"Where’s Randall?"
"Running late, it would appear. Either that or they’ve already killed him. Damn the bastards."
But Randall, who had arrived only a short time before, had run into the anteroom adjoining as soon as the bullets had begun to fly.
His arrival at the stroke of nine-fifteen must have been the signal for all hell to break loose.
He had taken cover in the window seat of the small undecorated room while he tried to rate his chances of getting out of this alive.
He had his small pistol, checked the powder, and made sure the pan was primed. He had one shot. Maybe two. He had to make them count.
He had three doors to choose from, the one into what he guessed to be drawing room, the one back out into the foyer, or the one leading to who only knew where.
He heard feet scurrying all over the house, and wondered where Thomas was. He prayed he hadn’t arrived yet. But if that were the case, then that meant he was all alone.
He felt so foolish—ever since he had got the invitation from Sidmouth he had been telling himself to just ignore it. He should have stayed home with his wife instead of trying to do his duty in a country being run by men with no honour.
He rose cautiously and sidled to the farthest door, prepared at any moment to dive for cover. He wasn’t sure where it led, but the hall was out of the question, and the drawing room sounded like it was being shot to pieces. Even through the fine wood panelling he could hear the steady, relentless thud of bullets.
So the third door it had to be. Except that now the door opened, and a hand rolled a lit grenade into the room.
"Jesus!" Randall prayed.
Which way to go. The hall, or the murderous hand? What would Michael do?
His brother had been known as The Grim Reaper, hero of the Peninsular War. Michael had always done the unexpected. He would have to do the same.
Randall charged on toward the third door once more, and flung himself through it and onto the madman who had thrown the grenade.
He felt himself being lifted right off his feet and blown like a leaf in a gale as it exploded in the now empty anteroom. He landed on the assassin, but had lost his weapon. He had nothing now but his bare hands.
His instinct for survival drove him on as he punched and gouged the man’s eyes with his thumbs, until at last the man ceased to struggle. Randall’s eyes darted right and left as he tried to locate the pistol.
Before he could do so, a shrill voice echoed around the marble passageway. "Look out!"
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Viola flung herself at the police officer about to kill the Earl of Hazelmere, shunting his arm up and to the right. The man’s gun went off deafeningly.
Randall grabbed his head and fell to the ground with a curse.
Viola struggled as the policeman tried to bring up a sword. She kneed him in the groin. Wresting the weapon away, she smashed the basket hilt of the sword into his nose with a sickening crunch. In an instant she handed Randall his pistol while she examined his wound.
"Damn, you must be favoured of all the gods," she panted.
"Am I?" he said in a daze. "My scalp feels like it’s on fire."
"The bullet grazed you. And I hope you weren’t too fond of that ear."
"Jesus," he exclaimed again when he reached up and realised she wasn't joking.
"You were damned lucky."
He rolled his eyes. "If I were damned lucky it would have missed me altogether."
"I can see you’re a Rakehell, all right. I’m guessing you’re your age that you’re the Earl of Hazelmere."
"That’s the only sensible thing anyone has said to me since I entered this house. Who are you, Madam?"
"Viola, a friend of Alistair’s."
He stared at her. "But he and Philip are dead. And didn’t they want a woman in connection with—"
"Philip is alive, and if I’m not mistaken, Alistair is in the next room having a small battle. Can you walk?"
"I’m a bit winded from the pain and shock. I can hardly hear you for the explosion and the gun going off so close to my head, but I can stand."
"Then let’s go help him."
"And Thomas. He might be in there," Randall said, trying to get to his feet, but still off balance by the blow to his head.
A further commotion in the foyer had them scrambling off the floor of the passageway. They ran through the smouldering anteroom and dropped onto their hands and knees as shots rang out.
"Darling, are you all right?" she dared to call
"Aye, but the Duke has been hit," he called, sticking his hand out so she could see where he was concealed.
Viola could tell the Bow Street Runners were about to rush the unarmed men. She threw the constable’s sword to Alistair.
He caught it easily and was about to engage the enemy when Viola aimed Randall’s pistol and shot the chief ringleader egging on their assailants.
He dropped like a stone, and for a moment the room was silent. By that time she had brought up the rest of the weapons from the basket and handed them around for a second wave.
She winged the other officer in charge and began to reload, whilst Alistair and Randall also continued to fire until all the weapons were discharged.
From there the Runners and Home Office men had had enough. They declare they were outnumbered and put down their weapons or ran.
"Didn’t put up much of a fight," Randall commented in disgust.
"They’re cowards. It's easy enough to set a trap, but when it comes to a fair fight they flee," Alistair panted. Then he motioned with his hand. "Come help me with Thomas," he asked her softly.
