybe the more rustic charms of a tavern wench would go some way toward slaking the thirst the governess had aroused in him.
He’d had a good day, apart from the discomfort now caused by the atrocious weather. His interview with Lord Palmerston had gone so well that he’d been promised promotion, and he’d sold the Cyclops to Rowe for a handsome-enough price to see the duns off. It had been as he’d guessed: Rowe was so anxious to get even with Highclare over the loss of the Mercury that he hadn’t quibbled at all over the asking price.
Rowe had been in a sour mood when Geoffrey had first called, and seemed to be in considerable pain from an arm wound, the result, so he said, of an unfortunate hunting mishap. Geoffrey hadn’t been entirely convinced, for there’d been something a little odd about Rowe’s manner, as if he was concealing something. It seemed more likely that the wound was the result of a duel; there’d been whispers about a duel on Lord Holland’s estate in Kensington that very morning. Still, what did it matter how he received the wound? He’d bought the Cyclops, and the duns could be paid off.
Geoffrey grinned to himself as he tooled the horses on through the rain. Yes, things had gone well, even to the point of his having dared to ask Rowe if he could accompany him to Cowes for the regatta, and so pleased had Rowe been at the prospect of gaining revenge upon Highclare that he’d readily agreed. Geoffrey cracked the whip, urging the horses to greater effort. If he’d managed to conquer Louisa Cherington the night before, he’d have been completely satisfied; but there was time yet, maybe he’d still be able to have his way with her.
At last he reached Brentford and soon saw the Green Dragon’s sign ahead. Slowing the team, he turned the light curricle into the inn yard, reining thankfully in. If the damned serving girl wasn’t here, he supposed he’d have to take a room for the night, the weather was too foul to consider continuing to Lawrence Park.
Alighting, he thrust the reins into the hands of a groom and then approached the taproom door, noticing as he did so the sign fixed above it. New ownership? He trusted that wouldn’t hamper his plans.
He entered the inn and
glanced around for the serving girl. The new landlord espied him immediately. A beam spread across the man’s face, and he came quickly over to Geoffrey. ‘Captain Lawrence?’ he inquired.
Geoffrey stared at him, caught off guard. How did the fellow know his name? ‘Yes?’
‘Welcome to the Green Dragon, sir. The lady awaits you in the principal bedchamber. If you will come this way?’
‘Lady? What lady?’ Geoffrey was wary. What was all this about?
The landlord was a little puzzled. Didn’t he know who he was meeting? It was a little irregular. ‘She didn’t give a name, sir, but she said that she was expecting you and that when you arrived you were to be shown up to her. She’s ordered a very handsome cold supper and some champagne.’
Geoffrey’s wariness increased. ‘No one’s expecting me. There must be some mistake.’
The landlord was fast becoming tired of the whole matter, but he kept his smile. ‘The lady is expecting you, sir. Very definitely so.’
‘Could you describe her to me?’
The man gaped. ‘Describe her, sir?’ How many ladies could there be who might risk staying at an inn on his account?
‘Yes, dunderhead! Describe her.’
‘Well, she has black hair and is what I’d call very beautiful indeed. She’s dressed handsomely – quite the tippy, in fact. She’s most certainly a lady, sir.’
It had to be Anne. ‘Did she come in a dark-red landau?’
‘Yes, sir.’
It was Anne. Geoffrey’s lips pressed angrily together. No doubt she’d sunk so low as to quiz the damned butler!
The landlord looked uncertainly at him. ‘Do – do you wish to be shown up to her, sir?’ he inquired, picking up a lighted candlestick.
‘Just tell me which room she’s in,’ replied Geoffrey, almost snatching the candlestick from him.