She did her best to don her garments in the cramped space without touching him. He didn’t offer assistance. She didn’t ask. When she was done, she slid to the seat across from him.
Elizabeth lost track of time as she sat staring at the floor of the coach. After a while she became aware of a prickling sensation beneath her. She shifted away from it, then remembered.
Lady Vicary’s jewels.
Not moving, she glanced at Marcus. He had pulled back the window curtain and was glaring outside. There was no telling where he was taking her, but the gems might prove useful wherever she was going. Being careful not to draw his attention, she pulled the necklace and earrings from between the cushions and slipped them into the pockets in her skirt.
She almost jumped when Marcus spoke. “We’re here,” he said tersely, not looking at her.
It was only then Elizabeth noticed the carriage had slowed down. She looked out the window on her side to see where “here” was. The rain had stopped. By the sunlight, she guessed that it was midafternoon, though it was hard to tell, because they were surrounded by forest.
The coach lumbered along a path that obviously wasn’t intended for such a large vehicle, slowed by mud that almost reached the wheel hubs.
They pulled up to a small cottage in a clearing and came to a stop. A moment later the door on her side opened. Elizabeth couldn’t suppress a cry of surprise at seeing Marcus’s accomplice without his mask.
“Quinn!”
“Madam,” he said with a bow, reaching up to help her out.
Her surprise instantly gave way to a blush. No doubt he couldn’t help but notice her badly mussed appearance. She felt grateful when he gave no sign that he was aware of any such thing.
Marcus jumped down beside her and handed Quinn an iron ring with a few keys on it. “I’ll dump this monstrosity of a coach in a field somewhere on my way back to the city.”
“The lady will be completely safe here, sir,” Quinn assured him. He went to the door of the cottage and unlocked it, then stepped inside, allowing them privacy.
Marcus’s gaze settled on Elizabeth. “Quinn will guard you until I return.”
Elizabeth, who had already gathered that, only responded with a frustrated glare.
“And you needn’t worry about the Viscountess Alden and Mrs. Osgood. I’ll let them know you’re safe. I’m certain they’ll agree that this is for the best.”
“I’m certain.” Elizabeth felt all the more irritated because she knew he was right. Everyone would be in complete agreement—except her.
“Even if you somehow managed to get away—which you won’t,” Marcus added, as if reading her thoughts, “you can’t go anywhere as Lady Barnes-Finchley or Blackerby Swift. You’ll get too much attention.”
She looked down at her muddy shoes. “You’ve seen to everything, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “And if you still can’t bring yourself to trust me after everything we’ve been through, Elizabeth, then we have nothing left to discuss.”
Marcus turned and slammed the coach door before he climbed into the driver’s seat.
He didn’t say goodbye.
“You won’t be able to get anywhere near Montaigne’s gold,” she said brokenly. “It’ll be too dangerous now. You’re only going to get…”
He turned and looked at her over his shoulder. Tears blurred her vision and she couldn’t say the rest, couldn’t bear to think about any harm coming to him.
“I’m never going to see you again,” she finished in a whisper.
He didn’t reply. When she managed to see clearly again, he was staring down at her from atop the stolen coach.
“You’re wrong,” he said tightly, as if struggling to keep his voice steady. Turning, he lifted the reins.
With a snap, he set the horses off as fast as they could go. Lady Kimble’s prized carriage pitched and lurched down the muddy path into the forest, until it and Marcus were swallowed up by the trees.
And he was gone.
Elizabeth started to sway on her feet, but suddenly Quinn was at her side, gently taking her arm to help her into the cottage.
She couldn’t let it end this way. Couldn’t allow Marcus to charge off, alone, into a ridiculously dangerous situation. Out of the tangled emotions in her heart rose a stubborn determination.
She wasn’t going to let him kill himself.
Somehow, Blackerby Swift would ride again, one last time.
Chapter 23
On Thursday morning, Marcus paid a visit to a gunsmith. He chose the most expensive establishment he could find, one that would be used to dealing with eccentric clientele and catering to unusual requests.
He dressed like a fashionable gallant, complete with brocade coat and breeches, a powdered wig and a silk patch on his cheek.
The next three days would see the end of ten years of planning and working for revenge—and he would need every ounce of skill and cunning he possessed to pull it off. Fortunately, since leaving Elizabeth safe in Quinn’s care yesterday, he found himself able to truly concentrate for the first time in recent memory.
The hackney coach he had hired came to a stop on the Strand, in front of the renowned firm of Fulbright & Weeks, Gunsmiths. Marcus stepped out and handed the driver a generous tip. He had never served in the military, but imagined this must be what a soldier felt like on the eve of a decisive campaign: focused, taut, ready. Questions of courage or cowardice had been subdued by a fierce drive to get the job done. He could physically feel it propelling him forward, step by resolute step.
The scent of gunpowder stung his eyes as he entered the shop. He no sooner closed the door behind him than he was greeted by one of the shopkeepers.
“Good day, your lordship,” the man said, dipping into a quick bow. “I’m Mr. Weeks. How may I be of service today?”
