by Stella Riley
He didn’t know how long he continued doing it. He was only aware of the encroaching heat from the flames, the occasional spark touching his face or hands, the dense, suffocating smoke … and, more than all of this, the dizziness and pain that finally made him stop.
Vaguely and with something akin to surprise, he thought, So this is it, then.
And drifted, uncaringly, into oblivion.
*
There were knives grinding inside his head and a blistering inferno in his lungs. The cough was tearing at him again and he wanted to be sick. Then he was sick – and that hurt more than all the rest put together. He swore to himself and relapsed once more into blessed darkness.
The next time he awoke, it was to the awareness of cool, steady hands and a voice calling him.
‘Gabriel? Wake up now. You can hear me, can’t you? Open your eyes and let me give you something to drink.’
Even though the idea of a drink was appealing, he didn’t want to open his eyes or to move or to do anything at all … but the voice was insistent. Slowly, and with overwhelming irritation, he did as it asked and opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was a blurred curtain of silver-gilt and then, as his sight cleared, a frowning violet gaze set in a white face, liberally streaked with dirt. And then it struck him that he wasn’t dead after all.
A cup touched his lips and warm honey slid like silk over the burning torture in his throat. Gradually, the fog inside his head started to clear. He wondered why he appeared to be lying on the floor of the parlour … and then remembered. With careful economy, he croaked, ‘The fire?’
‘It’s out. Don’t worry. How do you feel?’
‘Awful.’ He dissolved into a fresh paroxysm of coughing. ‘What happened?’
‘Can’t it wait?’ asked Venetia.
‘No.’
Sighing, she pushed back the tangled fall of her hair and offered him the cup again.
‘I smelled the smoke. So, fortunately, did Harris – and, as we went downstairs, we heard you banging on the door. Then Wat came in. He and Harris pulled you out while I roused the servants. We managed to douse it between us but we were only just in time. A few minutes more and the whole house would have gone up.’
Gabriel’s brows were furrowed with concentration.
‘Baxter and Willis?’
‘They came round eventually. You don’t need to see them. Wat’s already played merry hell with them for being drunk.’
‘They’re still here?’
‘Yes.’ Venetia sank back on her heels and gave up trying to sound calm. Finding him unconscious inside that blazing, smoke-filled room had been the single, most terrifying moment of her life. ‘Will you stop worrying about the thrice-blasted escape? Considering that Colonel Ambrose was so thorough he left you to be roasted alive —’
‘Didn’t.’ Very cautiously, Gabriel sat up. ‘Wouldn’t have. Nor Langley.’
‘Then how do you account for it?’
‘Can’t.’ He pressed the heels of his hands over his smarting, bloodshot eyes and realised he’d have to try forcing out more than the essential words. ‘I was out cold – woke to find the place on fire. Lamp upset, perhaps?’
‘But the door was locked,’ said Venetia slowly. ‘If neither Francis nor the Colonel knocked the lamp over and you were unconscious … that only leaves two possible explanations. Either it fell over by itself – or someone else came in and deliberately upset it.’
This was something that Gabriel had already worked out for himself but didn’t want to discuss. Swallowing with some difficulty, he said painfully, ‘Both unlikely. Can you help me up? The floor’s hard and I’ve bruises in places I can’t mention.’
Venetia’s insides were knotted with cramp pains but she did as he asked. The effort of moving made him cough again; but when he was safely ensconced in a chair, she said, ‘Do you think that someone … that someone may be trying to kill you?’
‘Why should they?’ He stared at the profusion of grazes and small burns on his hands. ‘Accidents happen.’
‘I know. But this one nearly cost you your life.’
Gabriel looked up. Beneath the dirt, her face was green with fright. He felt unequal to coping with whatever that implied.
‘You make too much of it. No harm was done. I’m just tired. And since I’ve to ride to Windsor tomorrow, I’d like to sleep.’
Venetia stared at him explosively.
‘You’re in no state to go anywhere. Have you any idea how ill you look?’
‘I could hazard a guess.’ He achieved a hint of his usual sardonic smile and then turned as the door opened and Mr Larkin came in, soaked to the skin and indescribably filthy. ‘God, Wat. You’ve obviously been having fun.’
