A Reckless Encounter

by Rosemary Rogers

“Who else, indeed,” Easton murmured, the small smile a slight curve on his lips. “Who else indeed.”

  “Well, it only proves that he knows why I am here, and that he’s afraid of what I’ll say, afraid of what I can prove about him!” She surged to her feet, hands knotted into fists at her side, anger and pain vibrating through her body so that she could scarcely stand still. “I won’t do it. I’ll be heard, by God, for now I know that I can’t keep quiet! I had thought—Oh, I was so stupid, for I should know I could never really forget, not even for him. But I thought I might be able to, so that no one would be hurt—not the earl, no, not him, but those I care about. I didn’t want to hurt them, you see. Really, it wouldn’t bring them back, would it, if I told? Maman and Old Peter are still dead. But now I know that I can’t forget it, can’t ignore it, that it was done and justice was thwarted.”

  Easton merely watched her, an arrested expression on his fine features, his eyes unreadable and hooded. He made no attempt to soothe her, nor even to halt her when she turned to the door. Then she discovered he’d had no need to try, for a guard waited outside, turning quickly when she opened the door.

  “My dear Miss St. Clair,” Easton said finally when she slammed shut the door and whirled back to face him. “You are overwrought. Perhaps in the morning you will be more aware of your plight and amenable to my suggestions. America is your home, but if you prefer, England has many colonies.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  Easton rose from the chair, intimidating without being threatening, his smile urbane. “You will find it necessary to choose which option you prefer, or it will be chosen for you, but rest assured that you will not remain in England. It is up to you how you leave here.”

  “Tell Lord Moreland that removing me will not erase his guilt!”

  “Really, Miss St. Clair, I’m not at all certain Moreland even remembers your existence.”

  With that cryptic statement, Easton left her alone in the small room, though she heard him give instructions to the guard outside the door that she was to be closely watched at all times. Celia sat down, bewildered and more frightened than she had been before.

  What did he mean by that? Of course Moreland must remember her, for was he not responsible for this? It could only be him. Unless—unless Colter had decided that he no longer needed her, no longer wanted her. But that couldn’t be true. Could it?

  No, of course it isn’t. He wouldn’t do that to me, wouldn’t just leave me like this to be transported as if I was a common criminal! she thought wildly, despairingly. She put her face into her palms and shuddered.

  Oh, why hadn’t he come for her?

  27

  George Ruthven was already at the Horse and Groom, and had been since two that afternoon. Northington, garbed still in the wool jersey and rough coat, sat with him as they waited. Tyler was posted outside to keep watch on the stable. At the stable across the dark street, lights flickered below and above in the hayloft.

  “They’ve been arriving since early today,” Ruthven said calmly. “There’s about two dozen men.”

  “Hardly the fifteen thousand Thistlewood predicted.” Colter balanced his chair on its two rear legs, arms crossed over his chest as he and several others took turns watching out the window for the conspirators. “We may not have to wait on the Coldstream Guards to arrive.”

  Ruthven nodded and slid a glance toward Richard Birnie, who was a Bow Street magistrate in charge of the operations. They had just arrived, a dozen police officers and the magistrate, now staring into the darkness of Cato Street. The was an air of tense excitement in the room.

  Tyler slid into the room a few minutes later, his face sharp with tension. He beckoned to Colter and said tautly, “You were right. John Brunt has delivered sabers, swords, pistols and rifles to the stable all day, but I was just told they have armed themselves with a hand grenade.”

  “Christ,” Colter swore softly. “A hand grenade is more than we bargained for. They might as well have cannons sitting in that bloody stable.”

  “What should I do? Do I tell Birnie?”

  Colter glanced over his shoulder. “Yes. Tell him, but wait until I’ve gone.”

  Tyler’s jaw set. “You’re not exactly unknown. If they recognize you, that would destroy any chance of surprise we have.”

  “Then don’t wait long after I’m gone to tell them what you know, Tyler.”

  It was a risk, but there was little choice. It was all happening too quickly now, and an argument with Birnie would take up valuable time.

