The Marsh Hawk

by Dawn MacTavish

  “Thank God!” Jenna breathed.

  “Your mother suffered a mild collapse with the news of your arrest, but she, too, was showing signs of improvement when the letter was sent. I’m confident that my missive to the coast will set her on her feet again posthaste.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Ridgeway. It hardly seems enough. I don’t know how I shall ever be able to properly thank you for your kindness . . . to all of us.”

  “Simon and I served together at Copenhagen. I was with him when our ship was hit and he went down saving others. I admire and respect what he did then, and what he has done since for the conscripted and commissioned men alike. I am on leave at the moment. I’d just come from one of the hospitals Simon built for us when I connected with Nast. We all owe Simon a great debt.”

  “What will they do to him?” she begged, though she feared the answer, and her heart had begun to hammer in her breast in anticipation.

  “He goes before the magistrate in the morning.”

  “So soon?” she shrilled.

  “Calm yourself, my lady, I’ve come to reassure you, remember?”

  “Will they let him have counsel?” she begged.

  “No, you know not.”

  “What then . . . Will they just . . . just . . .”

  “He will be permitted witnesses.”

  “And . . . you will speak for him?”

  “Ohhhh, yes,” he replied through a guttural chuckle. “I believed Biggins was withholding information that would free you—we both did. Yes, my lady, I shall be there, have no fear. There is only one thing pressing that puzzles me.”

  “And that is?”

  “Phelps’s disappearance,” he said. “I was at Kevernwood Hall when he left with a portmanteau filled with your things. Simon was given leave to supply you with a change of clothing. He was appalled at your state and condition, my lady, and Phelps left to carry that out straightaway. No one has seen or heard from him since, and Simon is concerned.”

  “I can’t imagine Phelps just going off like this with a task undone, Lieutenant. He would have reported his failure at once. He and Simon are . . . very close.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Was he traveling in one of Simon’s carriages?”

  “No, my lady, it was a hired coach and four, and Phelps did reach the livery. But then he just . . . disappeared.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, Lieutenant,” she said, puzzled. “That certainly isn’t like the man.”

  “Well, no matter. Don’t trouble yourself about it. We’ll sort that coil out, one way or another. Now I shall leave you to your rest. Try not to worry, my lady. Know that there is a plan in place.”

  “But the man was a Runner. It doesn’t bode well, does it?”

  “He was a bad Runner, my lady, and he brought his death upon himself.”

  “This is all my fault,” she despaired. “How Simon can even speak to me—”

  “He loves you very much, my lady. That’s all you need concern yourself with. Think on that, and leave everything else to me.”

  Simon hadn’t been in Newgate Gaol half an hour when he made a startling discovery. From the midst of the madmen and desperate criminals roaming the filth-ridden communal cell, one bedraggled inmate staggered out of the shadows and touched his arm, spinning him around.

  “M-my lord?” the barely recognizable voice murmured. “Is it really you? Don’t you know me, my lord?”

  It was Phelps.

  “Good God, what are you doing here?” Simon cried. Having turned a few heads with the outburst, he quickly drew the valet back into the shadowy corner from which he’d come, displacing a few large, hunch-backed rats that had been feeding on moldy food in a discarded trencher.

  “I tried to help, my lord, and botched it badly. What of my lady, is she . . .”

  “Pardoned,” Simon returned.

  “Oh, thank God, my lord, thank God! They were set against her. That’s why—”

  “All right, old boy, from the beginning, how did you come here?”

  “I brought the portmanteau to the magistrates, just as you instructed, my lord, but they told me it was too late, that her time had run out, and she was scheduled for sentencing on the morrow. I told them you were on your way with the pistol to prove her innocence, which was a bald-faced lie, of course, but I thought it would buy you some time. They were immovable, my lord. They laid hands upon me, and tried to throw me out, and I . . . I’m afraid I struck a bailiff, my lord.”

  “You, Phelps?” Simon blurted, suppressing a smile.

