Lord Fool to the Rescue

by L. L. Muir

  "Not bad for one night's work," he finally said. "Now, who is this Lord X?"

  "Lord Anonymous."

  She assumed it was Gordon who spoke. He’d used no title on her uncle--a slight the man typically would not have tolerated. Perhaps he'd been drinking long before the doctor arrived.

  "I suppose I don't give a fig who it is if he's got the goods."

  "Payment in full I believe."

  "You don't mind if I take a moment and count it, I'm sure. Servants and all that."

  "I understand you perfectly, sir."

  Silence stretched. A creak near the door led Tempest to believe Big John guarded the door. He knew she was just on the other side. He'd assume she'd be listening. Why did he not warn her stepfather to lower his voice?

  "Fine. Fine. It's all here. You can come for her at noon tomorrow if you'd like. I'll make bloody sure she's prepared. I've told her she's to meet her intended. Maybe your master would like to make a pretense of a ceremony of some sort, gain her cooperation you know--

  Just a moment."

  She knew that tone. Something had displeased her stepfather. Someone was in terrible trouble, and she feared it would be her. Even if someone were coming to take her to her doom on the morrow, she still had to deal with Ledford for hours to come. She needed him in a good humor if she was to get her friends back safe and sound. And she might have less than 11 hours in which to do so!

  "What's this?"

  "I...I..."

  "The Duke of Redmond sent that note along." Gordon sounded none too happy either.

  "Well, it appears the jig is up.”

  "What do you mean?"

  "It seems my stepdaughter has been told about our little arrangement. There will be no use pretending now."

  "I don't believe my master would have wanted it any other way, but you decide, Ledford. Do you want the money or not?"

  Tempest's disappointment would know no bounds, it would seem. Gordon had been so warm and friendly, like he'd been truly concerned for her. What he’d truly been was a good actor.

  Three things kept her from running down the stairs and out the door.

  Penny. Hilde. And Maude.

  Again, she pressed her ear to the door. Knowledge might be the only weapon she could secure.

  "The deal is final. The money is mine!" Ledford’s voice had gone up an octave.

  More likely, the money would soon belong to Ledford's creditors. That was, unless the man lost it gambling before they arrived at the door. Even with a burned body and liquor replacing the blood in his veins, the man would prefer gambling to breathing. No doubt the next knock would be a mob of card players come for a pre-arranged night of gaming. Her stepfather couldn’t keep a tuppence for more than a day without the thing driving him mad with possibilities.

  Unfortunately, the man was clever but lacked luck, never mind intelligence. He might still be waiting to win his first wager...ever.

  "Well, then,” said Gordon through the door. “Excellent. I'll take the lady with me now, if you don't mind. I don't trust you not to lose her between now and noon, with the miss being forewarned and you laid up as you are."

  "But...but that would constitute two nights. I'd need twice the money!"

  "Nonsense. We won't...ah...arrive for hours. There was no stipulation as to location, I assume."

  "No, there was not," the third man interjected.

  "Well, then. There you are."

  Tempest waited for her stepfather to protest on some other grounds, but he did not. Thanks to the note from the Duke of Redmond, she wouldn’t have time to rescue her friends!

  Her first instinct was to find somewhere in the house to hide until this Gordon fellow gave up looking for her. But her body had decided something else entirely. Her hand attached itself to the door handle and turned. She pushed her way into her mother’s former room. Big John was moved a bit more easily than she expected. Again, she had the niggling feeling the man might have been on her side for the past two years and she'd not known it. She'd been wrong to assume the servant was as evil as his master, but she’d consider that later.

  "I'm not going anywhere until you agree not to punish the women!"

  All heads turned to her.

  Ledford smiled. "What women?"

  "Mister Gordon, my stepfather is hiding the female servants of this household in order to gain my cooperation. He'll have to produce them and insure their good health and employment or I'll be cooperating with no one."

  To her great relief, Gordon turned a frightening face to the man in the bed.

