by Joan Vincent
“Was the skin broken?” When he shook his head, Sarah continued, “Fresh Shepherd’s purse would be best, but leopard’s bane tincture is what I have. I will give you some when we return. Never use it on broken skin.”
Hadleigh put a hand over her clenched one. “It was not a bad bruise. Be easy.” When she trembled, he whispered, “If you mean to deny you love me, give me red cockscombs to heal my broken heart.”
Sarah pulled free. She looked away to hide tears that welled. “Do not,” she whispered. At the touch of a hand, she turned, a reprimand poised on her lips.
“Look at the houses, Stepmama,” Amabelle entreated. “Are not the lights like hundreds of stars come down from heaven?”
“Wait until after the play when we drive past the Royal Exchange, the Bank, and the Mansion houses,” Hadleigh told her.
“That will be even better than when the guns fired from the Tower this afternoon.”
“Scared me to death,” Crandall laughed. “Oh to be young.”
Amabelle put a hand on his arm. “But you are not so old, Mr. Crandall. I—I think you quite ... young.”
The Lyceum lobby overflowed with people at their arrival. Sarah saw Tretain and the countess on the stairs with André and Leora. She held back so Hadleigh could not take her to them.
“Do you see Michael?” she asked. “Amabelle, do you?”
“No, but there is von Willmar.” Amabelle waved at him.
Sarah scanned the crowd. “Does Michael know which box?”
“Crandall, go ahead with Miss Edgerton,” Hadleigh instructed. “We shall wait for Mr. Leonard.” Knocked off balance by the crush, Hadleigh bumped Sarah, who steadied him. He captured her hand. “What would I do without you?”
Sarah fought a rising blush. She was relieved to see her brother approach.
When Leonard saw only Sarah and Tarrant, he hoped for a reprieve. “Good eve. Do the others not come?”
“Everyone has gone to the box. Let us join them,” Hadleigh told him. He led the way, an arm about Sarah to keep her safe from the jostling crowd.
When they reached the box, Amabelle exclaimed, “All of London is here.”
“If you were not a country dowd you would know there are parties all over London this night,” Leonard snapped.
“Michael,” Sarah cautioned.
“Your brother is tired,” Donatien intervened. “Come, sir, sit by me. The tribute is about to begin.”
* * *
Princes Street
Goodchurch half ran from his aunts’ house on Princes Street. He failed to obtain a hackney and started for the Lyceum at a trot. Hearing his name shouted from the street, Vicar saw Merristorm wave at him.
A swell of relief rocketed him to the captain’s hackney. Shouting “The Lyceum” at the driver, he threw himself inside.
The captain drew a flask from his pocket and held it out. “Whatever were you doing?” Merristorm demanded.
Refusing it, the lieutenant gasped, “The old Earl of Lade hated Prussians. Never knew—a—von Willmar. Willmar—story—humbug. They met him—warned me not to trust him.”
Merristorm drank from the flask. “Who told you this?”
“Very reliable. Seldom mistaken,” Vicar assured him. “If Leonard is to sell information tonight is the perfect opportunity to pass it to von Willmar.”
Merristorm grimaced his disbelief. “What nonsense.” When Goodchurch remained adamant, he laughed. “Vicar, do you want to beard the Prussian amidst the crowded Lyceum on a supposition?”
“We must tell Tarrant or Broyal,” Goodchurch insisted.
The captain checked his watch. “It is almost time for the interval. I shall accompany you if you insist on going. This will prove an entertaining farce.”
* * *
Lyceum Theatre
Donatien was the first to stand when the interval began. He whispered in Elminda’s ear, kissed her hand, and left.
Crandall nudged Tarrant. “Let’s fetch lemonade.”
Amabelle smiled at him. “That would be delightful. Would it not, Stepmama?” she prompted Sarah.
“What? Lemonade. Please,” she answered.
“None for me,” Elminda told them. “Mr. von Willmar is doing so. He is so thoughtful.”
“Yes, he is,” agreed Crandall dryly. “Coming, Tarrant? Leonard?”
Michael bit his lip and shook his head. When the gentlemen had gone, he bolted from the box.