  “Oh, yes, my lord. It was rather reckless of me in retrospect, but I mistakenly thought my bold behavior might convince the bounders of my lady’s innocence. You did say that you knew I’d think of something. Well, it was the best I could do at the time. I’m so dreadfully sorry I failed you, my lord.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought, old boy. I wonder why they didn’t tell me, or release you with Jenna?”

  “Oh, they couldn’t do that, my lord—release me, that is. I’ve been sentenced to six months in this ghastly pesthole. They probably didn’t even connect the two issues.”

  “Only six months,” Simon chided, “for lobbing one at a bailiff? It’s a wonder you didn’t get life.”

  “I do believe they thought six months would be life for me in here . . . considering my age. I’m committed to proving them wrong, my lord.”

  “You won’t have to if Nate Ridgeway has his way. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  The valet gasped. “Oh, my lord, forgive me!” he cried. “How have you come here? Is it because of—have they found you out, then?” Though he’d whispered the last, before the valet could bring the Marsh Hawk into it Simon covered his mouth with a quick hand.

  “Shhhhh,” he warned. “Nothing so simple as that, old boy. Biggins is dead, and I’m the one who killed him. Like I said, we’ve got some catching up to do. Now then, if we can find a spot that these damned rats have overlooked, I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Two bailiffs hauled Simon before the magistrate the following morning. It was a different justice than he who’d tried Jenna, one whom Simon didn’t know, though he looked much the same, leaving Simon to suspect that the office carried with it an infectious malaise. The man’s tight-lipped scowl upon settling himself behind the bench was unnerving.

  “Simon Rutherford, Earl of Kevernwood, you stand accused of the murder of Matthew Elmore Biggins, a servant of the Crown, and Runner of Bow Street, London. What have you to say for yourself?”

  “I am innocent of the charge of murder, Your Worship,” he responded. “Mr. Biggins suppressed knowledge of the whereabouts of a pistol belonging to my wife, a weapon that would have cleared her of a charge of highway robbery—which, I might add, has been recovered, and the Crown has awarded Lady Kevernwood a full pardon.”

  “Yes, yes, my lord, but what has that to do with the Runner’s murder? I fail to see a connection.”

  “I had taken Mr. Biggins into custody, my intent being to bring him to make a confession before the magistrates at Serjeant’s Inn, since he would not relinquish the pistol in question. He set fire to my town house in a mad attempt to escape. I unlocked his pinions, but one was still attached to his arm. When he made attempt to escape, I warned him to halt. He did, and when I approached him, he struck my hand with the chains. My pistol discharged at close range. He fell down the stairs.”

  “Is that all, Kevernwood?”

  “I should think it enough, Your Worship.”

  “Cheeky upstart!” the magistrate blurted. “I shall decide what is ‘enough’ here, my lord. Have you any witnesses who will speak for you?”

  “He does, your worship,” came a thundering from the periphery. Ridgeway’s voice rumbled through the chamber like cannon fire.

  “Come, then,” said the magistrate, beckoning with an impatient hand motion.

  Simon stared through misted eyes. When the lieutenant approached, he wasn’t alone. He had in tow Ma
rner’s coachman, Wilby, and the physician who’d examined the Runner. But even more impressive, they were flanked by two, four—no, there was no end to the line of men who followed, a virtual sea of faces, some familiar, some Simon had never seen before. There were so many men that the courtroom couldn’t contain them. A roar of milling voices rose from the spectators to such a crescendo of ear-splitting noise as they continued to file past that it took the magistrate several minutes to dispel it with his shaky gavel.

  “This is most irregular!” he intoned, bristling.

  “Indeed,” said Ridgeway. “Which of us would you like to hear first, Your Worship?”

  Jenna had just finished nuncheon, which had been served on a tray to her abed, since Mrs. Wells would not hear of her leaving it, despite her insistence that she was perfectly able. She was just about to relinquish the tray to the chambermaid, when the door burst open and Simon streaked across the floor. He hadn’t shaved, and dark stubble colored his jaw. His queue had come unbound. Were those tears in his eyes? And where had his limp gone?