But as soon as Viola was within arm’s reach he pulled her to him and kissed her.
Thomas laughed. "I know what Jonathan is going to say about this. Another of the Rakehells married. Good show, you two. Formal introductions can wait. This hurts like buggery."
"Aye, but at least there’s no blood spurting. We need to get you to Bethnal Green."
The click of booted feet on the marble floor in the foyer alerted them to movment in the house.
Randall had taken up the weapons to finish reloading, and drew closer to the three prone figures. He was ready to defend them all once more, though his head was swimming and the blood still streamed down his face, neck and shoulders.
A tall thin man stood in the doorway and called, "Who’s in there?"
"The Duke of Ellesmere and the Earl of Hazelmere," Randall replied. "The Duke’s been shot by the police."
Alarmed blue eyes appeared as the man peeped into the room. "You’ve been shot too by the look of you."
"Just the fleshy part of my ear," Randall said too loudly, poking one ear to try to stop the ringing. "Nothing to worry about. But the Duke needs a doctor."
"And who are these people?"
"He’s Alistair Grant the barrister," Thomas replied before Viola could stop him.
He peered at Alistair, and then looked again. "Impossible. You’re supposed to be dead."
"Rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated. More to the point, who are you?"
"I’m the Earl of Harrowby’s private secretary. I’ve just arrived home from his Westminster offices to discover this chaos. Was it rioters?"
"So they would have you believe," Alistair snapped. "Where’s your master?"
The man blinked. "Why, at his country estate, of course. He's been for some few weeks now. This house is supposed to be closed up. Who on earth let you in?"
Randall fished his invitation out of his pocket and Thomas did likewise. "We were told to come here," Randall said. "That is most definitely Sidmouth’s signature. I’ve seen it on enough papers."
"So have I," the confused man said. "But what on earth? Was it the mob? Is it revolution?"
"Revolution, perhaps, but not the mob. It was Bow Street Runners and special constables from the Home Office. I can name a few names," Alistair said coldly. "But never mind that now. The Duke needs medical attention.
The Earl too."
Alistair began to help Thomas off the ground carefully. "Have you a carriage?" the tall barrister asked the short, terrified secretary.
"Waiting outside."
Randall lifted his gun. "Lead the way."
The man’s eyes widened as he looked down the barrel. "Oh, I say."
"Don’t dither and piss yourself, man," Randall said impatiently, his dark blue eyes crackling with barely suppressed fury. "If you are who you say you are, we go outside and get this man some help. If you’re just trying to lure us out into the street to have us shot down like dogs, you’re done for."
"They’re outside," he admitted in a shaky whisper. "But I really am— Please, I don’t want to die."
"It happens to us all some time," Randall said grimly. "But no, lad, you’re not going to die just yet. Unless one of them pop you. Come on."
Randall led him to the door, the pistol pressed against his temple. "Call off your hounds, Sidmouth, Castlereagh, or I’m going to redecorate this door with his brains," he shouted out the front portal.
The hapless young man began to weep.
Eventually a stooped figure came out of a carriage standing near the corner, and approached the house.
Randall’s sarcastic tones rang throughout the square. "Well, Lord Sidmouth, so nice of you to join us. Perfect night for an assassination or two, isn’t it?"
The Home Office Minister’s lips thinned to a straight line as he marched through the entryway.
Randall noticed dark figures lurking in every cellar area and doorway. "Call them off or there’s going to be the most dreadful shooting accident," he commanded.
Sidmouth waved his arm in a parallel line a few times. As suddenly as the men had appeared, they began to pile into another waiting coach, which was whipped up, and soon departed.
"Where are they?" Sidmouth demanded.
"Who?" Randall asked wearily.
"Thistlewood and the others, of course."
"I don’t know what you’re talking about," the Earl declared.
"Aye, when we got here, your men were shooting, and the rest is as you see," Alistair asserted.
"My men? My dear fellow. Don’t be absurd. The Bow Street Runners—"
"Were told there were dangerous insurrectionists here who had to be caught or killed at all costs, weren’t they! I know what you did, Sidmouth."
The older man began to bristle with indignation. "I don’t know what—"
Alistair looked at him coolly. "You just mentioned Thistlewood, not me. You tried to entrap the Spenceans yet again, didn’t you?"
Sidmouth tried to bluff his way out of his predicament, and failed miserably. "We had heard rumours—"
"And armed the street as if we were at Waterloo. After all, why bother to take the Spenceans alive when they were only going to be tried for treason and hung, drawn and quartered.
"How much bounty did you offer them, eh? What price did you put on Thomas’s head? Randall’s? And Randall isn’t even an out and out Radical!"
"I might just be after tonight," the Earl said as he tried to mop the blood off his face with one sleeve.
