by Jane Feather
Suddenly, he leaned over the counter, so close Neil could smell the beer and the reek of decaying teeth on his breath. An arm shot out, grabbing the captain by the fine starched cravat that had taken him a full half hour to tie to his satisfaction.
“You wouldn’t be doin’ any thin’ like that, would you?” Jud repeated in a fine mist of saliva. Neil tried to turn his head away from the menacing stare.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said again.
Jud nodded his head slowly, his grip tightening on the cravat. “I think p’raps one of me friends could explain it better.” He pushed his captive backward with a violent shove, and Neil went reeling into the arms of a grinning henchman, who picked him up as if he were a baby and threw him across the room. Neil crashed into a table. A mug of ale went flying, its contents spilling over his immaculate driving cape and dripping onto his buckskins.
“Eh, careless!” someone bellowed as he struggled to his knees. “Spillin’ me drink like that.” A man, red-faced with mock indignation, grabbed him by the cravat and hauled him to his feet. Holding him steady, he drove his fist into Gerard’s jaw.
Neil saw stars, tasted blood, felt the ultimate humiliation as warm liquid trickled down his leg. Then he was released amid a burst of raucous laughter.
“Be seein’ you next week, cap’n, sir,” Jud called cheerily after him as he stumbled out the door into the crisp, sunny afternoon. The lad who was holding his horses stared in unabashed curiosity at the gentleman, whose right eye was rapidly swelling, blood trickling down his chin, staining his torn cravat. The reek of beer and urine wafted from him as he cursed the lad, knocking him aside as he stumbled up onto the driving seat of his curricle.
“’Ere, what about me fee, guv?” the lad cried. “That’s me pa in the Black Dog.”
Neil threw a vile curse at him, but he had no desire to renew the acquaintance of anyone in the Black Dog. He dug a sixpence from his pocket and hurled it to the ground at the feet of the grinning lad, who scooped it up and dashed off down the street before anyone bigger and stronger decided to relieve him of his earnings.
Neil whipped up his horses, and they plunged forward in the narrow alley. The leader caught a hoof in an uneven cobble and almost went down to his knees. Gerard hauled back on the reins and tried to get a grip on himself. Physical violence terrified him. The simple threat of violence had reduced him to a gibbering wreck as a child and made him the perfect target for the bullies who stalked the halls of Westminster School. How he’d envied Sylvester Gilbraith, who, even as a ten-year-old new boy, had faced the tormentors with fists and tongue and refused to be intimidated. They’d beaten him often, but he’d always bounced back, and finally they’d left him alone. Not so Neil Gerard, who’d suffered hells during those years that he could barely endure remembering.
And it had just happened again. At the hands of a group of dockside ruffians, laughing at him and enjoying his terror even as they’d beaten him. And he’d have to go back next week and face the grinning Jud O’Flannery. Next week and the next week and the next week. An eternity of humiliation stretched ahead, because he could no longer look for hired assassins in this neighborhood.
He was passing the end of Dock Street, heading for Tower Hill. His eye darted down the street toward the Fisherman’s Rest. Who had recognized him there as Jud’s gentleman mark? Someone in that fetid hole had reported his negotiations to O’Flannery. The man he’d sent into Dorset had been angry when he’d refused to pay for failure and therefore to compensate him for the time and trouble he’d taken. The man had cursed him and threatened him with vengeance. But Neil had dismissed it as so much bluster.
A hackney was drawn up outside the Fisherman’s Rest. A most unusual sight. He watched as a cloaked figure jumped lightly to the cobbles. A woman. Curiosity for a minute made him forget his throbbing jaw and the foul condition of his raiment. The woman was saying something to the jarvey, her head tilted as she looked up at the box. The hood of her cloak fell back, revealing blue-black hair.
Now, what in the name of all that was good was the Countess of Stoneridge doing at the Fisherman’s Rest? Alone!
