Desired

by Nicola Cornick

  She turned the page and started to draw. Within a few strokes of the pencil Sea Witch had started to come to life, sails billowing as they caught the wind, prow raised to the waves.

  Sea Witch…

  Tess closed the book very softly. She knew now what she had to do.

  “YOU BLOODY FOOL,” GARRICK Farne said, marching into Owen’s prison cell in the Tower of London and planting himself foursquare in front of him. “What the hell did you have to confess to something like this for?” Then, as Owen did not answer: “I don’t think I can get you out. Grant and I have both tried. Sidmouth doesn’t want to know.”

  “Of course not,” Owen said. “I was the one who questioned his judgement and told him he was corrupt.” His mouth twisted. “Sidmouth doesn’t really appreciate opposition.”

  Sidmouth, Owen thought, had been notably unsympathetic to him so far. He had had him thrown into a damp cell in a forgotten corner of the White Tower and had left him to rot. The room had a pallet for a bed, a broken chair and one narrow window, barred. It smelled of damp and decay and hopelessness. He was inordinately glad that Tess had never had to endure this place where light and dark merged and nameless horrors rose to taunt him in the depths of the night.

  “Plus you are a foreigner, a known Republican sympathiser, a former prisoner of war and a reputed pirate.” Garrick rubbed his forehead. “Hell, Rothbury, you’ll be hanged before you know it.” He scowled. “Why did you have to confess to this when you did not even do it?”

  “Why do you think?” Owen demanded.

  Garrick stared at him. “Tess,” he said heavily, after a moment. “So it’s true. She really was Jupiter.” He ran a distracted hand through his hair. “She said that she was, but I thought she was run half-mad, wanting to save you. So that night at the brothel—”

  “She was running away from the radical meeting,” Owen said. “Yes. Your wife is not the only bluestocking firebrand in that family, Farne.”

  “Bloody hell,” Garrick said. He frowned, dragging the most recent of Jupiter’s cartoons from his pocket. “But Tess didn’t draw these cartoons,” he said.

  Owen did not even look at it. “Yes, she did,” he said tiredly. He felt sick with misery and disappointment. Tess had promised him she would not go to the radical meeting but he had found her at Spa Fields. She had told him she had not drawn the cartoons but he could not believe her. He wished she had kept her promise to him. But more than that he wished they had not quarrelled, not now when very likely he would not be permitted ever to speak to her in private again. He would never have the chance to tell her how much he loved her.

  “Tess didn’t draw those cartoons,” Garrick insisted. “Lady Emma Bradshaw drew them.”

  “What?” Owen shot to his feet. “Lady Emma? She cannot have done.”

  Garrick passed the cartoons over. “Look at them,” he growled. “They aren’t as good as the other ones.”

  “They were drawn in a hurry,” Owen argued.

  Garrick shook his head. “Emma came to me and confessed,” he said, with grim satisfaction. “She was all set to confess to Sidmouth too, but I told her it would do no good. He won’t release you. He wants to make an example of Jupiter, but he couldn’t hang either the daughter of the Earl of Brooke or the daughter of the Earl of Fenner. That would look frightfully bad. So you—” Garrick shot Owen a glance in which fury and exasperation were mingled equally “—are his sacrifice.”

  “It’s worth it,” Owen said bleakly. Then, as Garrick just looked at him, he burst out, “Devil take it, Farne, what would you have done? Let Merryn go to gaol? Let her die?”

  Garrick’s expression hardened. “No, of course not.” He raised both hands in a gesture of appeasement. “But there had to have been another way.”

  “There wasn’t,” Owen snapped. “You said it yourself. Sidmouth has to be seen to make an example of someone.” He sat down heavily on the flimsy pallet bed. “So Tess was innocent of these.” His hand scattered the cartoons. “Damnation. I wish I had believed her.” In his mind’s eye he could see Tess’s pale, strained face as she had sworn to him that this time the caricatures had not been her work. He had not trusted her. He felt a great sweep of desolation.

