The Storm Breaks (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 4)

by Julia Brannan

  “It willna be Daniel,” he said shortly, “or Highbury.”

  “Why not? How can you be so sure?”

  “Can ye no’ just accept it?”

  “No,” she said. “You’re holding something important back, and I need to know what it is.”

  For a moment she thought he was going to just push her out of the way, and then he took a deep breath and turned to look at Maggie’s feet.

  “Away off and tend to your feet, lassie,” he said. “Ye’ll be no use in the next days if ye canna walk.”

  Maggie took the hint and left. Alex started to feed papers into the fire. Beth waited.

  “Daniel came home three days ago,” he explained. “He went straight to his father. He couldna wait to let him know what a fool he’d been, that he had an impostor as a friend. He told William that he’s certain I’m at the very least a low-born confidence trickster who’s wormed my way into society, and that at the worst, I could be a spy. William tellt him that he didna believe a word of it, and that he wasna about to let Daniel ruin Sir Anthony’s life by spreading vicious rumours without a grain of truth in them. He’s refused to allow Daniel out of the house, and is virtually holding him prisoner until he’s examined the evidence that he brought back from Switzerland and France, copies of the records, things like that. And he wrote to me to tell me that.”

  Beth frowned.

  “That’s very nice of him,” she said. “But surely Highbury realises that if Daniel’s right, by warning you he’s giving you the chance to escape?”

  “Aye, I’m sure he realises that.”

  “So he wrote to tell you he doesn’t believe Daniel, then?”

  Alex raked through the fire, ensuring that the papers were burning nicely, then turned to his wife.

  “No,” he said. “He wrote to tell me to run, fast, because he canna hold Daniel for more than three or four days without incriminating himself. The evidence Daniel’s got is enough for the authorities to arrest me. He also, God bless him, sent me a banker’s draft in one of my other names, which will pay for the latest consignment of arms, and ensure we’ve enough money tae get to Scotland. He canna do any more.”

  Beth stood frozen, as the import of what he’d just told her filtered through.

  “My God,” she said finally. “Are you telling me the Earl of Highbury’s your sponsor?”

  “Aye,” Alex said. He stood up and came over to her, taking her by the shoulders. “That’s exactly what I’m telling ye. And I wouldna have tellt ye unless William had said I could, if there was need. He thinks very highly of ye, Beth. Highly enough to let me put his life in your hands, as I just have. He willna help us any more, that’s our agreement. He’s doing more than he said he would, by delaying Daniel and warning me. If we’re taken tonight, or any other night, ye must never tell where I got my money from. And ye must never tell anyone, not Duncan, nor Angus, no one, about him. D’ye understand?” He had never looked so serious. His fingers were biting into her shoulders. She shivered, once, then met his gaze.

  “I understand,” she said. “I’ll never tell anyone, ever. I swear it. I liked Highbury, even before I knew this. I wouldn’t hurt him, for anything.”

  “Not even to save me?” Alex asked softly.

  Her eyes widened.

  “It’s possible,” he said, “that if we’re taken, ye’ll be tellt that they willna hang me, if you’ll give up anyone else involved. Would ye do it then?”

  She hesitated, and that gave him her answer.

  “Because I’m telling ye now, Beth, that if I’m taken nothing will save my life. If they tell ye it will, they’ll be lying to ye. But they might agree no’ to hang you if you give Highbury up. Would ye do it then?”

  “No,” she said, and there was no hesitation this time. “I couldn’t live with myself if I did. And I couldn’t live knowing that you hated me. You would, wouldn’t you, if I gave anyone else up to save myself?”

  “Aye, I would,” he said, and then smiled. His grip on her shoulders relaxed. “But I’d wager my soul that ye’ll never give me cause to hate ye. I love ye, and I intend to go to my grave loving ye.” He pulled her to him, hugged her fiercely, then let her go. “But no’ just the now,” he said, buckling on his sword, which he had not worn at the ball. “I intend to live a good while yet. And to do that we need to be gone from here as fast as possible. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Alex,” she said as he reached the door and opened it. Maggie was coming down the stairs, her arms full of clothes. He turned back, impatient now.

