Jenna had never felt so frightened and alone. But fear had always emboldened her, and her sobs were due more to anger than despair. That, however, wasn’t to last. From what she’d gathered from the banter since her capture, despair would come when she reached the infamous Newgate Gaol.
The ball went on until the wee hours, much to Robert’s chagrin. Rancor roiled in him at Simon’s supposition that Rupert Marner was behind Evelyn’s earlier unpleasant experience. It set his blood boiling, though one would never know it from the chivalrous way he conducted himself, taking the place as host in Simon’s absence. Nonetheless, he was straining at the tether when the guests finally, mercifully, began to take their leave.
Lady Jersey was in her element, doing what she was famous for—playing the role of hostess in Lady Hollingsworth and Jenna’s absence. The herbal tisane of skullcap, chamomile, and verbena prepared by Cook, whose skill with herbs was legendary, had rendered the dowager inert, and with Molly to administer subsequent doses, she slept soundly confined to her chamber in supine oblivion.
Soon everyone was gone. Evelyn smiled demurely as she passed Robert on her way upstairs to bed, or had he imagined it? No, the blush in her cheeks was genuine enough, though he dared not invest in it . . . yet. Instead, he offered her his warmest smile and most dutiful bow in return, and as soon as she was out of sight, steered Lady Jersey into the study, marveling that the woman’s turban was still clinging tenaciously to her somewhat scraggly coiffure.
The woman sank wearily into the wing chair she’d occupied earlier, and waved him off with a hand gesture as he lifted the sherry decanter from the drop-leaf table.
“No! No more,” she said. “Whatever this is, I would appreciate that you speak it quickly. I am quite done in, Vicar Nast, and I am definitely not at my most powerful at present. I long for my abigail to prepare me for a good night’s sleep, so please be brief.”
“I’m dreadfully sorry to detain you, but it’s important. My lady, before you arrived, there was an unfortunate to-do here. A young rake made . . . improper advances toward Lady Evelyn, and had to be evicted from the ball.”
“Oh, dear man!” she breathed. “How dreadful! Is there no end to the calamities this night?”
“Some ugly things were said,” Robert continued. “The young scapegrace had the mistaken notion that there were improprieties between Simon and Lady Evelyn, and thought to take advantage—”
“Balderdash!” she erupted.
“Yes, I know, but—”
“I know who the St. John twins are, Vicar Nast,” Lady Jersey interrupted.
Stunned, the vicar stared, and chose not to reply to that. How she could know and not the entire realm with such a juicy ondit in her keeping, he couldn’t fathom.
“Men make bargains with men, dear boy,” she went on drolly, speaking to his silence, “ignoring the pure and simple fact that women overrule them. I know the Duke of York quite well, you see, and that mistress of his, Mary Anne Clarke, who never was known for her . . . discretion, and I am well able to make two and two come out to four, if you take my meaning. It’s all quite straightforward, when one reasons it out.”
“And, you’ve never . . . voiced your opinion in that cause?”
“You mean, have I never let on that I am aware? I only do to you here now because you are a man of the cloth, and I know how close you are to Simon.”
Another confession. Would there be no end to them?
“Suffice it to say,” she drawled, “that no one will ever hear that tale from me. I respect and admire Kevernwood for what he’s done for those two poor children.”
“I should like to get back to the point here,” said the vicar, clearing his voice. He had gotten past one hurdle without having to commit himself or expand upon the issue; it was time to turn the tide before another confidence damned him. “The libertine that took advantage of Lady Evelyn was James Mortonson, Viscount Mortonson’s son. He isn’t received, and he certainly wasn’t invited here. Simon believes Marner is behind this. Exactly what tales are circulating in Town?”
“You obviously know the answer to that already.” She bristled, waving her be-ringed hand again. “Balderdash—all balderdash!”
“Yes, but who is spreading it?”
“Simon is right, Rupert Marner has had a good deal to do with what I’ve heard. I’ve no more respect for the maw-worm. It’s all sour grapes over losing his betrothed to Simon, I daresay. Oh, yes, I heard all about the duel. The ton is buzzing over that. The viscount shan’t be welcome at Almack’s again—not while I’m hostess, and I plan to be till the place crumbles to dust. Have no fear of that. If it’s any consolation, no one believes any of the gossip, you know. Everyone in Town adores Simon . . . and envies poor Jenna.”