‘Not as much as you, I reckon,’ grunted Wat, his eyes at distinct variance with his tone. ‘How did it start?’
‘He doesn’t know,’ said Venetia. ‘He says he’s going to Windsor tomorrow.’
Wat folded his arms.
‘Don’t be so bloody silly. You can barely stand. Send Major Maxwell.’
‘No. Ireton will want a first-hand account. And seeing me in this condition ought to answer all his questions.’
‘Then let him come here.’
Gabriel drew an impatient breath and immediately regretted it. Over the hiatus in his chest, he gasped, ‘Now who’s being bloody silly? We don’t want him here questioning everybody in sight. And I … I’ll get a more sympathetic hearing if I arrive looking like a death’s head. And now,’ he finished, leaning heavily on the back of the chair and looking at Wat, ‘will you please get me to bed before I pass out again?’
~ ~ ~
NINE
In the end, Wat rode to Windsor, too – for which Gabriel was quietly grateful. Thanks to Justin Ambrose, he had a jaw as stiff as last week’s bread and a quantity of miscellaneous bruises; thanks to other sources entirely, his throat felt as though someone had taken a razor to it and every breath excoriated his lungs. The result was that he felt a good deal more fragile than he cared to admit – and found it comforting to know that if he passed out in the saddle there would be someone to pick him up again.
Of course it was too much to expect Mr Larkin to ride ten miles or so without taking the opportunity to thoroughly investigate the previous night’s fire. And when all his questions had been answered, he said broodingly, ‘You’re right about the lamp. We found it amongst the remains of one of the pallets. But a thing that heavy don’t tip up of its own accord. And that only leaves one explanation.’
‘That someone gave it a helping hand,’ agreed Gabriel. ‘But without any obvious motive or culprit, that’s rather hard to believe.’
‘Is it? In case you’ve forgotten, you’ve already been set upon by three fellows you didn’t think were footpads.’
‘Ah.’ A wry frown gathered behind the dark eyes. ‘Yes. And that’s the only thing suggesting that this isn’t quite as far-fetched as it otherwise seems.’
Wat thought about it.
‘Who gains by your death? Ellis?’
‘Not directly. He can only inherit Brandon Lacey through his children.’
‘Would he kill you just for spite?’
‘Possibly.’ Gabriel’s mouth closed over the word like a steel trap and it was some time before he spoke again. Then he said curtly, ‘You’re missing the point. If someone tried to fry me last night, they did so knowing that I’d be out cold on the workroom floor – which means that one of our co-plotters is either a would-be assassin or possessed of a very loose tongue. And I don’t believe that.’
Neither, unfortunately, did Wat. He said, ‘One of the servants, then? I’d have said that slimy fellow Harris – except that he helped get you out. So where does that leave us?’
‘Precisely nowhere,’ replied Gabriel. And relapsed into silence.
By the time they reached Windsor, he was exhausted – and it showed. Commissary-General Ireton took one look at the ghastly pallor lying beneath the marks of violence and w
as shocked enough to send for wine before listening to Gabriel’s report. Then he said austerely, ‘These are plainly very dangerous fellows. Do you need help in recovering them?’
‘My Major already has the matter well in hand,’ said Gabriel mendaciously – the truth being that Eden was still wondering how to explain the destruction downstairs to Luciano del Santi. ‘I came only to inform you of the incident – and to say that, naturally, I accept full responsibility for it.’
Ireton pulled a quill thoughtfully through his fingers, inwardly acknowledging the difficulty of disciplining the Colonel after his assistance in the matter of the King’s letter. Finally he said slowly, ‘You obviously did all you could to prevent your prisoners escaping – at some cost to your own health. And since you are clearly unfit for duty, I suggest that you consider yourself officially relieved and take a few weeks to recuperate.’
Informed, on the way back to Cheapside, of the Commissary-General’s generosity, Mr Larkin subjected Gabriel to an astute, black stare and said, ‘Well, I’m glad it went off all right. It’d have been a pity if you’d half-killed yourself for nothing, wouldn’t it?’ Then, when no reply was forthcoming, ‘Going to Brandon Lacey, are you?’