"How could you condone such actions as have taken place here tonight? Not even condoned. Instigated!"
"The Earl is even more dangerous than a Radical! He’s a man with a conscience, scruples. Someone who can’t be bought," Sidmouth hissed like a serpent.
"As is Thomas, the Duke of Ellesmere," Alistair agreed. "You've known that about him for years. So why now?"
Sidmouth remained wilfully silent. "This is not the place to discuss this. Perhaps in the drawing room?" he said stiffly.
"You mean what’s left of it. Oh, by all means, let’s be comfortable as we play out this farce to the last. Except that Thomas and Randall need a doctor."
"They can have my carriage."
Alistair looked doubtful, but Randall still had hold of the nervous young secretary.
"It’ll be fine. I have a hostage. Here. I’ll take this," he said, removing a pistol and some ammunition from Viola’s basket. "You take this loaded one. If Sidmouth so much as twitches, shoot him dead and call it self-defense."
He put his arm under Thomas’s shoulder, and the lad, who introduced himself as Simpson, took the other.
Sidmouth cast a withering look at Simpson’s retreating back before stepping forward to enter the drawing room.
Viola observed quietly, "He’s taking an awful chance being in here by himself. Are you sure they’ll be all right?"
"For now. How long for remains to be seen depending on what sort of deal Sidmouth wishes to make."
"No deal!" she hissed. "You know what they did. Tried to do!"
"I also know the way the world works. He leads the Home Office, has a network of—"
"I had a network," Sidmouth snorted. "You seem to have been more effective in detecting and killing them than the luckless fools in the Spenceans."
Alistair glared at him. "You infiltrated them years ago, and just waited. Do you not think things are uncertain enough with the old king dead? And England having been under an ineffectual Regent for so many years? Do you want to make people believe England is about to descend into anarchy? It’s madness!" Alistair argued.
Sidmouth's tone was contemptuous. "People need to be disciplined and controlled for their own good. Why, these baboons are agitating for universal male suffrage! Next thing you know, they’ll be wanting to allow women the vote!"
Viola bridled at that. "You think you would have learned your lesson in America, in France," she said coldly. "Repression only brings out the courage and spirit of the oppressed."
His yellowy face contorted as if he smelled something foul. "Bah! The working classes are mere sheep. They will go where bold leaders follow. So they shall follow me."
"For how long? The Tories have been in government since 1800. Despite all of your Gag Acts, all the repression, there’s more political agitation than ever before," Alistair argued.
"And I blame you and the Rakehells for it," Sidmouth snapped. "And people like you. Teaching the lower classes to read and write and do sums! Treating them for disease when everyone knows the horrors that Malthus warned us about. How our country will soon be overpopulated—"
"So, what, you’re going to cull them like deer? You’re despicable. You’re not God, Henry, for all your power. Mark my words, you push people far enough, and you are going to be swept aside, you and Castlereagh.
"We will create a new world order—"
"Where have I heard that before?" Alistair said with a wry twist of his lips. "Let me think. Oh, yes, Bonaparte said the same thing before he plunged the whole of Europe into chaos."
"This will be different!"
"That's what every dictator claims," Viola said with withering scorn.
"Even when you were Prime Minister you couldn’t control everyone. They forced you out, and you’ve never forgiven them. Perhaps you’ve met your own Waterloo at last. And it will be your own fault! No one made you do this. And now you’re going to be exposed for what you really are."
Sidmouth laughed. "Where’s your proof, Grant? The word of two Radicals who despise me? The testimony of a group of known agitators who were armed to the teeth and shouting they were going to stick Castlereagh’s head on a pole and parade it through the Irish sections of London so that they would all rise up against the rest of their oppressors, and the capital would fall?
"Please, I know everything. This has been in the offing for months. Do you really think I have no contingency plans?" he asked superciliously.
Alistair knew he was right, but he was not about to back down. "You may well do, Sidmouth, but you didn’t count on me finding out, or still being alive once I did, now did you?"
He saw he has struck the minister where it hurt.
"Or on the Duke and Earl still being alive," Alistair said with a smug smile of his own. "That was a serious miscalculation on your part, getting Randall involved. Do you really think his brother wouldn’t h
ave moved Heaven and earth to avenge his death?
"And Michael is a real Radical, not an Independent. Do think he was called The Grim Reaper for nothing? If you’ve not bothered to read Wellington’s dispatches from Toulouse, I suggest you take the time. Then you can find out what a real hero is.
"And there are more men like the Rakehells coming, sooner than you think. Thomas’s eldest son may only be young, but he is even more radical than his father. There’s quite a string of principled little Eltham lads to follow on. Not to mention all of Randall’s sons, and Michael’s. You can’t stem the tide of change."
The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 5 Page 89