  “The two of you are as bad as each other,” Garrick said. “Did you know Tess went to Sidmouth to try to persuade him of her guilt? If anyone else claims to be Jupiter, this whole thing will start to look like a farce.” He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking very tired. “You know what is going to happen, Rothbury? You do understand? They only let me see you because they are going to hang you.”

  They stared at one another.

  “I had thought to try to help you escape to Sea Witch,” Garrick said suddenly, “but if I started to hire a crew Sidmouth really would sit up and take notice and I’d end up in here with you.”

  “A pity I can’t crew her alone,” Owen said, with a faint smile, “but that is beyond even my powers.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “As you say, Sidmouth has to hang someone. People are terrified of the radicals running out of control and starting a revolution like the one in France.”

  “Sidmouth encouraged those rumours deliberately so that he could crack down on his political enemies,” Garrick said grimly.

  Owen shrugged. “That’s beside the point.” He looked away. “Tell Tess that I am sorry I doubted her,” he said, with difficulty. He stood up, offered Garrick his hand. “And look after her for me, Farne. I want her to be happy. I hope she finds husband number five,” he added wryly.

  “She won’t,” Garrick said. “Don’t you know she loves you, Rothbury? A pity that when she finally finds a man worthy of her he has to do the quixotic thing of dying for her.” He hesitated, shook Owen’s hand. “We’ll keep trying for you,” he said. “We’ll do our best.”

  It sounded like an epitaph.

  The door closed behind him, leaving Owen in the dark.

  TOM HAD BEEN WAITING FOR EMMA all day. He knew she had gone to Garrick Farne and that his half-brother had told her not to go to Sidmouth to confess, but Tom knew his Emma and he knew that she would come anyway. Emma loved Tess Rothbury and she would never let Tess lose Owen if there was a single thing that she could do to prevent it. Emma was honest like that, honourable, true and good, all the things that Tom was not and now wished he had been in order to deserve her. He passed the long, cold day of waiting in thinking of all the bad things he had done. Soon, he knew he would have ample time to sit and reflect on his sins, on all the people he had robbed and cheated and blackmailed, on the time he had left Merryn to die and had tried to shoot Garrick. He thought of all the women he had betrayed. He closed his eyes and saw Tess stumbling down dark corridors towards an open door, a door that he had closed in her face.

  It was the sound of footsteps that roused him. The clock on St. Margaret’s Church had just struck the hour of six. The cold darkness was settling over the quiet street and the snow was starting to fall, and there was Emma, hooded and cloaked, a slender shadow amongst the dark. Tom felt his heart surge and then the dull weight of denial settled on him as he remembered she would never be his again. Soon, very soon, she would be a widow. He knew what he had to do.

  He ran up the steps to Lord Sidmouth’s house and rang the bell. Emma had checked as she had seen him by the door ahead of her. He knew she had not recognised him. For a moment she hesitated then her steps resumed. She walked past the house, turned the corner of the street and was lost from his sight. The door opened. Tom stepped inside.

  IT WAS LATE WHEN THE CELL DOOR clanged open, rousing Owen from half-sleep.

  “You’re free to go, my lord,” the turnkey said with a great deal more respect than he had shown Owen over the previous week. “Lord Sidmouth’s orders. All an unfortunate misunderstanding, his lordship says. We’ve got the real culprit. Nothing but trouble, this one, right from the start.” He pushed Tom Bradshaw into the cell. Bradshaw stumbled and almost fell, righted himself and shook himself
like a dog. Chains clanked. Owen noticed there were iron manacles on his wrists and his ankles.

  “Bradshaw?” he said incredulously.

  “Wants a word with you,” the jailer said. “You don’t need to talk to him though, sir, if you don’t want.”

  “Such respect,” Bradshaw sneered, “now my Lord Rothbury is no longer a criminal.”

  The jailer kicked him. “Enough from you.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Owen said. He saw the jailer’s look of surprise before the man went out, leaving the two of them alone with one small candle to light the cell.

  “I hope it doesn’t hurt your pride, Rothbury,” Bradshaw said, “that Sidmouth wanted to hang me more than he wanted to hang you.”

  So that was it. Owen looked at Bradshaw’s dark cynical face and felt shock and profound relief mingled with an odd sort of regret.