  “I can ride to warn Gabriel, if you want,” she said. “It’s not far, and it’ll save time.”

  “No,” he said firmly. “It’s too dangerous. It’s nighttime, and you’re a woman. Look at what happened to Iain, and him a man.”

  “But…”

  “No,” he repeated. “I havena the time to reason with ye, Beth. I forbid it. Burn those. Pack. I’ll be back, soon. With Iain.”

  He turned on his heel and left. The front door closed. Maggie finished descending the stairs and came into the library.

  “Men!” said Beth hotly, feeding the rest of the papers into the fire. “They have to do everything themselves. I’m perfectly capable of riding five miles by myself.” She was burning with the urge to do something, something useful, and active.

  “He’s right, though,” said Maggie, who was feeling much the same need to burn off energy that would otherwise be spent brooding. “It wouldna be safe for a woman alone.” She held up a pair of Iain’s breeches, as though deciding whether to pack them or not. “But if ye were wi’ a man, well, now, that’d be a different matter entirely.”

  By the time Alex had discovered from an indifferent and sleepy turnkey that Iain was not at Newgate, and had ridden on to the round-house at St Giles, more than a precious hour had passed, and with it what remained of his temper. He paused for a moment outside the building to collect himself, until he had succeeded in subduing what he was, and in resurrecting what he appeared to be. Then he banged on the stout wooden door of the house in which those recently arrested were kept, until he was answered by a muffled voice from within.

  “Go away,” it said. “Come back in the morning.”

  “I most certainly will not go away,” shouted the baronet indignantly. “Now open the door at once, my good man. My coachman has been apprehended in error, and is incarcerated within your establishment.”

  In view of the fact that the caller’s voice was distinctly aristocratic, the beadle slid back the small panel which allowed him a view of the gentleman. He took in the expensive emerald coat covered with extortionately expensive gold embroidery, the diamond buckles, and the elegant lace which alone was worth several years of his salary, and his voice took on a tone appropriate to the wealth of the caller, in the hope that some of that wealth would pass on to him as a result.

  “I’m most dreadful sorry, my lord,” he said. “But I’ve no coachmen within. It’s been a quiet night so far. I only have a few ladies of easy virtue, and a Scotchman, sir, a very dangerous cove indeed.”

  “Yes, yes, I told you he had been apprehended in error,” said the baronet impatiently. “My coachman is indeed a native of North Britain. That will be the very man. Now, I have great need of his skills, as I require to travel to Kent immediately. Really, this is most inconvenient,” he grumbled, looking up and down the street. “I am not accustomed to discussing my private business in public. Open the door at once, and let us talk about this in a more congenial environment.”

  The beadle had no idea where a congenial environment was to be found in the round-house, or indeed, if truth be told, what such an item was, but he knew that he had less than a snowball’s chance in Hell of relieving the aristocrat of any gold if he kept him waiting outside in the street. He opened the door and conducted the baronet towards his parlour, where a fire burned, and a small bowl of punch steamed on the little wooden table.

  The baronet had looked about him with seemingly mo
rbid interest as they walked down the passage to the beadle’s quarters, shuddering delicately at the moss-grown walls and the crude female language issuing from behind the stoutly-bolted door of the one damp and airless holding cell.

  “Begging your pardon, my lord,” said the beadle as they passed, and hammered sharply on the wooden door, which shuddered on its hinges. “Keep a civil tongue about you, you fuckin’ whores!” he roared. “There’s a gentleman here, a fine lord who don’t want to hear none of your bleedin’ language!”

  A distinct invitation was issued from behind the door, which involved the beadle inserting one part of his anatomy into another part, to comply with which would have involved considerable flexibility on the part of the gentleman concerned.

  “Do not incite them to further expletives, I implore you,” begged the baronet faintly, who during this exchange had taken in the fact that the beadle had not relocked the outer door after admitting him, and that the cell door opened inwards, and while heavily bolted from the outside, had only one lock. In extremity, he could easily relieve the stout unfit beadle of the keys, or failing that, probably burst down the door with a good kick from without. He began to relax.

