The Marsh Hawk

by Dawn MacTavish

  “What?” the Runner erupted.

  “I-is she . . . dead?” Rupert stammered. “Damn and blast! I-I didn’t mean for . . . I only wanted Kevernwood.”

  A scream interrupted them as the woman from the second coach shuffled close, and they both turned toward the sound.

  “Rupert Marner, what have you done?” she shrieked, bending over Jenna.

  It was Lady Jersey.

  “My lady,” Rupert gushed. “I . . . we . . . !” He spun toward the Runner. “Well, you nodcock, have you killed her, then?” he snapped.

  “N-no, sir,” he replied. “I barely grazed her shoulder. She’s more stunned than harmed.”

  “You aren’t going to climb out of this stew pot, Rupert Marner,” Lady Jersey shrilled. “I heard you just now. I demand to know what you’re about here!”

  “I am ‘about’ putting an end to the Marsh Hawk’s escapades along this coast, my lady,” said Rupert.

  “And what has this to do with Simon Rutherford?” she demanded.

  “They are one and the same,” Rupert pronounced, puffed up with pride.

  “Are you mad?” she screeched.

  “Go and see for yourself,” he snapped.

  Lady Jersey snatched the carriage lamp from the Runner, took his arm, and marched him toward the dead highwayman. Then, wagging her finger at the corpse, she stood while the Runner plucked the man’s mask from his face. Thrusting the lantern close, she gave a start.

  “Have you gone addle witted?” she said. “This isn’t Kevernwood here. Where did you ever get such a ridiculous notion?”

  “What?” Rupert breathed, striding over for a firsthand look. He stooped and cried, “Bloody hell! Who is this, then?”

  “The Marsh Hawk is who he is, Marner,” the Runner put in. “I said all along you were daft. What ever gave you the idea Simon Rutherford was the Marsh Hawk in the first place?”

  “I told you, you clunch, he held me up. I recognized him—that damned queue of his gave him away, I tell you. I saw him. I know.”

  “Silence, the both of you!” Lady Jersey bellowed. “Are we all going to stand here and let that poor woman bleed to death?”

  “She’ll keep,” the Runner drawled. “Whatever she was up to, there’s no question of her guilt.” He gestured toward the prostrate highwayman. “She held him up; we all saw it. She’s caught with the goods—trying to run with them, I’ll be bound. I’ve never seen the like!”

  “She needs to go to hospital,” Lady Jersey cried.

  “She’s going to Newgate,” said the Runner. “They’ll doctor her there. The law doesn’t play favorites, my lady. They’ll fix her up proper so she’ll give the folks a good show when she swings on the gibbet.”

  Rupert paled, and gulped the still air.

  “Don’t just stand there,” Lady Jersey snapped, adjusting her turban, which had gone awry for her bristling. She pushed them aside and charged between them. “Get that coach out of my way! You haven’t heard the last of this, Rupert Marner. I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’ll see to it that Simon Rutherford sorts you out. I can promise you that. Stand aside!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Simon let Robert defend Evelyn’s honor, in hopes that she would view him in a more romantic light, though he did have a hand in ejecting the offender privately, once Rob escorted him to the door. Afterward, he spent his time calming the rest of the guests, not the least among them Lady Hollingsworth, who had all but collapsed in a taking over the shambles the ball she’d labored so hard over had become. Finally, the merriment resumed, and Simon had almost succeeded in convincing the dowager that no harm had been done when Lady Jersey arrived—turban askew—and descended upon the Grand Ballroom with all the aplomb of a juggernaut.

  He quickly committed the legendary hostess’s simpering abigail to the custody of a footman, and led her to the study, trying to decipher her breathless babbling. The dowager and the vicar followed close on their heels. Only one thing came clear—Jenna’s name, uttered in so shrill a manner that Lady Hollingsworth began screaming it again and again, her eyes darting every which way, as though she hoped to materialize her daughter from the very shadows that lived in the hallway.

  A nod from Simon set Robert in motion, who quickly poured a brandy at the gateleg table and brought it to Lady Jersey in the wing chair where Simon had settled her. He then poured another for the dowager, who took it, but she stood her ground, refusing the Chippendale chair he offered as well.