  “I am surprised Sidmouth didn’t just hang both of us,” he said drily.

  “You’ve got powerful friends,” Bradshaw said. “They didn’t like it. Kicked up a big fuss. Lady Martindale…” He shook his head. “Never get on the wrong side of that woman. Sidmouth was in a bind. So when I came along—” He grinned. “Manna from heaven. No questions asked.”

  “You gave yourself up?” There was stark incredulity in Owen’s tone. Self-sacrifice was so far from Tom Bradshaw’s way of life that he was sure the man must be lying.

  Bradshaw grinned. “Difficult to believe, isn’t it?”

  “Impossible,” Owen said.

  Bradshaw’s smile faded. “Some things are worth more than others,” he said softly. “That’s why you are here, isn’t it, Rothbury? Because you love your wife so much that you would die rather than see her hurt?”

  “Sidmouth would never have arrested Lady Emma,” Owen said.

  “Emma would have made him do it,” Tom said quietly. “She was going to confess. And if Sidmouth ignored her confession she would have announced it on the streets, published it in the papers, declared her guilt and her identity as Jupiter to everyone so that Sidmouth could not ignore her and was forced to act.” For a brief second he dropped his face into his hands then raised his head, haggard. “Emma has too much integrity to let an innocent man die,” he said. “She and Lady Rothbury. They were both Jupiter, from the very first. They took it in turns to draw the cartoons. When you were hunting Jupiter, Lady Rothbury protected Emma. Now Emma wants to do the same for her.”

  For a second time Owen felt the shock hit him with the power of a blow. Emma and Tess, both Jupiter, both the radicals’ cartoonist. He would never have guessed. Tess had not lied to him; she had been Jupiter and she was prepared to own up to that fact. But she had wanted to protect Emma too because she was strong and generous, and helping those who needed her was what she had always done.

  “You gave yourself up to keep Lady Emma safe,” Owen said.

  “I made Sidmouth a deal,” Tom said. “He knows I’m not Jupiter. He knows those latest cartoons were Emma’s work. But he won’t touch her because it’s a greater triumph to arrest me and hang me and make a huge spectacle of it.” His mouth twisted. “The Duke of Farne’s bastard son, criminal and murderer, caught at last.”

  “And what if Lady Emma won’t let you die for her?” Owen said. “She wouldn’t hand you over before.”

  “She won’t know until it’s too late,” Tom said. “That’s part of the deal. Sidmouth keeps this quiet until the last minute when it is too late for Emma to do anything about it.” He looked up. “It’s not just for Emma,” he said slowly. “It’s for Lady Rothbury too.”

  Owen’s attention sharpened. “Because Teresa saved Emma when she was thrown out onto the street?”

  “That too,” Tom said. He shifted. “And because I did her a terrible wrong.”

  The atmosphere in the cell moved and thickened. Owen could feel the tension in his blood.

  “I heard you were looking for Brokeby’s cronies,” Bradshaw said.

  Owen went very still. “How did you know that?” he said softly.

  Bradshaw shrugged. “I hear things.” He shifted his shoulders against the wall. “I heard you were looking for revenge.” He shrugged. “I can’t blame you. But you’ve been robbed by time.” He met Owen’s eyes. “They’re all dead, Rothbury. All dead, except me.”

  Owen made an involuntary movement towards him. Bradshaw was watching him with those dark, unreadable eyes, waiting for his reaction. Owen knew all about Tom Bradshaw and the games he played. He knew how Bradshaw had manipulated Merryn and tried to blackmail James Devlin and all the other things he had done. He knew Bradshaw was a man who exulted in his power to hurt people. He felt the anger and the violence spread beneath his skin and infiltrate every part of his body, but still he did not move.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he said.

  Bradshaw smiled. It was a bitter smile this time. “Think of it as my confession, Rothbury. It’s been on my conscience, and me thinking I did not even have a conscience.”

  “What did you do?” Owen’s blood felt ice-cold with rage now, sick with dread.

  “I didn’t touch her.” Bradshaw had heard the note in Owen’s voice too. He put out a hand as though to ward off a blow, the blow Owen wanted so deeply to administer and yet held back. “I swear it.” He laughed, a short, mirthless laugh. “Well, I would say that, wouldn’t I? But it’s true.”