If Sylvester paid another visit, it wouldn’t be surprising. He’d learned nothing from the first visit, and he was bound to try again. Not that he’d discover anything. Neil was never going to cross that threshold again, and no one could put a name to him, or even an accurate description.
But what was his wife doing here, alone? Looking for information for her husband? It was extraordinary. And he couldn’t believe that Stoneridge had countenanced it. He’d made no attempt to hide his annoyance when she’d appeared before. And no reasonable man could blame him. Wives didn’t follow their husbands to such places. And they most certainly didn’t go to them alone.
An idea glimmered as he started his horses again. Lady Stoneridge might well be worth cultivating seriously. Supposing she could provide the route to her husband? She was obviously unconventional and indiscreet. How else would one characterize her presence at the Fisherman’s Rest? Insanely impulsive? Recklessly courageous? Such a person could surely be led up the paths of fatal indiscretion with the right carrot. If he could find the right carrot.
He suddenly understood that he didn’t have to remove Gilbraith, merely neutralize him. Blackmail was the way to end his own calvary at Jud’s hands. If he was certain that Gilbraith would never open his mouth about Vimiera, even if he knew the truth, he could afford to tell Jud what he could do with his threat of exposure. Well, perhaps not that. The thought of such an encounter flooded him with a nauseating terror. But his visits to the Black Dog could cease without explanation.
He would disappear from London for a while in case Jud decided to pursue him, but he was fairly certain the ex-sergeant would quickly turn his attention to other pigeons worth plucking. And if Jud decided to go to Horseguards and tell his version of events at Vimiera, it would be considered no more than the ramblings of a disaffected old soldier with a grudge against his commander … so long as Gilbraith wasn’t able to confirm the story with his own recollection of the truth.
He wiped blood from his split lip with the back of his gloved hand as he encouraged his horses to a smart trot. His panic was over. The cultivation and manipulation of an attractive but naive and clearly reckless young woman was a much pleasanter prospect than arranging accidents at the hands of hired dockside killers. And blackmail was a much cleaner tool than murder.
Theo, happily unaware of the witness of her arrival at the Fisherman’s Rest, pushed open the door and stepped into the dim, reeking taproom. It was almost deserted at this time of day, although an old man sat nodding by the fire, puffing a clay pipe. A slatternly young woman, a baby at her breast, leaned against the counter.
“Twopence of gin, Long Meg.”
“I’ll see the color of yer money first,” Long Meg rasped from somewhere in the darkness behind the counter.
“’Ow about a bit o’ credit?” the young woman whined. “Gin puts the babby to sleep.”
Long Meg reared up out of the darkness, as big and crimson-faced as Theo remembered her, when she’d come after Tom Brig with a rolling pin.
“I told yer last time, no more—” She stopped, staring at Theo. “Well, well,” she said slowly. “What ’ave we got ’ere, then? You want somethin’, young miss?”
“I’d like to ask you some questions,” Theo said, smiling in a friendly fashion as she picked her way through the sodden sawdust.
“An jest who would be askin’ ’em?” the woman demanded, her eyes narrowed, mighty arms akimbo.
“My name’s Pamela,” Theo said, having prepared for this.
“You was in ’ere t’other night,” Long Meg said suspiciously. “Wi’ that gentleman cove. Jest what’s the likes o’ you got to do wi’ the likes o’ me?”
“I wanted to ask you about one of your customers.”
Long Meg threw back her head and laughed, but it was not a pleasant sound. “We don’t an
swer no questions around ’ere, missie. Me customers mind their own business an’ I mind mine. We don’t want no snoops around ’ere.” She lifted the flap of the counter and came into the room. She seemed even larger in this small dim space than she had the other night, and Theo felt the first stirrings of alarm.
“I’m not snooping,” she said, although it seemed as accurate a term as any for what she was doing. “I’ll pay for any information—”
“Oh, will you, now?” The woman stepped closer until she was towering over Theo. “An’ jest what’ve you got in that dainty little reticule, then?” She made a grab for Theo’s reticule. Theo danced backward, snatching her arm away. Long Meg lunged forward, and Theo swung her reticule at her head as she brought one leg up and aimed a kick at the mountainous belly.
