It had come to Jael’s notice that they were nearing a notoriously dangerous stretch of land, where a thick and gloomy copse stood to one side, with another thick bank of forest atop a nearby hill. A fatalist, she was not at all surprised when the coach skidded to an abrupt halt, sending Lady Bligh tumbling to the floor.
In the midst of the chaos, as frightened horses screamed and reared and earsplitting oaths filled the air, the carriage door was wrenched open. “Stand and deliver!” demanded The Gentleman in the languid drawl that had earned him his nickname, and found himself staring straight down the barrels of Sir John’s pistols. The Chief Magistrate discharged the first of his weapons, intending not to kill but to confuse. A dead man could not be handed over to justice, and Sir John meant to capture The Gentleman alive. “I don’t aim to get my neck cricked!” cried the highwayman’s accomplice, and took speedily to his heels. But the rogue himself, in a last desperate effort to avoid capture, dragged Sir John from the coach.
Suddenly the copse was thick with men. Sir John, engaged in desperate combat with the criminal, fired again into the air as the highwayman sought to wrest the second pistol away. Crump, delighted by his scheme’s success, pounced from behind and slipped a choking forearm around the rascal’s neck. Sir John, with great satisfaction, applied the butt of his pistol to the miscreant’s skull. “Into the coach with him,” he panted. “I wish to have a word with this blackguard.” He wondered why Jael had not defended herself, for she was legendarily abrupt with those who threatened her, dispatching them summarily with no questions asked. Instead, the gypsy wore a ferocious scowl.
“We shall be a trifle crowded, I fear.” The Baroness picked herself up from the carriage floor as Crump and Sir John settled onto the opposite seat, the unconscious highwayman secured between them. “It will not be the first time indignity has been suffered so that the law may claim its own. I suppose this encounter means further postponement of our visit to Slippery Jim?”
“The law is not to be trifled with,” Crump announced, elated to be in on the capture of this notorious brigand. “This is a dangerous ruffian and the quicker he’s locked up all nice and tight, the safer we’ll all be.”
“Such excessive caution!” mocked Jael. “This cutthroat of yours never hurt anyone and, what’s more, never stole from those who couldn’t stand the loss.”
“You’re mighty quick to defend him.” Crump was immediately suspicious. “What’s this gallows bird to you? Can it be you’ve been trafficking in stolen goods?”
Jael did not consider this worthy of reply. “Aren’t you curious about his identity?” she said quietly. “Take off his mask and let’s have a look at him.”
The highwayman stirred, drawing their attention. He was a slenderly built man, dressed in filthy laborer’s clothing, with a scarf covering his chin and a makeshift mask disguising his eyes. Crump reached over and pulled the villain’s battered hat further down over his face. “He’ll keep! Until we reach a place where we can have a closer look at him.”
Inexplicably, Dulcie sighed. Sir John wondered why The Gentleman was of such consuming interest to Jael and Lady Bligh, for both ladies’ silent attention was centered on the villain, but attributed this intensity to a typically feminine appreciation of the macabre.
In silence the triumphant party wound a tortuous route through eastern Marylebone, where prostitutes flourished in such picturesque places as Night Pit and Wrestling Lanes. Further west, the elite demimonde lived in their own houses, exacting as much as a hundred guineas for a night passed in avariciously loving arms. Sir John was regularly sent a list of these damsels, complete with such pertinent information as places of abode, stature, the most circumstantial and exact details of the ladies’ appearances, and the qualifications for which each was remarkable. A similar catalogue was published every year and sold under the piazza of Covent Garden.
The coach passed by the Workhouse and Infirmary, an extensive range of buildings with their main facade on Northumberland Street, and arrived at last at the Marylebone Watch House. Herein were contained living accommodations for the beadle, or parish officer, cells for apprehended criminals, and a court or vestry room.
Sir John roughly hauled The Gentleman from the coach. Lantern bearing night watchmen in greatcoats flocked round the carriage, welcoming any excuse to delay their nightly patrols of the neighborhood. His vision totally obscured by his hat, the villain stumbled. “You must be made an example of,” Sir John announced in tones of pending doom, “a warning to like-minded rogues that our highways will be kept safe for honest travelers. Prior to your trial, you will be lodged at the Fleet.”