“It is true then. Marner is behind it. Simon thought as much, but I had to be certain.”
“Why?”
“Where did you say you last saw the bounder?” he asked, ignoring her question.
“We parted company at St. Enoder. He was changing horses at the coaching station. Why?”
“Lady Jersey,” he said, again ignoring her question, “I do so hate to impose, but since you are staying the night . . . may I presume upon you to look after things here until Simon returns?”
“Of course, dear man, but what of you? Aren’t you staying on?”
“No, ma’am,” he called, halfway through the study door. “I’ve stayed too long as it is.”
Robert knew that Simon wouldn’t approve of what he was about to do, of course, but he was well beyond caring. In his estimation, Simon hadn’t shown the best of judgment in any regard since Jenna bewitched him. She would be his first concern now. Counting upon that, he borrowed a horse from the Kevernwood stables and set out for the coaching station at St. Enoder, since that was the last place Rupert had been seen.
It wasn’t a rash decision. Certainly it wasn’t something he hadn’t thought through; and it wasn’t entirely to do with Evelyn, either, though his blood still boiled at the thought of her abasement. What motivated him was that, by the time Simon got around to dealing with Rupert Marner, it could be too late. This was something he could do for his friend, something that would leave no taint upon Simon. There was no other sensible solution in his view, and that it was totally out of character for a vicar to run an aristocrat to ground in order to call him out mattered not a whit to him.
It was nearly dawn when he reached the coaching station—just in time. The stationmaster who had been on duty through the night was just about to give up his post to the day shift.
“I’m not no mind reader, ya know, gov’nor,” the man groused.
“Surely not,” Robert soothed, “but you must recall the direction the viscount took.”
“Well . . .” the man said. Lifting his cap, he scratched his balding head and squinted off in space.
“Yes?” the vicar prompted.
“I’m thinkin’, I’m thinkin’,” the man grumbled. “You’re a mite impatient for a man o’ the cloth, ’ppears ta me.”
“Yes, yes, I know. Just think, man! Which direction?”
“Do you know how many coaches tool through here of a night, sir?” asked the man, bristling.
“A good many, I imagine, but I’m only interested in one. Surely you remember? It had a device on the door picked out in gold—an Old English letter M in the center of a laurel wreath with a crown at the top.”
“Ah!” the stationmaster cried, giving a lurch. “Well, why didn’t ya say so? I remember ’im all right, a regular cockscomb, he was, all got up in silks and frills—shirt points reachin’ for the sky, belcher neckcloth, and all. ’Twas Plymouth he was headin’ for.”
“Plymouth? Are you certain?”
“Oh, aye. It was Plymouth right enough, with not even a bumbershoot strapped up top, much less a trunk or travelin’ bags. He was askin’ the whereabouts of coaching stations b’tween here and there. In a devil o’ a hurry, he was.”
“I need you to tell me wher
e those stations are, sir,” said the vicar.
“What’s he done?”
“Never mind that,” Robert returned. “The coaching stations; make a list. We’re wasting precious time. It may already be too late to stop him!”
Rupert had dismissed his driver. He would have no more need of Wilby or the coach. He had booked passage on the Clairmont. She would set sail at dawn on the turn of the tide. He would be well on his way to Marner House in the Channel Islands for an extended stay, well out of the coil he’d set in motion and safe from Simon’s wrath. He’d had a taste of that, and though he would never admit it to anyone but himself, he knew he was no match for it.
The stew he’d been served was hot and filling, if not palatable by his standards, at Plymouth’s Albatross Inn, at the foot of Notte Street, beside the quay. He had begun to relax. No one would seek him in such a rustic dockside establishment, and he wasn’t likely to run into any among the ton here, either. If not comfortable, he felt safe, despite the way the patrons eyed his Town togs and ornaments.