  “What is it?” the dowager shrilled. “Will someone please tell me what’s happened?”

  Lady Jersey took a swallow from her snifter, and drew a ragged breath. “Simon Rutherford, what is going on here?” she demanded. “Why is Countess Kevernwood going about in costume in the company of the Marsh Hawk, holding up unsuspecting citizens on the King’s highway?”

  “What the devil are you talking about?” Simon erupted, giving a start.

  “Not half an hour ago, the Marsh Hawk held up Rupert Marner’s carriage on the road to St. Enoder. The countess was with him.”

  Lady Hollingsworth seized her breast and sank like a stone in the Chippendale chair, spilling brandy over her lavender silk voile gown.

  “My wife is right here in this house, attending the ball,” said Simon. “Where did you get such a ridiculous idea—from Marner?”

  “No, I saw her myself. I was on my way here when I came upon the robbery. The viscount’s brougham was blocking the road. Marner and a Bow Street Runner had evidently set a trap for the Marsh Hawk tonight, and the countess fell into it with him. Rupert actually believed that you were the Marsh Hawk. I have no idea what put such a notion into his head. He was livid when we unmasked the man and it wasn’t you! What is going on?”

  “What of my wife, Lady Jersey?” Simon urged, ignoring her question. He stood ramrod rigid, the hands at his sides balled into white-knuckled fists. “You saw her, you say?”

  “With my own eyes,” she replied. “She was shot by the Runner. Why, I nearly swooned when he unmasked her!”

  Despite his already wooden posture, Simon’s muscles clenched as though he’d been struck by cannon fire. For a moment he wasn’t able to respond, and when Lady Hollingsworth jumped to her feet, Robert quickly voiced what Simon could not bring himself to put into words.

  “Is she . . . w-was she . . .” he stammered.

  “No, no,” Lady Jersey hastened to say, shaking her head in a reassuring manner that set her green satin turban awry again at a comical angle. “Would I be this calm if such were the case? He just grazed her. I do think she ought to have been taken to hospital, though. She took a hard fall.”

  “Where is she now?” Simon said, his jaw muscle ticking.

  “On her way to Newgate Prison via constabulary equipage out of St. Enoder,” she told him. “I tried to intercede, but there was nothing I could do; she was caught with the spoils. The Marsh Hawk had relinquished them to her before the Runner shot him. Evidently she wanted it all for herself, because she was trying to rob him, if you can imagine such a thing. We shall never know for certain now, lest the countess speak it. The Marsh Hawk, thank the heavens above, is dead.”

  A moan interrupted her, and the floor shook underfoot as Lady Hollingsworth spiraled down to the Persian carpet at their feet with a shuddering thud, extracting an outcry from Lady Jersey.

  “See to her!” Simon snapped through his teeth at his friend, and Robert yanked the bell pull to summon the servants, and knelt beside the dowager, rubbing her wrists.

  “Now then, my lady,” Simon pronounced, his words clipped and his voice strained. “You are absolutely certain of all this?”

  “I was there. I saw it, Simon.”

  “Where is Marner now?”

  “Gone back to Moorhaven Manor, I suppose. He left us to go ’round to the coaching station for fresh horses as soon as the Runner transferred the countess to the prison wagon. Why on earth did he think you were the Marsh Hawk? That’s the part I can’t fathom.”
>
  “We have issues,” he said tersely. “’Tisn’t important. I’ll see to Marner. I would appreciate it if—Lady Jersey, may I impose upon you to do me one more service tonight?”

  “Of course, dear boy. I’m so dreadfully sorry to bring this news. Anything, you’ve only to ask.”

  “Keep all this from the guests. Take a moment to compose yourself, then go in as though nothing has occurred, and join the ball. I’m sure your distress was noticed when you arrived. Make something up. I know it’s a lot to ask, but if anyone can accomplish it, it’s you. I shall be forever in your debt. I shan’t have all this spoil Evy’s come-out.”