“I think,” remarked the Baroness, alighting from the coach, “that you are being much too hard on the boy.”
“Aye, such an innocent lamb it is! Let’s have a look at him.” Arms folded across her chest, Jael looked like an Amazon warrior.
“I seem,” remarked the villain, “to have attracted a” remarkable crowd! Do you think one of you might remove this wretched hat? Not only does it place me at a great disadvantage at this, the most monumental moment of my entire career, but it is damned uncomfortable.”
Crump recognized that waspish tone and stepped forward, visited by an uncontrollable urge to commit mayhem. Lady Bligh adjusted her bonnet, which had slid rakishly over one ear. Ignoring both Crump and Sir John, Jael stepped forward and, with the air of one performing a splendid trick, whisked away The Gentleman’s disguise.
“Aunt!” Hubert regarded the Baroness reproachfully. “How could you serve me such a trick? Have you no feeling for the family?”
“You might recall,” Dulcie retorted, “that I warned you to abandon your little hobby before you came to this very end. More than that I cannot do for you.”
“Blame not the Baroness, but Bow Street.” Jael smirked at the representatives of the law. “What will you do, my cullies, now that you’ve caught your man? It would make far too great a carnage in elite circles if you hung every errant son of the rich who tried his hand at highway robbery to pay his gambling debts.”
“Dear Jael!” cried Hubert gratefully. “To think that I have hitherto lacked sufficient appreciation of your sterling qualities!”
“You’ll appreciate them even more,” Lady Bligh predicted, “before this thing is done.” She observed the Chief Magistrate, whose initial astonishment had rapidly turned to rage. Crump, ready to spit nails, vowed to do his utmost to see this damnable clown transported to Botany Bay.
Chapter 17
The next morning Sir John reflected gloomily that if matters were not soon resolved he would share the fate of the Chancellor of the Exchequer who, when attending divine service at the Millbank Penitentiary, was bombarded with stale bread by aggrieved lady inmates. If the Chief Magistrate knew his discontented Londoners, they would not be satisfied with such innocuous pellets, but would hurl rotten vegetables and horse dung. He sighed heavily, totally unamused by the raree show that was being enacted before his weary eyes.
Ironically, it was Hubert who appeared the most alert, as if only he had been granted the deep and restoring sleep of the innocent. He was also looking quite fresh, having been permitted—against Crump’s express wish—to exchange his shoddy attire of the previous evening for something more suitable. Jael’s gray eyes were smudged, which added a touch of vulnerability to her savage features. Sir John was not pleased to discover that the gypsy had returned, evidently having overcome her dislike of Bow Street. She perched on the windowsill, a vivid picture in violet satin, and the Chief Magistrate wished mightily that he might summarily shove her out.
Lady Bligh showed no signs of fatigue, but looked instead as if she’d passed the night in orgiastic celebrations of the most satisfyingly intemperate sort. Sir John wished that he might have joined in her debauch, rather than pacing the floor for endless hours while pondering this tangled mystery, receiving for his pains only an aching head.
“My reputation,” mourned Hubert, “is in ruins. For years I
cultivated tardiness, until I established the habit of being late for every appointment; yet here I am, at your command, and even before the appointed hour.”
“You’re fortunate,” growled Sir John, “that you were not taken out and shot.” Jael stirred, and he realized suddenly that the gypsy’s countless golden chains and baubles weren’t imitation but real, and extremely valuable.
“Shot?” asked Hubert, with mock horror. “Makes it any difference if my preference is to hang? I have a horror of firearms, you see. Even better would be transportation, though I would shudder to join the company of gentlemen with, er, perverse appetites.”
Sir John was in no fit frame of mind to appreciate either Hubert’s artful ways or the incongruity of a highwayman who feared guns. “There’s one man already on his way to the gallows for this business! Have a care you don’t go with him.”