  It was cold, the night pressing down as he stepped outside. Chimney smoke clogged the air, layering beneath the clouds to burn eyes and nose. Across from the pub, a lamp burned over the stable door; the second floor was darker, with something over the windows. The small stable was near a corner where some five-story brick buildings ran parallel. An arch cut under one of the buildings, and he saw a casual lounger waiting beneath the fitful light of a small lamp.

  There would be no second chances.

  Darkness greeted him on the first floor of the stable, the smell of hay and dung strong as he slipped inside a side door and paused. Stationed at the main door, a man watched the street intently, the dull light a pale glint along the stock of his weapon.

  The old reckless exhilaration was on him now as Colter moved on the balls of his feet across the straw-littered dirt of the stable floor, a knife in one hand. He’d done this kind of thing before, in France and in the steaming swamps of Louisiana, and even in the hot, arid desert of California. This kind of fighting wasn’t military precision but guerrilla style, stealthy and devastating to morale if not numerically superior. Nervous sentries never knew from where an enemy would come, rising out of black night to slit a throat or put a blade between the ribs, or hiding behind bushes or walls, lying in wait for an ambush.

  It was these times he felt truly alive again. It was a paradox that a man only felt alive when he was in danger of dying, but maybe that was because he felt stifled by the atmosphere in which he found himself most of the time. He hadn’t felt this acute sense of danger, of risk, since he’d returned to England.

  There were only a few minutes before Ruthven and Birnie acted, and he had to find the hand grenade before any of the conspirators had a chance to use it. Disarming the guard was no challenge, sliding up behind him and putting the tip of his knife to the spot just below his ear, his voice soft as he told him to throw down his weapon.

  “Softly now. If my hand slips…”

  There was no need to say more. The man nodded silently, terror making him clumsy but obedient.

  “What’s your name?” The knife prodded slightly when he only stammered.

  “Ings…James Ings!” was the hoarse whisper.

  “Now, Mister Ings, why don’t you show me where you keep the hand grenade and other weapons. You know it’s all over now, so no sense in being stubborn. The police will be here any minute, and in any case, there are twice as many of them as there are of you, so you don’t have a chance. A trial could go either way, just as the last one. And at least you’d have a chance that way. If you warn Thistlewood, I’ll gut you right here.”

  Reflected light from the lantern outside on the wall betrayed Ings’s pasty pallor, and he nodded slowly.

  “The…grenade is over there. I was to use it if we were stormed.…”

  It took only a moment to bind and gag Ings, then find the grenade. Colter stood up when Ruthven led his small force inside. Silently he gestured to the ladder, and Ruthven flashed him a grin.

  Colter followed as they swarmed up the ladder to the hayloft. As they burst into the loft Ruthven shouted, “We are peace officers! Lay down your arms!”

  Thistlewood and Davidson drew their swords, and were immediately engaged by some of the officers, while several of the conspirators hastily tried to load their pistols. A table was knocked over in the confusion as men scrambled, a lamp landing dangerously close to a mound of straw. Moving swiftly, Colter brought his
foot down on one man’s arm and bent to pluck the pistol from his hand. There was shouting, but it was over quickly, and officers moved to arrest them, herding them in a group.

  Glancing up, Colter shouted “Watch him!” just as a desperate William Davidson lunged forward with his sword to pierce one officer in the chest.

  As the officer reeled, he gasped out, “Oh God, I am…” then collapsed.

  Colter leaped over the fallen man and tackled Davidson, taking him to the wooden floor. A vicious blow to the jaw made lights explode, and he countered the next punch with an upraised arm, his free hand slashing out and down, catching the conspirator in the angle of his neck and shoulder, sending him crashing to his knees. Straw chaff flew into the air as they fought, but with the advantage of weight and experience against him, Davidson was quickly subdued.

  Panting, Colter hauled him to his feet, a pistol stuck into the man’s back as he gave him into the custody of one of the police officers. Then he saw Tyler.