  "Well, Ledford? What are you going to do about it?"

  Her stepfather rolled his eyes. "Who are you, to speak to me about my own matters? Take the chit and go. And you'd best have her back here by noon on Sunday, or else your master will be paying for more than just--"

  Gordon covered the distance to the bed in two steps. He grabbed Ledford’s bandaged hand. The latter bellowed loudly enough to vibrate the bell on the parish church. The man called Murray, whoever he was, ran to the door and disappeared, as if he’d squeezed around the wood without having opened it first. A moment later, the front door slammed.

  Tempest knew not whether to laugh or cry. Who was this Gordon fellow to not fear the wrath of a peer of the realm, minor peer though her stepfather might be?

  "Where are they?" Gordon let loose of Ledford's hand and reached instead for the white dressings on the man's leg.

  "Fine! Fine! They're locked in the wine cellar."

  "Who are you?" Gordon turned his attention to Big John.

  "He's John," Tempest offered. "He doesn't speak."

  "John, I want you to go let the women out. Bring them here. Do you understand?"

  John nodded, biting his lip. Tempest thought perhaps the man might actually smile if he hadn't controlled himself thusly.

  "Does he need a key?" Gordon looked at Ledford.

  Ledford crossed his arms.

  Gordon grabbed the man's knee, his face showing no emotion at all when the man bellowed and begged. Only when a key was thrown in John's direction did Mister Gordon release his hold.

  "We'll just wait here, shall we?" He grinned at Tempest.

  Ledford gasped and reached for the decanter on the small table near his bed. Gordon slid it just out of reach.

  Funny how long a minute lasts in the dead of night when one is denied sleep. After five of those minutes, her stepfather stretched again for the liquor.

  Gordon slapped his hand. "Surely this won't take long, Ledford."

  "I'll have your head for this!"

  "Oh? And whose head would that be?" Gordon winked. Was his name really Gordon?

  Tempest couldn't hold back a smile.

  "What are you smiling at, Temper Temper? You haven't a pleasant day--or night--ahead of you. And you'll be back under my roof soon enough, begging my protection. You might want to take that into consideration before you enjoy yourself at my expense."

  "Why Stepfather, your expense is exactly what I was considering." Tempest stepped toward the bed, her hands itching for the feel of muslin bandages, when Hilde's voice bellowed down the hall.

  "Where is she? If he's done anything to that poor child--"

  Hilde arrived at the door and stopped. She looked from the bed, to Tempest, and back again.

  "Oh, you poor sir," she said sweetly. Too sweetly. "Don't you fret now. We'll have you well taken care of, don't you worry none." She turned to Tempest. "You get out of here, the lot of you. Let Hilde take care of his lordship."

  There was no time to explain to Hilde what was going on. Mister Gordon took her gently by the arm and led her out. She thought about resisting, but after the man had put her stepfather in his place she felt as if resisting would show terrible manners. After all, there was hope this Lord Anonymous would be reasonable.

  And until he proved otherwise, Tempest decided not to despair completely.

  At the door, John stood waiting with a large bag that looked as though it had been st
ored beneath the garden roses. He held it out like an offering.

  Gordon stopped so she could accept it.

  She knew she would never step foot in that house again--for she did intend to escape, even if it meant flinging herself from a moving carriage at some point. So she wanted to open it, to communicate with this possibly gentle giant one last time, in apology for never trusting him before.

  The inside was thankfully cleaner that the outside. The yellow gown was folded carefully, on top of it lay the little angel made of china. The small precious chip on the left wing proved it was her own. Her mother's letters, everything she'd meant to take away with her, lay with it.

  She handed the bag to Gordon, then reached up and pulled the big man's face toward her. A kiss on the cheek was insufficient payment for what he'd given her, but it was all she had to give.

  He seemed to appreciate that fact and winked.

  The door was open. Gordon gestured to the black carriage awaiting them.

  It was time. The women were safe for the time being. She was getting away. Part of her plan had worked at least. In addition, the carriage would be much more comfortable than the hack she'd planned to hire.