Sarah grew concerned when she noticed Michael pass the box’s open door headed in the opposite direction. The glimpse she caught of his bleak harried features alarmed her.
“Amabelle, I just saw Lady Maddie. I shall just be a moment,” Sarah lied and hurried after her brother. She caught a flash of his coat and followed him up a flight of stairs. After passing those returning to their boxes, she found the corridor before her empty. Low angry voices drew her forward.
* * *
In the lobby Merristorm pushed the man who blocked their entry out of the way. He grabbed Goodchurch’s arm and pulled him up the stairs. “Go to the right. I’ll go to the left. Whoever finds Broyal brings him here.”
Goodchurch nodded and shouldered his way through the crowd. When he met de la Croix, he told him what he had learned about von Willmar.
“I shall find Tarrant. We are to meet at the head of the stairs, you say?” André asked, then plunged into the boisterous crowd. He found Hadleigh and Crandall, lemonade in hand.
“My God,” swore Hadleigh after André finished. “Do you think—”
“No, Leonard is in the box,” Crandall explained. “Von Willmar should have returned by now.”
“We had better make certain,” Hadleigh snapped.
“I shall go with you,” André said. “Crandall, wait at the top of the stairs for Broyal.”
“Broyal?” the doctor questioned.
Hadleigh thrust the lemonade he carried into the doctor’s hands. “Just do it,” he said and pressed through the crowd.
Hadleigh found Amabelle and Elminda the box’s only occupants. “Good eve, ladies. Where is Sarah?”
“She went to speak with Lady Broyal,” Amabelle answered.
Fear jolted Hadleigh. “Where is von Willmar?”
Plying her fan, Elminda sighed. “I imagine he encountered his dear friend, the Earl of Lade. They are—”
“Close friends,” André finished for her. “Did Leonard go with von Willmar?” he asked Amabelle.
“No but he left a few minutes later. What is wrong?”
“Nothing,” Hadleigh assured her but bolted from the box.
“Good eve, ladies. A pleasure,” André said with a flourish and followed. He caught up with a white-faced Hadleigh a short distance from the box.
“I saw Maddie,” Hadleigh said. “Sarah was not with her.” You search to the right. I shall take the left.”
On the floor above, Sarah hugged the wall and inched forward. She heard voices in the King’s suite as she edged to the open door. Her courage in hand, she peered around it. Michael faced von Willmar, who stood with his back to a curtained wall. The Prussian was holding out his hand.
“The money first,” Leonard demanded.
“Don’t be a dullard,” Donatien snapped. “Give me the documents.”
Sarah walked into the box. “Michael, what are you doing?”
Leonard snarled, “Get out of here.” He gasped when a derringer appeared in von Willmar’s hand.
“The papers if you please,” Donatien repeated.
“Michael?” implored Sarah.
“Shut up,” Leonard told her, his gaze locked with the Prussian’s. “Get out of here.”
Donatien cocked the derringer. “No one leaves.”
* * *
Hadleigh belatedly thought of the royal box and the king’s absence—perfect for a private rendezvous. Knowing the Royal box had two doors, he crept toward the second. He heard Leonard speak and then heard von Willmar threaten Sarah and brashly strode inside. When the Prussian po
inted the derringer at him, he halted.
Donatien kept it trained on Tarrant while he drew a pistol from his waistband. He levelled it at Sarah. “Leonard, put the papers on the chair beside me.”
“Do not do it, Michael,” begged Sarah.
“You silly bitch. You are the one who is responsible for this,” he whined without looking at her.
Hadleigh took a step toward Leonard but Donatien warned, “Another, Mr. Tarrant, will have regrettable consequences.”
Michael drew a thick envelope from his pocket and threw it at the Prussian’s feet. “You promised. I must have the money.”
“You will have yours,” Donatien assured him. He motioned with the derringer. “Move in front of Tarrant.”
Leonard stepped backwards, halting at the touch of Tarrant’s hand on the back of his shoulder.
Sarah took a step. She halted at Hadleigh’s bidding.