  “Certainly, dear. I daresay you’re taking this far better than I expected. I’ll tell them a half-truth—that the Marsh Hawk was shot dead by a Runner, and that delayed my arrival. I shall plead ignorance of the details. I shan’t even mention the countess, or Marner. But you are going to give me an explanation, aren’t you? Because, you may as well know, I shan’t leave this house until you do.”

  “You have my word, dear lady, but there isn’t time for that now. You may certainly stay as long as you like. Meanwhile, suffice it to say that things are not what they seem. All will be well. You have my word.”

  Two liveried footmen and three chambermaids were helping Lady Hollingsworth from the study. Simon instructed one of the maids to have an herbal tisane prepared at once to sedate the dowager, and to stay with her in her rooms for the rest of the evening. Then, ignoring the vicar’s grip on his rock-hard arm, he stalked toward the Great Hall, literally dragging his friend alongside.

  “Simon, what are you going to do?” the vicar pleaded.

  “Go and find Phelps, and have him meet me at the tower,” Simon ground out, breaking free with a vicious wrench that almost cost Robert his footing.

  “Simon, you can’t!” the vicar cried. Jerking him around, he shook him in place. “The Marsh Hawk is dead,” he pronounced. “Dead, Simon! You’re out of it. Now you’ve got to stay out of it. For God’s sake, don’t do this!”

  “You know why she’s done what she’s done.” He thumped his breast a scathing blow. “Because of me, that’s why. Because I didn’t avenge her father for her. I’ve been such a fool. I never should have come back here that night without that gallows dancer’s head on a pike. But I didn’t want to leave her locked in that room too long. I didn’t know how things sat between us, Rob. I was so afraid she’d speak out—so afraid she’d turn me in, you along with me. You were, as well. Don’t dare to deny it!”

  The vicar’s restraining hands fell away, and his posture slouched while he weighed his answer.

  “All right, yes. I will admit there was a moment or two when I was worried she might bring you down,” he conceded. “Her hatred of highwaymen was so acute, and you two were squared off for battle, but that passed when I saw the depth of her love for you—something you should have seen.”

  “You had nothing to lose. I stood to lose everything I’ve worked so hard for, to legitimize Crispin and Evy, to give them a future—a hope. For Edgar. I don’t count, but I couldn’t risk my alter ego ruining their lives, and it would have. They would never have survived the scandal of my exposure as the Marsh Hawk socially, and you know it. You should have warned me, Rob. You knew! All this might have been avoided if you’d only told me.”

  “Don’t you dare presume to lay the blame for this upon me, Simon Rutherford! I couldn’t do that. It had to come from her. Besides, you weren’t even here to warn, blast you! And it wouldn’t have done any good anyway; you were love-blinded, and I wanted this union for you. Dash it all, Simon, before any of this I told you to wait and get to know each other better. You didn’t listen to me then, did you? You’d have pooh-poohed me, and told me to mind my own affairs, and you know it. I did what I could. I told her she was grossly mistaken, that the Marsh Hawk did not harm his victims; that he couldn’t possibly have been the one responsible for her father’s death, and I told her she should confide in you. She promised me she would—specifically asked that I let her broach the subject with you herself. Naturally, I assumed—”

  “Well, there it is! You ‘assumed.’”

  “You are two grown adults, and she told me in confidence.”

  “Another confession, eh?”

  “I take my calling seriously, Simon. There was nothing else I could do.”

  “Nothing but tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” Robert snapped, taking hold of his arm again. “I had no idea that she’d gunned you down during one of your forays! I learned that bit at the same instant you did, when she burst into the vicarage in hysterics and poured out her heart to me.”

  “Oh, and I suppose if I hadn’t overheard, you’d have told me?”

  “Simon, that isn’t fair. You know there are strictures. You know I am under constraint to my calling. That I’m bound—”

  “You wouldn’t have, would you—not even then? Bloody Hell!”

  “Do you hold nothing sacrosanct?”

  “Not where my friends are concerned. You should know that. You’ve seen what I’ve been through because of the twins. Why I never married. Why, until now, I dared not afford myself that luxury, let myself hope for a normal life of my own.”

  “You are not a priest.”

  “Thank God for that!”

  “Simon, please . . .”