  Who was she to complain?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Duke of Stromburg was decidedly drunk.

  He'd been at Whites, listening for the past two hours to the night's events at Ledford’s home. The rat-man’s rendition had been twisted and embellished so egregiously, the latest version could not possibly have transpired.

  There was nothing for it; he'd have to take matters into his own hands. He'd go to Ledford's townhouse on the fringes of the respectable neighborhoods--no surprise there--and make certain Miss Aphrodite's plans had not gone awry, as they reportedly had. If he'd never gotten involved, he could have lounged about with the rest of the male members of the ton who were not allowed to sleep in their own beds. But no. He’d tried to earn a corner of that damned hero’s medal perched in the top drawer of his bureau like a hen waiting for some miracle to hatch beneath it.

  The entire fiasco might have been a bit amusing if there had never been a young woman involved. Had he never met that young woman.

  Damn damsels and their distress.

  Damn heroes. Heroes ended up dead.

  He wasn’t dead, so who was the Lord Fool now?

  Those and other nonsensical thoughts ended with his skull throbbing by the time he arrived at the home of Miss MacIntyre. Half the windows were illuminated. At first, he wondered if the place might be afire, but it was just the bobbling of his own head that made the yellow squares dance. He should have downed one more coffee before mounting his mighty steed...uh, mounting the steps of his carriage, that was.

  The street was clogged with carriages, their curtains drawn with a nose peeking out here and there. A three a.m. version of the fountain incident. Jolly.

  He knocked on the roof and shouted, "take me ‘round the rear!" He may as well have shot a pistol next to his head, his ears rang so.

  By the time he made it through the baron's small gardens, the ringing had nearly stopped.

  The servant’s door stood ajar--hopefully left that way by a fleeing Miss MacIntyre--so he walked inside. The only weapon he had on his person was his walking stick with a concealed blade, and that mostly to help him keep his balance. If he imbibed as often as his peers, he'd likely not be foxed at all. But there it was. And there he was, swaying his way toward the activity of the house, which at present seemed to originate at the head of the stairs.

  He climbed those stairs quietly, and since his knees never actually touched the steps, no one could claim he crawled up them, though it probably appeared so.

  Once at the top, he realized the voices were coming from further down the hall, inside the open doorway at the end.

  "'At's right now, govna. 'And it over easy-like."

  A man whimpered.

  "Let go, ye blimey bastard!"

  The man whimpered louder.

  Leland couldn't think of anything more clever at the moment, so he walked into the middle of the room before he stopped to look about him. It wasn't as if the room would be filled with guns pointing at him.

  Only it was. And there were.

  The surprise of the situation hit him as humorous--so humorous in fact, he started laughing.

  Sitting in the bed, exactly as the rat had described him, sat Baron Ledford in all his bandaged glory. No less than three empty flagons sat on the table beside him and it appeared as though the man might actually be deeper in his cups than Leland himself!

  The baron clasped a leather satchel as if his very life depended upon it--the last reachable bit of rope dangling from a ship, and he drowning and being followed closely by sharks. He looked to Leland and whimpered. Then he looked to the masked man pulling on the opposite side of the satchel and whimpered. It became readily apparent that the man was whimpering each and every time he exhaled.

  Leland laughed anew.

  As did the gang of black-cloaked and masked thieves surrounding him.

  The thought of Miss MacIntyre at the mercy of those thieves sobered him instantly. Well...partially. But looking about, he saw only three women, all on their knees with their hands behind their backs. Next to them knelt that John Cosgrove fellow. A small thief stood nervously by with a pistol aimed at the man's head.

  Clever, thought Leland. Shooting a bugger that size in the chest might not slow the man a'tall.

  Finally the tug of war ended with the baron flying back against his pillows and crying like a spoiled child. The winner quickly tucked the satchel inside his vest, which was temporarily visible beneath his long black cloak.

  Leland had seen that vest before.