Long Meg roared, and two men suddenly appeared from the back regions. The slatternly young woman with the baby still leaned against the counter; her eyes, dulled with gin, followed the scene, and she moved aside in desultory fashion as the two men barged through the opening in the counter.
Theo knew she didn’t stand a chance against three of them. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a pistol? Why hadn’t the possibility of robbery occurred to her? She jumped backward, hurling a bench between herself and the purposeful advance of her assailants. If she could get out into the street, she could make a dash for the hackney.
But the men were flanking her now, their eyes fixed on her as they moved sideways, and Long Meg kept on coming, a vicious expression on her face. Theo’s kick had hurt her, but not enough to slow her down, only enough to enrage her.
Desperately, Theo grabbed up an ale pot on the table and threw it into the face of the man approaching on her left. The other one lunged at her, catching her arm. She jerked her arm upward, twisting her body and catching him on her hip, breaking his hold. But she knew she couldn’t keep this up.
Then suddenly a shot exploded through the dark room.
“Get away from her.”
“Edward.” Theo turned in dazed relief. He stood in the doorway, a flintlock pistol in his one hand.
“Hurry,” he said, and she realized that he couldn’t reload and that it wouldn’t take more than a second for her attackers to recover from their surprise and understand both that and the fact that her rescuer had only one arm.
She took the three paces to the door at a run as Edward stepped backward into the street. Long Meg and her two assistants rushed after them, and Theo spun and kicked the door closed in their faces.
“Run!” She grabbed Edward’s arm and then stared wildly down the empty street. The hackney carriage had disappeared.
Edward swore as he struggled one-handed to reload his pistol. His own hackney had disappeared as completely as Theo’s, and he guessed that the sound of the pistol shot had driven both jarveys away to a less volatile neighborhood.
The door of the Fisherman’s Rest crashed open, and the two men leaped into the street, Long Meg on their heels.
Edward abandoned his attempts to reload and turned to run with Theo. Their pursuers bellowed as they came after them, and Theo realized grimly that they were calling for support. She stumbled, fell to one knee, and was up and running again in the same breath. The pounding of heavy booted feet behind her seemed to be in her blood, and she could almost feel the hot breath of their pursuers on her neck. Edward couldn’t run as fast as she could, his body was unbalanced, and she hung on to his hand, desperately trying to keep him from tripping.
And then the curricle bowled around the corner from Smithfield. The galloping team drove straight past the fugitives and came to a plunging, rearing halt in front of their followers, who fell back in terror before the flailing hooves, the wildly rolling eyes of the four magnificent animals.
Theo and Edward gulped air into their tortured lungs, allowing the slow relief of salvation to seep through them. The Earl of Stoneridge said nothing to the three from the Fisherman’s Rest, but he sat still as a graven image, the curricle and team blocking the street. His hands moved on the reins and the horses reared again. The two men and Long Meg retreated backward to the door of the tavern and disappeared behind it.
Only then did the earl bring his horses under control. The street was too narrow for him to turn his equipage. He cast a glance over his shoulder to where Edward and Theo stood, still gasping for breath.
“Get up,” he said. “Both of you.”
Theo gazed at her husband’s face, and the realization crept inexorably over her that she was about to exchange the frying pan for the fire.
She stepped up to the curricle. “You mustn’t blame Edward for—”
“I don’t,” he interrupted with icy calm. “Get up.”
THE CURRICLE WASN’T built to accommodate three people, and Theo found herself sitting practically in Edward’s lap once they’d scrambled up to the seat.
Sylvester said nothing and beyond moving sideways a couple of inches offered no assistance as they scrunched into place. Once sure that they were securely seated, he gave his horses the office to start. No one said anything until Dock Street was well behind them; then Edward cleared his throat and spoke with more than a hint of constraint.