  “There’s no time here now for this!” he replied. Wrenching free again, he strode through the Great Hall, and out into the sultry summer night to find Treacle grazing in the courtyard. Snatching the animal’s reins, he charged toward the stables, his limp having become pronounced in his haste.

  “What are you going to do?” Robert persisted, sprinting after him.

  “I’m going to have a little chat with Marner.”

  “Not as the Marsh Hawk! I beg you not. The Marsh Hawk is dead. Let him stay so. Resurrect that brigand and you sign your death warrant, Simon!”

  “Just go and get Phelps,” Simon gritted out, raking fingers through his hair. “I know you mean well, Rob, but it’s way too late for good intentions. My road is already paved.”

  He led Treacle into a stall, and motioned for the groom to tend the lathered animal while he saddled another, a chocolate stallion that answered to the name of Fury. He was about to mount when he noticed the vicar still standing there.

  “The devil take it!” he roared, causing more than one animal to reply unattractively. “Will you go back in there and see to Evy? It doesn’t take an Oxford scholar to deduce that Marner planted the seed of that disruption earlier. That young rake you just throttled in the garden was James Mortonson, Viscount Mortonson’s son. He isn’t received in polite society. He certainly wasn’t invited here. Marner is behind it somewhere, and it could have been much uglier, if you hadn’t had the presence of mind to monitor the situation, and I thank you for that. There’s a score I have to settle with the viscount. Meanwhile, I need you to see to it that nothing else occurs while I’m gone.”

  “Simon . . .”

  “Go to her,” he commanded. “Let one positive thing come from this farce, but first get me Phelps! This ends tonight, by God, however it must!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Jenna leaned back against the cold leather squabs in the prison coach. The wound in her shoulder wasn’t deep; the bullet had only grazed her, and the constable at St. Enoder had doctored and bandaged it, but the pain was dizzying. She couldn’t help but wonder, if such a slight wound could pain her so, what Simon must have suffered when her pistol ball ripped through his shoulder. The irony of it all extracted a sorrowful moan from her, for she truly believed she’d gotten what she deserved. That was almost comforting in a ghoulish sort of way, she decided, and she accepted her penance gladly.

  Most importantly, the highwayman responsible for all her woes was dead—and she had brought it about, though it was the Runner seated across from her in the austere conveyance whose pistol had felled him. It was over. There would be no more haunting the Corn
ish wilds in moon-dark, no more bloodlust for revenge, no more fear that she would be caught and bring disgrace upon her father’s good name. That had already happened. Her worst fear had become reality.

  Somehow, all this paled before the aching emptiness inside for the loss of Simon. How she longed for the comfort of his arms, the consolation of his love—the love she had betrayed and lost, if not then, surely now. Would he even know what had happened to her? Well, of course he would. Eventually. She was in no hurry for that. She had ruined Evelyn’s come-out ball. He would never forgive her for it.

  Her eyes glazed over with unshed tears. She was still the watering pot, and he was still the cause. No. She would not cry. But when she reached to brush the tears away, a hollow clanking called attention to the heavy iron manacles clamped around her wrists, and the dratted tears fell anyway—a flood of them. She dissolved in them.

  The Runner seemed unmoved. He hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left St. Enoder. His contempt for female highwaymen was evident. His scathing looks were hard, and his resolve unbending. She made no attempt to soften it by way of explanation: that she wasn’t a highwayman, only dressed like one to get close enough to do what the law would not, bring her father’s murderer to justice. Her strategy was sound; it had worked too well. The thatchgallows was dead. Her father was avenged. But in the end, the strategy had damned her.

  Her mind reeled back to the moments before she was shot. Her memory was still fuzzy, but there was . . . something. A woman’s voice. Yes. She had heard a woman’s voice from the coach that came after. She’d only caught a glimpse of her in the feeble light of the carriage lamp as she poked her turbaned head through the coach window. There was something familiar about her: that turban, that hideous chartreuse turban. How well she remembered her mother’s reference to it now. Lady Jersey. Could it be? She’d been late for the ball. Of course! Another moan escaped her. Jenna could only imagine her mother’s reaction to Lady Jersey’s arrival in a taking over the events of the evening. The picture wasn’t a pretty one, and fresh tears threatened.