  In the parlour the beadle offered him a seat and a bowl of punch, both of which he accepted, brushing off the seat with his handkerchief before perching carefully on the edge, and sniffing cautiously at the fruity beverage before sipping it.

  “Now,” he said, in a tone which brooked no refusal. “If you will just release my man to me, I can be about my most urgent business without any further delay. I will, of course, be appropriately grateful.”

  “Well, I don’t know, my lord,” said the beadle hesitantly, sinking down upon a small wooden stool. “It ain’t so easy as all that. You see, sir, the man all but did for one young chap, who even now lies a-bleeding in the ‘ospital.”

  “Oh well,” said Sir Anthony indifferently. “If he has been taken to the hospital, there is no hope. He will no doubt expire before dawn. In which case there will be no further problem, I’m sure. A man can hardly press charges posthumously.”

  The beadle smiled in a somewhat confused manner.

  “He can hardly bring a charge against my man if he is dead,” the baronet clarified.

  The beadle smiled again, this time at the gentleman’s naivety.

  “With all respect, it ain’t so simple as that,” he replied. “He had a friend with him, who saw everything, and who’s told his tale to the magistrate already. And the magistrate thinks that the prisoner might be one of them Jacobite chaps, sir.”

  “Oh, this is quite ridiculous, just because the man’s a Scot! Why, he’s as much a Jacobite as I am!” cried Sir Anthony. “And as for your witness, I do wonder if his story may differ somewhat from that of my cook, who also witnessed the whole incident from my front door, and who tells me that it was in fact my man who was set upon by several ruffians, whilst he was endeavouring to deliver the message that my friend was sick to me at Lord Winter’s, where I was dining. You are acquainted with Lord Winter, I see,” he finished, seeing the beadle’s eyes widen.

  “I ‘ave heard of the gentleman, yes, my lord, I ‘ave,” said the beadle unhappily, wishing the militia had not been so diligent in taking their captive to the magistrate immediately after arresting him. “And I’m sure there’ll be no trouble at all if the lady what saw everything comes to tell the magistrate tomorrow. And in the meantime, my lord, I’d be ‘appy to make sure the prisoner has a good meal, and some punch too, sir, if it please you.”

  “No, it does not please me,” said Sir Anthony sternly. “You are telling me that you cannot release my servant to me until the morning, even though you are aware that through your action it is quite likely that my sick friend in Kent will die before I am able to reach his side. In which case I assure you that far from being grateful to you, I will be most ungrateful indeed.”

  The beadle squirmed a little.

  “I would be delighted to help you if I could, my lord, ‘onest I would, but it’s awful difficult, sir, now the magistrate’s said he’s to be committed for trial for attempted murder, like, and maybe as a rebel, too. If it was a matter of theft or such I’m sure we could come to some agreement, but…” he let the word trail off into silence.

  “I understand entirely,” said Sir Anthony, who did. “You are to be commended, sir, for your incorruptibility. I am sure the king will take that into account when determining your future, although he will not take kindly to being woken at such a late hour, I’m sure. Well, if I am not to be any later at St. James’s, I must leave now.” He stood, and brushed off the skirts of his coat. “Thank you for the punch, it had a most interesting flavour.”

  The beadle had leapt to his feet at the first mention of the monarch.

  “The king?” he stuttered. “What’s the king got to do with it?”

  “A great deal,” said Sir Anthony. “These are difficult times, as you know. I am sure you will understand the need for secrecy on your part when I tell you that His Majesty and myself have been engaged in the closest discussion regarding the little disturbance in the north. I am supposed to meet him the day after tomorrow, but of course, as you refuse to release my man to me, it will be impossible for me to ride to Kent until the morning, and I will therefore be unable to keep my appointment with King George. I must inform him immediately. The smallest actions can have the most terrible repercussions!” He smiled sadly. “Ah well, no matter. Thank you for your time. I am sure your friend the magistrate, at any rate, will be very supportive in the difficult days ahead of you.”