“Very wise, Lady Edgerton,” Donatien told her. In his hand with the derringer was the envelope. An eye on his prisoners, he laid the pistol on the chair and pocketed the documents. Then he picked up the pistol. “Who shall be first?”
“What?” blurted Leonard. Stepping back, he tromped on Tarrant’s right foot.
Hadleigh grunted and shoved Leonard hard before he went down on one knee.
Donatien grabbed Sarah’s arm.
Leonard froze when the derringer turned in his direction.
“Enough,” the Frenchman warned. Pointing the pistol at Tarrant, he smiled.
When his grip on her arm relaxed, Sarah tore free. “No!” she screamed. Whirling in front of von Willmar, Sarah placed her body between the derringer and Hadleigh.
“C’est la fortune de guerre,” Donatien told Tarrant.
Hadleigh lunged at him, shouting, “No!” The report of the derringer echoed. Billowing acrid smoke filled the box.
As she fell back, Hadleigh caught Sarah about the waist. He pulled her against his chest as he sank to the floor with her in his arms.
A second later, André and Quentin burst into the room closely followed by the others. One look at the blood spreading across the front of Sarah’s gown told them the tale.
Hadleigh pointed toward the still swaying curtain.
André leapt up the stairs and through the door behind the curtain. Everyone but Goodchurch followed him.
The lieutenant tore off his coat and wadded it into a tight bundle. Sinking to one knee, he pulled Tarrant’s hand away and pushed the coat against the blood.
Leonard stared at his sister. At the blood as it flowed. Swallowing convulsively, he ran out of the box.
Hadleigh put his bloody hand atop Goodchurch’s jacket and pulled against it as hard as he could. “Get Crandall,” he ordered and settled Sarah against his chest. He kissed her hair. “Remain still, love. Everything will be all right.”
Clutching at his hands, Sarah gasped, “You are safe?”
A clamour filled the box as a throng rushed in. Goodchurch pulled Crandall free of the crowd. Tretain appeared. He emptied the room of onlookers except for the countess, Leora, and Amabelle. Elminda Edgerton hovered at the door.
Crandall crouched beside Sarah praying matters were not as bad as Hadleigh’s tortured gaze portended. “Amabelle,” he ordered, “give me your petticoat. I need strips of cloth.”
To Tretain, “Get something to carry Sarah on and procure a coach to take us to Charlotte Street.”
“Are your medical instruments there?” At the shake of the doctor’s head, the earl demanded where they were. Given the address, he hurried out the door.
A few moments later, two men carried in a door that had been removed from its jamb.
Crandall cupped Sarah’s chin. “Sarah?” Her eyelids fluttered but did not open. After folding Amabelle’s petticoat, he put it in place of Goodchurch’s coat. The doctor bound it in place with the strips of cloth the countess handed him.
“You are going to have to let go of her,” Crandall told Hadleigh. “There is no time to waste. Surgery is her only chance.
Fear worse than any George had ever aroused clawed at Hadleigh’s heart.
Chapter Twenty-Six
No. 6 Charlotte Street Oct. 25 Wed. Night
Broyal drew the curricle he and Merristorm had requisitioned to a halt in front of de la Croix’s flat.
“Misjudged you, old chap,” the captain told the viscount. “Best time I’ve had since Bembibre. Now what do we do?” he demanded of de la Croix, who stood in the tiger’s place.
“Turn about and wait for me down the street,” André told them. He entered his flat staggering dramatically.
Gervase ran to meet him. “What has happened?”
“You will never believe it.” De la Croix tottered towards the stairs. “I can hardly credit it myself.”
Gervase wrung his hands. “What happened?”
André pressed a lace handkerchief to his eyes. “Do you recall mention of a Mr. von Willmar?” He wavered, grasped for the handrail.
“We must get you to bed, sir,” the man insisted. Without pause he continued, “What of this von Willmar?”
Leaning on Gervase, André shuddered. “It was dreadful. He shot Lady Edgerton. Now I ask you, is that the behaviour of a gentleman? I hope they catch him before he flees the country.”
“Flees?” gasped Gervase as he eased André down on the bed. “Was—did—anyone help him?”