“I beg your pardon, sir, for bungling it like that. I should have thought … remembered—”
“I don’t hold you responsible for my wife’s actions, Fairfax,” Sylvester interrupted, his voice as hard as iron.
Edward fell silent, wrestling with his mortification. Once he would have been able to handle that situation; instead, he’d had to be rescued like a cocky schoolboy who’d tried to take on the school bully.
Theo touched his arm in sympathy, knowing exactly how he was feeling, but he glared at her, blaming her for his grief and embarrassment, for involving him in a situation where he was forced to acknowledge his limitations.
She glanced at her husband’s profile. There was no reassurance there. His mouth and jaw looked as if they’d been carved in granite, and she knew his eyes would be spurting fire in the arctic-gray depths.
“Sylvester?” she began hesitantly.
“I presume you’d prefer not to hear what I have to say to you on the open street, so I suggest you hold your tongue.”
Theo was silenced, and they drove without speaking another word through the City with its banking houses, past St. Paul’s Cathedral, and along the Strand, where the landscape became more familiar, the streets broader, the private houses more imposing, the shop windows filled with the luxury items that would appeal to Fashionable London at the height of the Season.
Sylvester, no longer under the spur of fear, weaved his way at a more leisurely pace through the streets, giving a reasonable berth to elegant landaus and heavy drays, and allowing the throng of foot traffic ample time to move out of his way. With Theo safe beside him he felt emptied of all emotion, as if skin and bone merely contained a vast, cold void.
“You’ll have no objection if I put you down at Piccadilly, Fairfax?” The curt question came after such a long silence that both Edward and Theo jumped.
“No, of course not, sir. I’m much obliged,” Edward said miserably.
Sylvester drew up at the corner of Piccadilly and St. James’s, and Edward awkwardly descended to the pavement. He stood for a moment, trying to think of something to say; then Sylvester bade him a brusque good day and the curricle moved off.
Alone with her husband, Theo looked over her shoulder and raised a hand in forlorn farewell. She had the air of one in a tumbrel on her way to the guillotine, Edward thought, feeling sympathy despite his own distress. He’d rarely seen her apprehensive, even as a child on the occasions when she faced the wrath of her grandfather, but her anxiety on this occasion struck him as perfectly justifiable. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone quite as intimidating as the Earl of Stoneridge that afternoon.
With Edward’s departure the vast, cold void filled up again, and Sylvester’s anger burned anew with a fierce flame. Theo had frightened him more than he’d ever been frigh
tened before. When he’d rounded the corner of Dock Street and understood how a minute later would have been too late, the pure terror that he’d been holding down had ripped through him, turning his gut to water. When he thought of how only the most accidental of circumstances had alerted him to her dangerous exploit, he felt sick, his internal vision once again filled with images of her stripped body floating in the greasy black waters of the Thames.
He drove into the mews and alighted from the curricle, tossing the reins to the head groom before holding up an imperative hand to assist his wife.
Theo barely touched his fingers as she jumped to the ground. The scar stood out, a blue-tinged slash across his forehead, and she realized that she’d seen him angry before, but never quite like this. Foreboding swirled in her belly, lifted the fine hairs on the nape of her neck, turned her knees to jelly. She had never been frightened of anyone before. She hadn’t even been afraid this afternoon; there hadn’t been time. But at this moment, facing the consequences of what now struck her as a piece of foolhardy craziness, she was scared stiff.
She didn’t know this man, who now governed her life, because he wouldn’t let her know him. Oh, she knew his body, she knew what gave him pleasure. And she knew what would make him laugh and what would annoy him. All trivial pieces of present knowledge. But how could she truly know her husband if he kept his innermost thoughts from her, shielded her from his plans and decisions, and told her only the bare facts of his previous existence with none of the emotions and responses that would have shown her the man who had lived that life?
She couldn’t begin to guess what was going to happen.
Sylvester moved her ahead of him with a hand in the small of her back, out of the mews and around to the street entrance of Belmont House.
Foster opened the door for them, but his greeting died on his lips as he took in the countess’s white face and the earl’s stark severity.