Marcus didn’t waste more than a few seconds pretending interest in the various displays that filled the polished glass cases and velvet-lined leather boxes. He wasn’t interested in flintlocks, dueling pistols, fancy powder horns or high-priced cleaning oils.
“I should like to purchase some lead shot,” he said finally. “The sort suitable for a blunderbuss.”
“Certainly, sir.” The man was clearly disappointed in such a simple request from such a richly-dressed customer. “If you would follow me.”
He went to the rear of the store, where casks and crates of all sizes were open to display a variety of ammunition.
“We’ve this, which is the more common sort.” He held up a handful of tiny lead balls before turning to another barrel. “Or this larger type, which is more expensive but much more effective.”
“The first will do,” Marcus said.
“Excellent. And how much would you like today, sir?”
“I think about five barrels should do.”
Weeks almost fell into his carefully-arranged display. “Excuse me, sir?”
From the man’s astounded look, he seemed to believe his customer meant to start a private war.
Not start one, Marcus thought, end one. “I’ll pay whatever you think fair. Cash. In advance. But I might need more than five. Will that be a problem?”
“Uh, no. No, sir. Not at all.” The shopkeeper recovered quickly, his face brightening. “I could have them for you tomorrow. Would that be soon enough?”
“I would prefer to have them on Saturday. And I should like them delivered.” Marcus indulged in a slow smile. “Along with one other item from your fine establishment.”
~ ~ ~
It rained all day Friday, a driving downpour that beat on the roof of the cottage until Elizabeth thought it might wash the little structure away.
Wishful thinking, she told herself sullenly, staring out the front window as the last rays of light melted into the trees. The dreary weather didn’t improve her mood, which had grown steadily more restless since Marcus had deposited her here two days ago.
It wasn’t a terrible place, she had to admit. At
any other time, she might have called it charming. Most of the cottage was taken up by a keeping-room, with oak furnishings, a cozy fireplace and handmade rugs. A kitchen and small bedroom made up the rest.
Marcus had thought to provide dresses so she would have a change of clothes, all the food she could eat, even a few books to keep her occupied. Quinn had turned out to be a very good cook, and every so often he would try to start a conversation or suggest a game of cards.
Elizabeth was not in the mood.
“Would you like supper soon, madam?” Quinn asked from where he sat by the hearth, reading.
“What time is it?” she asked dully.
He checked his pocket watch. “Six.”
She sighed in frustration. It was almost nightfall. Before she knew it, the Fair would be here, and she would still be stuck in the middle of these accursed woods.
Elizabeth turned and gave him a wan smile. “Yes, that would be fine. I’m sorry, Quinn, I know it’s not fair to keep taking out my disagreeable mood on you.”
Quinn looked up with a sympathetic expression. “Quite all right, madam.”
“It isn’t your fault that your employer is the most obstinate man in all of England.” Elizabeth regarded Quinn with a furrowed brow. “Tell me, how did a kindly soul such as yourself ever come to work for the infuriating Earl of Darkridge?”
He chuckled at her description, setting his book aside. “If it weren’t for Lord Darkridge, madam, I’m quite certain I wouldn’t be alive today.” His smile faded. “Before I worked for his lordship, I was an apothecary, at one of the top establishments in London. Our clients included the finest families, and I was quite ambitious. So I started experimenting, trying to improve existing formulas. Thought to make a name for myself.”
He looked up at Elizabeth, but she didn’t interrupt. She could tell this was not a tale he had often spoken aloud.
“I was confident I knew what I was doing,” he continued, “and I always tested the elixirs on myself first. I never expected to become… dependent on them. They started to affect my judgment. One day I tried one of my own formulas on a patient and I very nearly killed him.”
He shook his head sadly. “I lost my position that day, but I didn’t leave the drugs behind. I went to the London Register Office every day and tried to find work as a servant, but no one would hire me. I was almost ready to… end it all. And then Lord Darkridge took me on.”
“He was willing to take a chance on you?” Elizabeth asked softly.
“If you asked him why he did it, I’m sure he would have some perfectly logical explanation.” Quinn gave her a meaningful look. “But I don’t think Lord Darkridge always has perfectly logical reasons for his actions. He would never admit it, but more often than not, he just does what his heart tells him is the right thing to do.”
Elizabeth thought of the way Marcus had chided her for trying to help London’s downtrodden—and here he had done the same thing himself. Helping Quinn was not something most aristocrats would ever do.
She didn’t say anything for a moment. “Have you never tried to go back to it, Quinn? Being an apothecary, I mean.”
“I think it best to keep my distance from my old temptations. I’m quite content as valet, footman, butler, and cook. Though I use the skills of my former profession on occasion, when the need arises.”
“The way you helped me when I was Lord Darkridge’s… houseguest.” Elizabeth nodded.
“Indeed.” Quinn rose from his seat. “Now, then,” he said cheerfully, dispelling the somber mood. “I believe I was trying to persuade you to eat something.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I suppose I could allow myself to be persuaded, if you could make one of your delicious mutton pies. And perhaps some more of that roasted rye bread with butter. What was it you called it?”
“‘Toast,’ madam. It’s the latest thing to take with tea.” Quinn returned her smile warmly and went into the kitchen.