  All at once she was in his arms. The tray and dishes crashed to the floor, and lay somewhere out of her view on the carpet, which sent the plump maid scrambling to retrieve what was left of the china before she made a hasty exit.

  Simon murmured Jenna’s name. It was the most wonderful sound she had ever heard, full of passion and love and longing, and she surrendered to it, to his kiss, deep and slow and intimate, a mating of souls. It was an endless time before their lips parted.

  “It’s over. You are free?” she begged, searching his face.

  “Yes, my love,” he murmured, pulling her to him again. “Nate rounded up a veritable army of men—naval officers, conscriptees, men whom I knew on my tours, and men whom the Marsh Hawk has helped since.”

  “Oh, Simon!”

  “Nate backed me up, of course, and then there was Wilby, who testified to Biggins’s guilt, and the doctor, who couldn’t say for certain what killed the blighter . . . but I’m not sure any of that is what got me off. I believe there would have been a riot in that courtroom if things had swung the other way. I’ve never seen a look of fear quite like what I witnessed on that magistrate’s face. He was positively gray with fright. There weren’t nearly enough bailiffs to handle that crowd, nor space enough in that godforsaken pesthole at Newgate to contain them even if there had been. There, by God, is a cause worthy of attention, and don’t you think I won’t take it up once all this is behind us—even if I have to become an M.P. to do it, heaven forefend.”

  “You, in Parliament?” she blurted. “Isn’t that a far cry from—”

  “Masks and tricorn hats?” he concluded for her. “What do you think, my lady, should I give it a go?”

  “I think I love you,” she murmured, pulling him close in her arms.

  He drew her to him so relentlessly then that she could scarcely draw breath. Easing her back against the propped pillows, he smothered her with anxious kisses. His hands roamed her body through the thin nightgown like a flock of starved birds descending upon crumbs. When they found her breasts she moaned, and he swallowed the sound with a hungry mouth that left her weak and trembling, totally aroused. Had he pressed her then, she would have surrendered to that one long, steamy, lingering kiss. But he did not press, and his lips had scarcely left hers when she gave a start, remembering.

  “Phelps!” she cried. “Oh, Simon, no one knows what’s become of him. He—”

  “Shhhh,” he soothed, burying his hands in her hair. “He’s drawing my bath.”

  “You’ve found him? Where—what happened?”

  “He was quite your champion you know. Trying to buy you some time, he got himself thrown into Newgate, too. The magistrate was only too glad to commute his sentence, considering Nate’s show of force in that courtroom.”

  He kissed her again . . . and again. “Now, my love”—his mouth found the pulse at the base of her arched throat—“I shall have that bath”—he spread her gown open, and the skilled tongue glided lower—“make myself presentable”—his tongue teased her nipple then roamed back to her lips again, whispering against them—“and ravish you.”

  EPILOGUE

  It was moon-dark as the barouche sped along just north of Newcastle on its way to the Scottish border. The night was soft, quick with mists that the rain would soon chase, and the coachman had just lit the carriage lanterns. Inside, Jenna sat cocooned in Simon’s strong arms, scarcely daring to believe that they were finally embarked on their wedding trip.

  “I feel dreadful making Phelps ride up top in all this damp,” she said. “He’s going to catch his death.”

  “That was his idea, my love,” said Simon. “He wanted to give us some privacy. I do believe the old boy’s an incurable romantic. Who would have thought it?”

  “I feel a little guilty leaving Robert and Evelyn to fend for themselves while we traipse off to the Highlands,” she said, clouding. “He is still on the mend, after all.”

  “Don’t you think they deserve a little privacy of their own?” he chided. “After all your hard work bending Cupid’s arrow in that direction, I should think you’d be gloating.”

  “As much privacy as Mother will give them,” she returned. “I shudder to think. But then, if they can survive Mother, I expect it’s a match made in heaven that can withstand anything.”

  Simon laughed outright, and pulled her closer in his arms as their carriage tooled along the highway in the still darkness.

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if when we return next month we’ll be decking Kevernwood Hall out for another wedding breakfast,” he observed.