  “Then what did you do?” Owen said. He scarcely recognised his own voice, thick with anger and violence.

  “I was the one who closed the door,” Bradshaw said. His look scoured Owen’s face. “I see she told you about that,” he said. “Well, I was the one who locked her in there, Rothbury, with Melton and Brokeby and Brokeby’s friends. I thought it was just a bit of fun—I didn’t even know who she was! Some of the others had brought women with them and they were playing all manner of games…?. I thought she might even have been paid, you know. Paid to try and run away, and be caught and brought back…?.”

  “You thought that Teresa was just another whore to treat as you wanted,” Owen said. “You loathsome—” The murderous hatred closed his throat. He was so close to the edge with his abhorrence for what Bradshaw had done and his disgust for those men and their vile games. His heart was breaking for Tess all over again.

  “It’s not too late, though, is it, Rothbury?” Bradshaw said, and Owen could hear the hope in his voice. “She has you now. You opened the door. You can show her the light.”

  Owen clenched his fists so tight that he felt the bones ache. He wanted to kill Bradshaw, to take him apart, not only for what he had done to Tess but also because the man was the last remnant of Brokeby’s repulsive legacy, the only man left whom he could vent his anger and revenge upon. The fury raked him again, but beneath it he could sense Tess’s presence, feel her touch on his cheek.

  “I love you. You made me whole again…”

  He had no need to kill Bradshaw. Sidmouth would do that for him, coldly, clinically, with the full weight of the law behind him. The only thing that mattered was Tess. What mattered now was their future, not the past.

  He walked to the door. His body felt cold and tired, aching in his bones as though he had been in combat.

  Bradshaw had not moved, nor even looked up.

  Owen stopped. “We will take care of Lady Emma,” he said. “I promise you.”

  Bradshaw’s head came up slowly. He gave a crooked smile. “I know,” he said. “I tried to be good enough for her, but it was always too late.”

  “In the end I think you were,” Owen said. He rapped sharply on the door and the jailer let him out.

  “Vermin,” the man said, jerking his head towards the darkened cell. “Scum of the earth.” He kicked the door shut and turned the key with a grating creak of satisfaction. “You’ll be wanting to be away now, my lord,” he added. “Now that this unfortunate misunderstanding is resolved.”

  “Unfortunate misunderstanding,” Owen said. He could just imagine Sidmouth uttering those words, full of sanc
timony and self-righteousness. “Yes, indeed, most unfortunate.”

  He went out into the street. The air was cold. Snow was gathering. He had never been so grateful to be free. He turned for home.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  NIGHT HAD FALLEN OVER THE Greenwich dock but on the deck of Sea Witch lanterns burned as they had done late into the night for the past two nights. The air was rich with the fumes of fresh paint and tar, thick with snow. Men moved in the rigging of the ship, shadowy figures swarming from bow to stern. Owen stood at the corner of Wharf Street in the shelter of the warehouses and looked on in astonishment.

  He had come directly from Clarges Street.

  “Lady Rothbury is currently living on board a ship, my lord,” Houghton had told him, lips very tightly pursed, sounding as disapproving as if Tess had taken up residence in a brothel. “Her maid is with her,” he added, as though that gave Tess a spurious respectability.

  Owen had grinned and slapped him on the shoulder and had called for a horse and was gone before the butler could even protest that he smelled like a week in gaol. He knew exactly where Tess was and he loved her all the more for it.

  As he watched, Tess came up onto Sea Witch’s deck. For a moment Owen saw the lantern light gleam on her auburn hair before she pulled her shawl over her head to protect against the swirling snow. She stood there for a moment, a lonely figure looking out across the dark river, and then she paused and turned towards where he was standing.

  Owen was not aware that he had moved but he found himself running down the narrow street towards the quay. He reached Sea Witch and vaulted aboard in one jump. Tess had not moved. She was looking at him, lips parted, eyes bright in the lantern light, as though she could not quite believe what she was seeing. She pressed one hand to her throat. Then she took a step towards him.