‘Where else?’ Gabriel was beginning to having severe difficulty remaining upright in the saddle but he still managed something approaching a smile. ‘Do you want to come?’
Wat considered it for a moment. Then, deciding that there were a few things in London which would bear looking into, he said sourly, ‘Not especially. If you want the truth, Yorkshire gives me the marthambles.’
‘Everything gives you the marthambles,’ murmured Gabriel. ‘It’s what keeps you going.’
*
Informed that they were leaving for Brandon Lacey in two days’ time, Venetia’s immediate response was to point out that Gabriel had about as much chance of riding two hundred miles as of flying to the moon.
‘But I don’t intend to ride,’ he replied with acidic kindness. ‘I intend to hire a coach. And that, hopefully, should satisfy you, Wat and every other damned busybody.’
Effectively silenced but by no means downcast, Venetia set about preparing to depart. She told Tom Harris that she no longer needed his services, wrote a letter of recommendation for him and sent him back – surprisingly long-faced – to Lady Gillingham. She helped Jane with the packing, supervised a clearing-up operation in the workroom and found time for a private chat with Mr Larkin. Then, on the morning appointed, she left Cheapside without a backward glance.
It was a long, tedious journey and Jane’s presence in the carriage had a distinctly limiting effect on the conversation. Or so Venetia thought. Gabriel, on the other hand, seemed perfectly happy confining himself to discussing the news they picked up at each halt – so it was perhaps fortunate that the Newport negotiations provided him with plenty of scope.
Having been asked [yet again] to consent to the abolition of both the Prayer Book and the episcopacy and also to allow a Presbyterian system which required everyone in the realm to take the Covenant, His Majesty had replied [yet again] with his own set of counter-proposals. He was willing, he said, to agree to three years of Presbyterianism – provided that toleration was granted, not only to himself but also to “any others who cannot in conscience submit themselves thereto”. He was not, however, willing either to take the Covenant himself or have it forced on others.
Venetia thought this attitude a good deal more reasonable than the Parliament’s outright rejection of it. Gabriel agreed but pointed out, somewhat astringently, that the question in most people’s minds was whether His Majesty intended to use the three years to achieve a sensible compromise or whether he would merely assemble enough power to enable him to go his own way in the fourth.
The road fell slowly and uneventfully away behind them, along with the first week of October. Then, on a bright, chilly day when they were no more than twenty miles from home, a couple of shots tore the air, the coach lost speed and Gabriel snatched the pistol from the holster beside him.
‘Highwaymen?’ breathed Venetia, incredulously.
‘What else?’ came the sparse reply. And then, as Jane cowered back in her seat, rapidly reciting the Lord’s Prayer, ‘Tell her to try When the King Enjoys his Own Again. It’s likely to have more effect.’
Venetia opened her mouth on a suitably pithy retort, then closed it again as the coach drew to a halt and a fellow swathed in a cloak, with his hat jammed low on his head and a black kerchief hiding the lower part of his face, dropped elegantly from a powerful chestnut to throw open the door. Pointing a pistol at them, he said cheerfully, ‘Well, now … what have we here?’
Venetia’s lungs malfunctioned. This, she decided, on a faint bubble of hysteria, was really all she needed – but with a second pistol in Gabriel’s hand, now was no time to think of it. She leaned forward so that she could be seen and, with neither subtlety nor grace, said swiftly, ‘See for yourself. I’d call it a monumental mistake.’
‘Hell’s teeth!’ Over the mask, a pair of gold-flecked dark green eyes widened a little and then filled with laughter.
‘Quite,’ she replied tartly. ‘And it’s not funny. So you can stop waving that gun in my face. It’s frightening my maid and annoying my husband – who, by the way, is quite likely to shoot you if you go on with this foolishness.’
For a moment, Ashley Peverell continued to stare at her while she held her breath.
Then, on a note of gentle enquiry, Gabriel said, ‘Friend of yours, Venetia?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘But not, given his present occupation, one you’re particularly eager to introduce.’
She cast him a withering glance and declined to reply.