Elizabeth wandered to the other front widow and looked out, sighing. She couldn’t escape through one of the windows—she had checked upon her arrival, only to find that Marcus had bolted them all from the outside.
He truly had thought of everything.
She leaned her forehead against the windowpane, watching the raindrops spatter and drizzle down the glass, listening to the clatter of copper utensils as Quinn went to work.
It was unbearable, this torturous waiting and wondering. Whatever Marcus’s plan might be, he was facing deadly odds. Montaigne’s guards could very well prove too much for him.
And she would go mad if she had to stay here, miles away from him, feeling useless.
She raised her head and looked toward her bedroom. Her only hope was the jewelry she had buried in the stuffing of her mattress. If she could get to a village, or even a nearby farm, she could trade the earrings and necklace for a flintlock and a fast horse and be back in London in time for the Fair.
All she had to do was think of some way to get around Quinn.
~ ~ ~
By Friday night, Marcus was feeling inordinately pleased with himself. Exactly as he had hoped, the gossip had raced across London faster than skaters across the Thames in January: Blackerby Swift was back. The bounder had staged his most daring raid ever, kidnapping the beautiful favorite of the social season, one Lady Elizabeth Barnes-Finchley, less than a mile outside the city in broad daylight.
The poor woman hadn’t been seen since, and it was rumored that she had been thoroughly ravished and possibly shot, garroted or stabbed—depending on from whom one heard the tale.
God-fearing Londoners demanded that the brigand be brought to justice. Magistrates vowed that he would receive the most severe penalty under the law. Newspapers throughout the city printed scathing denouncements of the state of modern morals, accompanied, of course, by lurid descriptions of the rape and murder, some complete with artists’ wildly imagined renderings, which sold a mountain of newspapers.
Reading the reports at home Friday night, Marcus shook his head at how easily gossip was accepted as fact. The truth was that he had left Elizabeth in fine and furious good health. The only fact in the stories, he thought with a wicked grin, was the “thoroughly ravished” part. His smile faded when that thought was replaced by the memory of how they had parted.
Gossip aside, Marcus knew that by far the most satisfying aspect of the whole gambit was taking place in a town house in Cavendish Square. It was too late now for Charles Montaigne to cancel his plans for St. Bartholomew’s Fair. Gin vendors from all over England were already on their way to London, ready to collect on the contracts Montaigne had signed with them—and they had been promised payment in gold for a year’s supply of their best wares.
Montaigne had put out word across the city that he would pay triple the usual amount to any man willing to serve as a guard for his coach for just one day: Sunday.
But as gossip spread of Blackerby Swift’s murderous deed, along with freshly embellished tales of his previous exploits, few seemed eager to take up the challenge. One couldn’t spend triple pay, or any pay, if one were dead. Only a handful of desperate types applied.
And so it was that when Marcus presented himself on Saturday afternoon—disguised with the help of a wig and a few cosmetics, a trick he had borrowed from Elizabeth—the steward hired him as a guard on the spot.
Everything was going precisely as planned.
~ ~ ~
The rain had lessened only slightly by Saturday evening. Elizabeth sat on the edge of her bed in the darkness, listening to the rivulets of water pattering against her window. Sleep was the furthest thing from her mind.
The window was the best way out. She had decided that with a certainty that made her heart quicken. If she broke the glass, though, Quinn would come running in a second. And she couldn’t think of how to get past the outside lock without breaking the glass.
Only well after nightfall did she come up with an answer. She was sitting on it!
Diamonds.
She squinted in the meager light. It was difficult, but she managed to make a shallow cut in the glass.
Elated, she set herself to the task. After a few tries with the necklace, she stuffed it in her pocket, deciding that the earrings were easier to work with.
She hoped the steady splash of rainfall was enough to cover the tiny squeaking sound the diamonds made. She kept darting looks over her shoulder. Quinn slept just outside her door.
Her fingers were cramped when she finally finished, but her reward was a rough circle of glass that plopped into her hand. Setting it aside, she reached through the hole and unfastened the lock, then pushed the window open.
The fresh scent of rain and freedom was tantalizing. She wished she had a cloak of some sort—but of course, Marcus hadn’t provided that, since she wasn’t supposed to go outside.
She made do with a blanket from the bed. Wrapping it around her and pocketing the earrings, she climbed over the sill, landing softly in the mud on the other side. Quinn wouldn’t come in looking for her until breakfast.
By then, she thought with a surge of anticipation, she could be halfway to London.
~ ~ ~
Marcus had been at Montaigne’s town house for hours, but had yet to encounter Montaigne. He knew he should look on that fact as fortunate, but instead it irked him. He wanted to watch the bastard worrying about Blackerby Swift, sweating over his gold… never realizing the real threat was only a few feet away.
However, it seemed Montaigne was either so confident that he didn’t deem it necessary to rally his troops, or so overcome with nerves that he couldn’t get out of bed. Marcus guessed it was the latter.
The yard behind the town house was a quagmire of mud by Saturday night. Marcus did his best to blend in with the other servants and guards who hurried about, tending to last minute preparations.
Midnight Raider Page 27