The inn was a respectable establishment, run by a husband and wife who catered to travelers like himself. The room he’d taken for the night was clean and adequate. He was smart enough not to have chosen one of the dubious havens for brigands and wharf rats that dotted the waterfront. Yes, all was well—or so he thought until Robert Nast’s kid riding glove streaked across his face, knocking a spoonful of stew into his cream-colored, satin-clad lap.
“What the deuce?” Rupert cried. Vaulting to his feet, he scudded his chair out behind him. A rumble of dark mutters rose from the patrons, most of whom rose also, but kept their distance.
“You will give me satisfaction, sir,” the vicar demanded.
“I don’t even know you!” Rupert snapped, dabbing ruthlessly with his serviette at the greasy stain spread across his pantaloons. “I have never had the pleasure.”
“Vicar Robert Nast, sir, and, yes, you have, one afternoon not long ago in the Earl of Kevernwood’s orchard. I fired a warning shot over your head as you fled the place after accosting his betrothed. Kevernwood is a friend of mine.”
“Ahhhh!” Rupert exhaled. A tremor of recognition sparked in him. So, it was the vicar who had fired on him? He hadn’t gotten a look at the man then; he had been too busy escaping. But it made sense. All the ton knew of the closeness between Simon Rutherford and the vicar of Holy Trinity at Newquay. A lopsided grin broke his scowl. “Ah, yes, the legendary Vicar Nast—of course,” he mused. “And just what have I done to you, sir? I should think it would be Kevernwood calling me out. Has he gone soft, then, sending a vicar to fight his battles? Was that wise, I wonder, considering your bungling ineptitude when last we met?”
“I don’t fight Kevernwood’s battles, Marner,” the vicar returned, “I fight my own. In your haste to bring Kevernwood low, you slandered an innocent young lady who is very dear to me. You shall answer for that on the dueling ground. Choose your weapons, and the field.”
“The St. John chit he’s been diddling?” Rupert blurted. “But I don’t know why I’m surprised at that. It’s what you do, after all, isn’t it—redeem the fallen? I’m afraid I cannot accommodate you, sir. There isn’t time. I’ve booked passage on the Clairmont, you see, and, alas, you’ve caught me quite alone, without a second. Neither have you one, as it seems.”
Before the vicar could reply, a group of seamen strolled alongside, doffing their caps collectively.
“Begging your pardon. Did I hear you say you were a friend of Simon Rutherford, sir?” said the tallest of the group to the vicar, though his steely-eyed squint never left Rupert. He was a weathered-looking man of middle age, whose swagger more closely resembled a limp. Rupert didn’t know the man.
“I did, sir,” Robert Nast replied, taking the man’s measure.
“I’ll stand for you, then,” he offered.
“Impossible!” Rupert cried, incredulous. “You, sir, are no . . . no . . . gentleman. It won’t do. You don’t suit.”
“Oh, aye, I can see how you might conclude that,” the man returned levelly as he passed a glance over his attire. “But you can’t always judge a man by the cut of his jib, so to speak. Why, at first look, I actually took you for a gentleman! Allow me to introduce myself, I am Lieutenant Nathaniel Ridgeway, Earl of Stenshire, at your service, lately mustered out of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, where I had the pleasure of serving alongside Simon Rutherford at Copenhagen.” He clicked his heels and swept his arm wide. Dismissing Rupert, he turned to the vicar. “Any one of us would gladly stand second for you, Vicar Nast,” he said. “My shipmates here and I are just come from Ivybridge Retreat, on Dartmoor, one of the military hospitals Simon’s built for us casualties of war. By your leave, I’ll be pleased to make your arrangements.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the vicar with a nod and a handshake. Rupert paled. There was no way around it now; the burden of supplying a second was put squarely upon him, and it was clear that no one in that establishment would rise to the occasion, much less protest the legality of a duel. He sized up the vicar. No threat there. What would he know of dueling? What weapon would he be accustomed to using from his pulpit? He smirked. A rapier perhaps, on an outside chance; the man certainly had the figure for it. But Rupert’s gambling instinct told him pistols were the better choice, judging from the ineptitude Nast had exhibited on the occasion of their last meeting. Yes, pistols it would be.
“Since I’m sailing on the morning tide, we shall have to settle this locally,” Rupert decreed, “On the Promenade, just before dawn. With pistols, sir?”