Sighing, Captain Peverell lowered his weapon.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘Have it your own way. I know you and you know me - and we both know I’m not about to rob you. But you might have upheld the pretence.’
‘You heard her,’ said Gabriel pleasantly. ‘She didn’t want me to shoot you. Whether that’s a tribute to my reflexes and marksmanship or something less flattering, I haven’t yet worked out.’
‘Oh – she knew I wouldn’t shoot you.’ Ashley turned casually to his accomplice who was still pointing a musket at the coachman. ‘You can stand down, Jem. We can’t steal from one of the Queen’s ladies.’
Jem was heard to observe that the Captain was a damned sight too choosy and that, if it was to carry on, they might as well stay at home with their knitting. The Captain grinned and ruefully informed Gabriel and Venetia that he was having trouble getting Jem to adopt the right attitude.
‘I’m trying to rob the Roundheads in order to give to the Cavaliers – and he just wants to rob everybody.’
‘We’ve gathered that,’ said Venetia. And, on a faintly irritable sigh, ‘You’re playing with fire, you know.’
‘No more than usual. And what else is there to do?’ Bitterness shadowed his eyes and then was gone. ‘Pleasant as this is, I’d best be on my way. My apologies for not unmasking, Colonel – but I’m sure you see my difficulty.’
‘Vividly,’ agreed Gabriel blandly. ‘As you, I hope, will appreciate mine if I should happen to hear of any hapless travellers being held up with five miles of Brandon Lacey.’
‘Is that a warning?’
‘Yes. Heed it … and today never happened.’
‘I see. Well, you can’t say fairer than that, can you?’ Ashley set his foot in the stirrup and rose effortlessly back into the saddle. Then, holding Venetia’s gaze with his own, ‘You may wish to know that our mutual friend was in the vicinity fairly recently – though I think he’s gone now.’
Venetia coloured slightly.
‘If you mean Ellis – I don’t care where he is so long as he stays away from me.’
‘Ah. Like that, is it?’
‘Yes. And if you say I told you so – I’ll hit you.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ The green eyes looked reflectiv
ely at the Colonel. ‘It may be unnecessary advice … but it would probably pay you to keep an eye on Ellis.’
Gabriel’s expression remained unchanged.
‘Any particular reason?’
‘No. But he’s got an unerring instinct for mischief and a tendency to think with his stomach.’ Captain Peverell gathered his reins and wheeled his horse in readiness to depart. Then, with a wry laugh, ‘Actually, if you want my opinion, the man’s a walking disaster.’ And he cantered away, calling for Jem to follow.
Gabriel watched him go and then fixed Venetia with a gentle stare.
‘You haven’t any other similarly picturesque acquaintances you’d like to warn me about, have you?’
‘Not that I know of,’ she replied warily. And, as the coach lurched into motion again, ‘You – you’re taking this very well. Don’t you want to ask me about him?’
‘Not really.’ Gabriel wedged himself comfortably into the corner and folded his arms. ‘Unless, of course, your association with the gentleman is likely to continue?’
‘It isn’t.’ Venetia met his gaze squarely and took a deep breath. ‘He used to be a Royalist agent … as, in a minor way, was I. But that’s all over now.’
‘Good.’ He closed his eyes and let his chin sink on to his chest. ‘Then there’s no more to be said, is there?’
‘You believe me?’ she asked uncertainly.
‘Why not?’ The merest ghost of a smile touched Gabriel’s mouth and he added urbanely, ‘For the moment, anyway.’
*
Sophia was unreservedly glad to see them. She was also, Venetia thought, rather less ephemeral than usual and, as soon as the two of them were alone, she said, ‘I take it Gabriel found out that Ellis came here after Preston?’
Venetia nodded. ‘He didn’t tell you before we left?’
‘Not a word. He just said you were going south with him. And he was in such a black mood, I didn’t care to enquire further.’ Sophia paused and then, with slight awkwardness, said, ‘Did what I saw that night mean what I thought it meant?’
‘Yes.’ Venetia would have preferred to leave it at that but the look in Sophia’s eye made her add bluntly, ‘It’s all right. He didn’t force me and … well, things are different between us now. Given time, they may be even better.’