  "You, sir." The man had suddenly lost his cockney accent. He pointed no gun but commanded just the same. "Down on your knees if you please. Right where you are will do nicely."

  "My knees?" That sounded like trouble. What if he couldn't get to his knees? "What if I can't manage it?" Leland looked down and was surprised to find he was already slipping to the floor. He couldn't maneuver his knees beneath him, so his derriere would have to do. He crossed his ankles and folded his arms. No need to be a hero if the damsel was not around the save, eh?

  He nodded at his own reasoning.

  In his current position, he had a clear view of that bossy thief's boots. He'd seen them before as well. He studied them, committed them to memory, and by God when morning came, he'd remember, so help him.

  Boots. Vest. Good.

  A taller, thinner thief whispered in the leader's ear. He nodded and addressed Leland.

  "Your Grace, we have need of your carriage. Is it at the front of the house?"

  "No, sir,” he said firmly.

  "I'm afraid I must insist, Your Grace. I swear upon my honor we'll return it."

  "You may borrow my carriage," he clarified. "But it is out behind the garden. But you must do me a favor sir, as I am currently inebriated and unavailable for heroism."

  "What might I do for you, Your Grace?"

  "If you see Lady Aphrodite, would you make certain she is safe?"

  "Lady Aphrodite?"

  "Yes, sir. If you would, sir."

  "Of course, Your Grace. I'll see she is safe."

  "Thank you, sir. You are a thief and a gentleman."

  "I'll remind you of that one day, Your Grace."

  "I look forward to it." And with that, Leland Wescott, Lord Fool, fell to his side and found the wood floor not as hard as he'd imagined.

  ***

  Leland woke with a broken neck and a ringing in his ears unlike anything he'd previously experienced. A moment later he realized the ringing was actually the sound of a man screaming nearby.

  He pushed himself off a wood floor and made his way over to the man, to explain why he should stop screaming.

  There before him was Baron Ledford wreathing in agony. Bandages on both his leg and his hand had come loose and the burns beneath looked horribly painful.


  Leland did the only humane thing he could think of to put them both out their misery.

  He coldcocked the man. The ensuing silence was Heaven on Earth.

  To escape the smells of alcohol and burned flesh, he descended the stairs and searched out a dark room and some servants. He found only the first and was happy for it. After he lowered himself into the overstuffed chair and prayed some blood out of his overstuffed head, the events of the previous evening began a parade behind his closed eyelids.

  Backward.

  Good Lord, he was a poor drunk.

  He'd done nothing whatsoever to help Miss MacIntyre escape the wicked man upstairs, although if a certain thief ran into a woman named Aphrodite, he'd be sure to check on the woman's safety.

  What a stupid arse.

  But not quite as stupid as one Baron Ledford.

  If the stories were true, the man had caught himself on fire. If one could discount the evil scheme of his auction, he was more the fool for demanding that payment be made in the middle of the night. In cash. At his home. The fact that a half-dozen thieves showed up soon after the hour of payment should have been no surprise.

  But they'd all been dressed alike. They'd come together.

  There was something tickling Leland's brain. Something he needed to remember from the night before. Something about the way they were dressed.

  And where were the servants?

  Why had they needed his carriage?

  Someone pounded on the front door. Since there was no sign of a butler, it was up to Leland to stop the offender. He hoped he wouldn’t have to hit this one.

  He pulled the door open and Robbie, his own driver stood before him, fist raised, slack-jawed.

  "Praise be, you're all right, Your Grace!"

  "Where have you been?"

  "The old gentleman, he said you'd agreed he could take your carriage, sir. After we got clean out of London, they stopped and told me to go home. Took your carriage. Shall I call for the authorities, Your Grace?"

  "No, Robby. I told him he could borrow the carriage. I need you to find me a hack then find Doctor Morris and get him back here as soon as possible. Then get yourself home.” His conscience prodded him. “There's a patient upstairs who has been abandoned. And he's in pain."