“You are of choleric temper this morning, dear John!” Lady Bligh spoke in the amused, unshockable tones she reserved for her mature men friends. “Lady Jersey snared the Prince when young, and put Epsom salts in his bride’s soup on his wedding night. It is no wonder Prinny’s marriage does not thrive.”
Sir John neither welcomed nor needed this reminder of Dulcie’s privileged standing with the Regent. He observed her with intense, if fleeting, disapproval. “Do you think we might proceed with the matter at hand? I might remind you that this is not a “social gathering.”
“Of course!” Dulcie was kind. “My nephew is possessed of a tremendous capacity for compromising genially with circumstance; I believe you will find him perfectly cooperative.”
“Indeed!” agreed Hubert, whose impeccable appearance was slightly flawed by a livid bruise on his forehead, souvenir of his encounter with Sir John’s pistol butt. “You have but to ask, my man.”
“Thank you,” said Sir John caustically. “There is one thing I would like to ask. You were seen in heated argument with the Countess Andrassy on the day of her murder. What did you quarrel about?”
“Not a quarrel, precisely, but a mere difference of opinion!” Hubert’s features were pained. “You are determined to expose me, I see. So be it. I told Gwyneth that I would have no more to do with her efforts to secure Dickon’s comeuppance. Her methods were so crude.”
“You understate the case,” said Sir John bluntly. “Observers report that you were quite vehement.”
“You should not listen to gossip,” Hubert chided. “It is invariably elaborated upon most tediously.”
“It is you who are tedious, Humbug,” the Baroness observed. “If you keep up in this manner, we shall be here all day.”
“You were also,” continued Sir John, “well-acquainted with Lady Arabella Arbuthnot. Must I point out that you are in serious trouble, Master Highwayman? These airs and graces will not benefit you here!”
“You accuse me of clouding the issue.” Hubert wore the woebegone look of one grievously misunderstood. “I must say, aunt, that given my present circumstances, I am most grateful for your company.”
“You needn’t be,” Lady Bligh retorted. “You need a harsh lesson, and if John chooses to administer it I shan’t make the slightest move to interfere.”
“I see how it will be.” Hubert cast a mournful glance at Jael. “Brief but splendid has been our acquaintance, my dear! If I extricate myself from my present difficulties, I shall return to you with the greatest satisfaction;
but if not, it would be better if you set eyes on me no more!”
The Chief Magistrate was shocked that Hubert, who despite his discreditable habits was of impeccable birth, should speak in so fond a manner to a female as reprehensible as Jael. It was just more of his nonsense, of course, but nonetheless in the worst possible taste. “Cease your infernal prose!” he bellowed.
“You are so stuffy, John!” the Baroness complained, as the gypsy scowled.
“I am in a sad case,” Hubert mourned. “I have not even power left to repel impertinence.”
“What you have,” Sir John snarled, “is an excessive love of talking. Pray direct your conversation to an explanation of why you wished to rob me.”
“Believe me,” Hubert replied with the utmost sincerity, “had I the least notion that carriage was yours, I would never have ventured near it!” The Chief Magistrate’s expression prompted him to continue hastily. “I must, incidentally, congratulate you on the clever trap you laid for me, giving out that the coach would be unguarded and carrying valuables. It seemed a trifle obvious, and I asked myself why such a precious cargo should be treated so carelessly, but I could not resist so promising an opportunity. Considering various recent developments, I had begun to think that a change of climate might be advisable. Hence my efforts to replenish my sadly depleted purse.”
“It is a great pity that you never learned to practice economy.” Dulcie spoke with the righteous censure of a lady who in all her life never had to render an accounting of her debts. “It is a greater pity you were inspired to flight just when we were so close to the Dragoon.”
“We will get the Dragoon later,” Sir John interrupted, feeling as though he presided over a quarrelsome nursery. “Right now I’m more interested in this imbecile’s activities.”
“I doubt,” remarked the Baroness, “that you will get to the Dragoon at all.” She ignored her admirer’s mounting wrath. “You have underestimated his importance all along. Consider the possibility that Arabella spent the greatest portion of her last evening in that rascal’s company.”