  He turned to go. If this didn’t work, nothing would, and he would have to use violence, which was his last resort. The less attention that was drawn to the household at the moment, the better.

  “Now, my lord, please, don’t be so ‘asty,” said the beadle, uttering the words Sir Anthony had heard many times before from men who, whilst in the process of haggling, suddenly recognised that they had vastly overpriced the goods and lost the customer’s interest, and sought to renegotiate rapidly in the hope of retrieving something from the situation.

  Within five minutes the beadle was in possession of a sovereign, was not in possession of a severe concussion, as he’d been about to be, and Sir Anthony was eyeing the pale battered figure of his coachman, who stood in front of him, head lowered so that the beadle would not see the relief rather than more fitting shame in his eyes. A smell of damp straw and something more unsavoury emanated from his dirty clothes.

  “Really, John, it is just not good enough,” said the baronet haughtily. “How could you allow yourself to be attacked? It is most inconsiderate of you.”

  This was one of the things Iain had been tormenting himself with whilst sitting hunched in the corner of the holding room. How could he have been so stupid as to not wear his sword, and not be aware of his assailants approaching? It was unforgivable in an experienced fighter. His shamed pose became more genuine.

  “It is imperative that we return home at once,” continued Sir Anthony. “You have to drive me to Kent immediately. I trust you can drive? You are no use to me otherwise.”

  “Yes, Sir Anthony, I can drive,” mumbled the servant.

  “Good. Well, you will have to ride behind me, I suppose, on the way home. Do try not to have any contact with my person. You smell appalling.”

  “I am sure I could find some other clothes for your man, my lord,” offered the beadle, all smiles now.

  “No, you have done quite enough. I wish only to be on my way. We will not delay you any further. Come.”

  His scented handkerchief held delicately to his nostrils, Sir Anthony minced out of the beadle’s parlour, out of the round-house, on to his horse and home, never to be seen again.

  * * *

  “He’ll kill us,” Beth said. “Both of us.” Her tone was one of exhilaration, although she didn’t relish facing her husband’s ire when she returned home. The exhilaration was due to the fact that she was riding, at some speed, o
n what was certainly an adventure, and at this time in her life, it seemed to be an exciting and dangerous one.

  “He willna,” said Maggie practically. “No’ immediately, anyway. He hasna got the time.”

  The lower part of her face was covered by a scarf, which rendered her voice somewhat indistinct. Above it her eyes scanned the road ceaselessly. Her hair was covered by a tricorn hat pulled low over her forehead, and her attire consisted of an old coat of Iain’s, and a pair of breeches pulled in tightly at the waist by a belt, and rolled up a little to fit her. From a few feet away in the darkness she would pass for a man, and she intended to let nobody even as close as that.

  Beth, who could in heavy disguise perhaps pass for a boy, but who neither owned nor could adapt any clothes accordingly, the difference in height between her and her husband being considerably more than that between Iain and Maggie, had instead donned the shabbiest dress she could find, concealed her hair under a scarf, and, abandoning the pistols to Maggie, who knew how to use them, was instead carrying both her knife and Alex’s dirk shoved through her belt.

  “Aren’t we giving him the time, by saving him having to ride to Mr Foley?” Beth pointed out.

  “I hadna thought of that,” said Maggie. “We’ll have tae hope he’s too much else on his mind, then. I hope he’s found Iain.” Her voice grew suddenly soft, and Beth reached across to pat her shoulder.

  “He will,” she said. “Sir Anthony’s wonderful at getting his own way. Let’s concentrate on getting to Blackheath without being robbed.”

  They travelled as quickly as they could without attracting too much attention, and the road was reasonably quiet, although they did meet a few other travellers along the way. Only one man going in the other direction shouted a merry greeting, which was unusual enough to raise the women’s hackles. When he therefore turned his horse and started to ride back towards them, Beth and Maggie slowed, and the moment he was within range, Maggie drew out her pistol and cocked it, pointing it straight at his head. He reined in immediately with a cry of alarm.