The vicar nodded.
“The innkeeper owns a fine brace of flintlocks,” Ridgeway put in.
“My second will have to examine and approve them, of course,” Rupert added.
“As will mine,” replied the vicar.
“You’ll need to find a second first,” the lieutenant sneered, addressing Rupert. “And that might just be a mite difficult for you in these parts.”
“I shall manage, have no fear,” Rupert assured him haughtily.
“No fear whatever,” the lieutenant chortled. “My friends here will accompany you on your search, just to be sure you don’t happen to lose your way. They know the lay of the land hereabouts, and if there’s a pink-of-the-ton to be found, they’ll know where to locate him.”
Rupert spread his frockcoat tails and started to resume his seat, but Ridgeway’s hand on his arm arrested him in the ridiculous pose.
“You don’t want that, ’tis cold” he said, gesturing toward the plate of stew. “And most of it’s in your lap anyway.” A nod to his companions snapped them to attention. “Best get on with the arrangements,” he said, moving aside as the others led him away.
As the men ushered Rupert out of the inn, the lieutenant took his place at the table, and motioned for Robert to join him.
“A word, if you will allow,” he said. “We, too, have arrangements to make.”
Robert sank into the chair across the table. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’m afraid I hadn’t thought this out. You rescued the moment.”
“Is he dead?” Ridgeway whispered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Simon. Is he dead?”
The innkeeper’s wife interrupted them before Robert could reply. He was grateful. He needed time to weigh his answer to that question. If the man was referring to Simon as the Marsh Hawk, he marveled that the news might have spread to Plymouth so swiftly.
“Thank ye for not startin’ anythin’ in ’ere, sir,” the middleaged woman said, with a nod in the lieutenant’s direction as well. She was tall and slender, an intimidating presence standing arms akimbo between them.
“There will be no trouble,” Robert promised. “Our . . . differences will be settled far afield of this establishment, and privately.”
“Bring the vicar a plate of stew, May,” the lieutenant charged, “and see that we aren’t disturbed.”
“In one of the salons, then?” she suggest
ed, jerking her head in the direction of a hallway beyond the ale barrels. “It’s goin’ ta fill up in ’ere soon now.”
“Aye, and bring a couple tankards,” Ridgeway called after her as she turned away. He rose from the table and motioned for the vicar to follow. “Come,” he said, “the air has ears.”
The salon they chose was decently appointed for a wharf-side inn; the last in a row of five rooms, it was well out of earshot of any of the patrons. Robert was uncomfortable nonetheless. The conversation promised to be controversial at best, and Rupert was staying at this inn, after all.
“He’s going to be occupied for a good while, sir,” said the lieutenant, as if he had read Robert’s thoughts. “That’s been arranged. I asked you a question before we were interrupted: Is the Marsh Hawk dead? I need to know.”
The vicar hesitated. He knew now exactly what Lieutenant Ridgeway was asking, and he knew how he had to answer. Simon was out of it. The whole circumstance was, at least as he saw it. Simon’s golden opportunity to stay out of it, to give up his alter ego and claim a life of his own before his luck ran out at Tyburn, was within reach for the first time since the Marsh Hawk was born.
“The Marsh Hawk died on the road to St. Enoder, Lieutenant Ridgeway,” he said steadily, on an audible breath.
“And how fares Simon?” the lieutenant replied without batting an eye.
“Simon is very much alive, sir, and at this very hour, I presume, at Newgate Gaol, trying to liberate his bride, who was inadvertently caught in a trap set by the viscount to ensnare him.” That the lieutenant knew surprised Rob, and he hesitated. “Do the others know as well?” he asked.
Ridgeway shook his head. “No,” he said. “I do, because when the Marsh Hawk first rode, I helped him out of a tight spot. But after everything Simon has done for them, there isn’t a sailor in the Royal Navy who wouldn’t crawl through fire for him.”
The innkeeper’s wife served them then, and after she left them to their fare, the vicar recounted the entire coil to the astonished lieutenant, making no connection between Simon and the Marsh Hawk, however. There was no need. The two men understood each other well.
The Marsh Hawk Page 25