“If anyone did, they will also hang.” The baron laid an arm across his eyes. “Leave me in peace, Gervase. I must have complete silence if my sensibilities are to ever recover.”
“Of course, monsieur,” the valet agreed.
“Under no circumstances wake me until afternoon.”
“Oui, monsieur.” Gervase bowed as he backed away.
* * *
Jermyn Street
At the dip of the curricle, Merristorm whirled about, a dagger in hand.
André held up both hands. “Pax.”
Quentin surveyed the lithe figure clothed in austere black and let out a low whistle.
Slipping his dagger back into his boot, Merristorm appraised him. “The peacock becomes a bird of prey.”
“What of your man?” Broyal asked.
De la Croix pointed towards his flat. A short thin figure bearing a valise had crept out. “You drive the curricle and stay well back, Broyal. Merristorm come with me.”
An hour later, the baron trotted up to the curricle. “He’s in a hackney. I bet my life he heads for Wapping Dock—something Pascual said. Merristorm is securing transport. “Go to—I imagine they have taken Lady Edgerton to Charlotte Street. Get Goodchurch, Danbury. Anyone.”
* * *
Wapping Dock October 26th Thursday Early Hours
The occasional cloud passed over the near full moon and cast shadows that danced over the moored ships and huge stacks of cargo on the wharves. Merristorm and de la Croix crept amid the crates trying to spot Gervase.
André halted. “Go back. Guide the others here when they arrive.” When the captain protested, he added, “More men mean more chance of success. If I see either, I shall whistle.”
Merristorm grudgingly turned back.
Several minutes later, de la Croix paused beside a stack of wooden crates and saw a flicker of movement further down the wharf. He waited. He saw a figure trip, heard French curses.
André slipped forward between two crates. His first full look confirmed it was Gervase. He pictured Sarah, deathly white against the blood, and his friend’s frantic desperate features. Von Willmar—Chercheur has got to be here.
A loud gasp jerked de la Croix to a halt. He peered intently into the moon-dappled shadows and saw a second man, much taller than Gervase. The caped figure towered over the butler, casting a vulture’s shadow. His pistol raised, the baron slipped forward. Forty feet from the pair, he gave a piercing whistle and then demanded in French that they halt.
Donatien paused as the baron approached. In front of him Gervase stood with hands raised to surrend
er. A second distant whistle warned him time was limited.
When a cloud passed over the moon Donatien launched his body. He snaked an arm around Gervase’s neck, pulled the man back against him, and rested a stiletto against his throat.
“Halt or I will kill this fool,” he called out, and began to drag Gervase toward the edge of the wharf.
André hesitated. “You cannot escape.”
“Take another step and your meddling will cause another death. Is Lady Edgerton not enough?” Donatien taunted.
Anger flared in André. The arm-locked pair took several steps before he regained his calm and walked forward.
“One more step and Gervase dies,” Donatien warned.
The smaller man erupted. He screamed and writhed in Donatien’s hold. The knife flashed in the moonlight, the screams collapsed in an airy hiss.
The sudden silence, the telling gush of black across Gervase’s chest filled André with violent rage. Before he could move, there was a flash of light and heat seared his right arm. The report of a pistol reverberated across the dock.
Donatien was diving from the wharf by the time de la Croix got his pistol into his good hand and fired.
There was a grunt, then a splash.
Lantern light glittered behind André as he crouched beside Gervase. He touched an outflung hand. It was incongruously warm despite the gaping throat wound.
Merristorm clamped a hand on André’s shoulder. “Where did the bastard go?” he demanded. “We heard a splash. Did he take to the water?”
De la Croix laboured to stand. He pointed between two vessels. “Just off there.”
Lights bobbed on the decks of the closest ships. Sailors shouted, demanded to know what was happening.
“I got a shot off. Think I may have hit him,” André said. “But he mustn’t be hurt badly. I think I heard him.” He turned at the touch of a hand on his right arm.
Feeling wet beneath his fingers Broyal asked, “What’s this? Were you hit?” He took the gun from the baron. “Danbury, set everyone on the search.