The Chief Magistrate considered the possibility of clearing his office of all but the hapless Hubert, but was not granted the opportunity. The door burst open and Lord Dorset, wearing his thunderstorm expression, strode imperiously into the room. Behind him came Mrs. Lytton, in a state of extreme agitation, and Austin, expressing unmitigated delight at his surroundings. “There she is! I told you Dulcie was all right!” he crowed, as her great-nephew came to lean against her knee.
“Austin,” remarked the Baroness, “has more wit than the rest of you combined.”
“Scant wonder,” murmured Hubert, with a malicious glance at his cousin. “Austin is untroubled by love’s young dream.”
“Nor is he distracted by visions of himself dangling from a gibbet,” retorted the Earl, not at all displeased to see Hubert take his place in the suspect’s seat.
Dulcie ignored her squabblesome nephews and smiled at Austin, who had just whispered something in her ear. “Yes, your Uncle Max is returning home. The die was cast when he was feted by an Emir, who recently had three nephews blinded in case they aspired to his throne, and found himself in the inescapable position of dining upon a raw sheep. The house in which he stayed belonged to a local politician who, upon the Emir’s orders, had been strangled the day before. I daresay he will bring you a splendid present. We can only hope it will not be something totally unsuitable, like a dancing-girl.” Austin’s eyes opened wide.
Livvy had no interest in the Baron’s adventures. “Dulcie! Wherever have you been? We were worried when you failed to come home last night.”
Lady Bligh regarded her devoted companion. “And so you rushed to report my absence to Bow Street? Foolish girl! I would not be so hasty to take action were you bold enough to pass a night away from home.” Livvy gasped, not in indignation but at the accuracy of Dulcie’s thrust; for the idea had more than once occurred to her. “It would probably do you a great deal of good. You are looking shockingly peaked, Lavender.”
“I will thank you, Dulcie,” the Earl intervened, “not to put thoughts into Livvy’s head.” Idly, he tweaked a blue-black curl. “I intend to personally oversee her descent into depravity.”
“Sits the wind in that quarter?” inquired Hubert, with great interest. “I had thought it all a sham. Cousin, I applaud your intelligence.”
“Magnanimous of you,” observed Lady Bligh, “though you are a trifle premature.” Having effectively silenced her retinue, she turned to the Chief Magistrate. “I concede the floor to you, dear John.
Continue!”
“Thank you.” The Chief Magistrate had been wondering how the Baroness had passed the night, since she had not been at home. “We come now to the matter of Hubert’s dressing gown.”
Hubert itched for his quizzing-glass. In its absence, he made do with an arched brow. “My dressing gown? Prithee, sir, what is this concern with the niceties of dress? I would not have thought it of you!”
Livvy was impressed by Humbug’s dramatic abilities, but she was even more intrigued by the stony-faced gypsy who perched precariously in Sir John’s window. The woman was not only most impressively flamboyant, but oddly familiar. It was a pity that her face was disfigured, though once one had grown accustomed, the scar detracted little from her wild allure. Livvy looked quickly at the Earl, that notable connoisseur of feminine beauty, and received a warm glance that cast her
into bliss. Dickon was leaning indolently against a wall.
Sir John was getting a headache. “Humboldt. Describe your dressing gown.”
“You see me at a total loss,” Hubert admitted. “I possess several such garments, you see. Do you think you might give me a hint?”
“This is no time to play off your airs,” the Baroness scolded. “John refers to that abominable creation in which you dabble with your oils.”
“Ah, that dressing gown!” Hubert beamed in enlightenment. “I shall overlook your insults, both to my art and my attire, though I wish you would not speak of that particular garment in such derogatory tones. It was a gift from an admirer, and has great sentimental value.”
“You amaze me, Humbug!” Lord Dorset’s sardonic features did not display that particular emotion. “I didn’t know you were so relentlessly pursued by the gentler sex. Who is this unknown admirer, so smitten as to come bearing gifts?”
“You presume, cousin, indeed you do! I cannot recall ever asking you to reveal your more intimate relationships.” Hubert smiled maliciously. “Not that I need to, of course, considering your unfortunate propensity for announcing your affaires to the world.”
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