  “I told him to take the initiative with that girl,” said Jenna, “but I never expected that he’d go to the lengths of a duel, for pity’s sake. How bizarre.”

  “I’ve known Rob nearly all my life, and the man never ceases to amaze me. I could tell you stories passing bizarre that would raise the hair on your head. But we’ll leave all that for another time. Suffice it to say that I’ve always looked upon Rob as family, and now that it’s about to become official, I couldn’t be happier.”

  Jenna was about to agree when all at once a shot rang out, and Phelps, scrambling down from the driver’s seat, came crashing through the barouche door, pistol drawn, with an agile lunge that dropped her jaw.

  “A highwayman approaches, my lord,” he announced, out of breath, “a young one, too, by the look of him. Green as grass.”

  The coach pulled to a shuddering halt. The masked man, dressed in black, mounted on a dark horse, had ranged himself on Jenna’s side of the barouche, and Simon quickly moved to the seat facing her, motioning her back.

  “Put that away, Phelps,” he charged, nodding toward the pistol in the valet’s hand. “Keep it down out of sight. Unless I miss my guess, what we have here is a novice in need of a lesson. Novices have a tendency to be rather . . . trigger-happy. I can personally vouch for that, by God.”

  Jenna caught his raised eyebrow and half smirk, and frowned. Would he never let her live it down? Her breath caught when, to her surprise, he reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and removed a black silk half-mask.

  “This will have to do, since I don’t have the hat with me at the moment,” he said. He offered it to her. “Well, my dear—shall I, or would you rather deal with the brigand?”

  “Stand and d-deliver!” the highwayman’s shaky voice intoned, interrupting him.

  Jenna stared at the mask. Surely he couldn’t mean to . . .

  “Don’t worry, my love, I was just offering you a professional courtesy,” Simon assured her drolly, tying the mask in place. “Allow me,” he said, and burst from the coach, both pistols blazing.

  The young man’s hat went flying, having taken one of Simon’s pistol balls, and his weapon spun off into the scrub having taken the other. Simon had managed both without inflicting so much as a scratch upon the horseman, whom he promptly yanked out of the saddle and pulled close for observation.

 
Phelps had climbed down and stood at the ready, his own pistol aimed at the quaking youngster in Simon’s white-knuckled grip. Jenna remained where she was, staring through the coach window, streaked now with rain, watching Simon rip off the man’s mask and throw it down, revealing a terrified youth of scarcely twenty.

  “And who might you be, laddie?” Simon growled, close in the man’s face.

  “Lemmee go!” the youth shrilled, struggling.

  “Answer me first,” Simon demanded. “Your name—and be quick. You’ve wasted enough of my time tonight as it is.”

  “J-Jeremy . . . Jeremy Higgins,” the youth replied. “Ow! Ease off! I told ya, didn’t I?”

  “And why have you taken to the highway, Jeremy Higgins?” Simon demanded, ignoring his plea.

  “Why have you?” the youth flashed.

  “Plucky little whelp, isn’t he?” Simon observed to no one in particular. “I’ve just given up the trade, actually,” he went on, “and so shall you, if you want to stay out of the place I’ve just come from.” The youth struggled to free himself, and Simon jerked him to a standstill. “No?” he observed. “You mean to defy me, do you? Maybe I should find a bailiff and see you there straightaway; you can take my place. Have you ever been inside Newgate Gaol?”

  “N-no, sir . . . lemmee go! I’m sorry I come inta your territory.”

  “You’re going to be a whole lot sorrier if you ever put that there on again,” Simon snarled, grinding the mask into the mud of the road with the toe of his polished Hessian. He reached into his coin purse and pulled out a crown. “Here,” he said. “It’s not quite what you had in mind, of course, but it’ll get you where you’re going. Do you know Stenshire Manor, on the moors south of York?”

  “Aye,” said the youth, “I know of it. Never been there.”

  “Well, you’re going there now. When you arrive, tell the Earl of Stenshire that you met with the Marsh Hawk’s ghost on the old road to Newcastle, and that it was none other than he who has recommended you. He will see that you are gainfully employed.”