  He dragged his sleeve across his jaw as he watched the officers round up the others, and said, “They delivered all the munitions for us. All that has to be done now is deliver them to the magistrate.”

  “Once we catch those who escaped.” Tyler shrugged at Colter’s sharp glance. “When Smithers was stabbed, a few of them escaped. Thistlewood took advantage of the confusion, and according to Edwards, so did Brunt, Adams and Harrison.”

  “How’s Smithers?”

  “Dying, it looks like.”

  Colter glanced around the loft; the fallen officer lay on his back, blood seeping to the floor, his breath rattling in his throat, while around him his comrades milled in great distress and anger.

  “We need to catch them,” Tyler said softly, and Colter nodded.

  “They’ll be caught. And they’ll hang.” He looked back at Tyler. “I think I know where they might hide.”

  It was easy enough to find the men who had fled, and Colter found Tyler an able comrade, quick thinking and even quicker to act. They turned them over to the magistrate, a little worse for their ordeal, defiant to the end and spouting radical speech.

  “They’ll hang,” Tyler predicted laconically, leaning on the pub table, a half-empty tankard in his hand.

  “Or be deported.” The pub was stuffy and full of smoke, swirling every time the door opened. They were waiting for Mowry, though he would come to the back room instead of the common room. Tyler shook his head.

  “Not Thistlewood and Davidson. They’ll hang, along with Brunt, who hid the weapons. Too bad we couldn’t charge John and James Carlisle with anything.”

  “Not enough proof. The magistrates aren’t anxious to lose another case against the Spenceans, though this time there’s more than enough proof on Thistlewood.”

  Mowry confirmed their conclusions, satisfaction evident as he gloated. “Sidmouth is most pleased. As well he should be, since it would have been his head adorning a pole at the city gates.” Leaning back, he twisted the stem of his wineglass between his thumb and fingers, a smile lingering as he said, “It seems disaster has been averted yet again. It’s regrettable that not all the men involved can be brought before the courts, but one day they will make a misstep. When they do, I’ll have them.” His eyes flicked to Colter. “Even Whigs must recognize men like that are dangerous.”

  “Danger is in a mind closed to progress and reform. But that’s another discussion. I have other business to attend.”

  “Ah, yes, the matter of Miss St. Clair. I trust that all is well in that quarter.”

  “It will be when I get there.”

  “Of course.” Mowry’s smile sharpened slightly. “She must be waiting for you. I trust she’ll be more forthcoming in the future.”

  Damn Mowry, the man never said things directly but had to be so bloody oblique.

  “If you have information to share, I’ll be glad to hear it,” he said. “But I’m in no mood to play games.”

  “No, it doesn’t sound that way. Any information I have is just rumor. I’m sure you’ll take care of things in your own way.” He rose to his feet, his eyes hooded. “You’ll want to pay a visit to Barclay before you leave London, Northington. He’s always so—informative.”

  Christ, how was Mowry involved in that business? He had too many damned informants.

  “I’m not at all sure I appreciate your delving into my private business concerns, Mowry. There are areas in my personal life that are not open for your review.”

  “Certainly, unless you happen to be involved in illegal activities.”

  “Are you making an accusation?”

  “No, a point. One hand should know what the other is doing. The Inland Revenues do not care to be cheated, nor do the Revenue cutters like chasing boats with men who shoot at them.”

  “None of which has anything to do with me.”

  Mowry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That has yet to be proven. His Majesty’s taxes are expected to be paid on goods that come into this country, even goods that come by way of the back door.”

  Dammit, his father would destroy them all one day.

  “If you’re insinuating that I’m smuggling goods from my own ships into the country, you’re wrong. I wouldn’t take the risk for a negligible amount of money.”

  “Perhaps not, but it seems likely that not everyone in your firm feels the same way. Investigate it, Northington, and I think you will be surprised. Heed me well. Not every head that rolls in these situations is guilty, but if they must be sacrificed, it is done. But you know that.”

  “Yes,” he said grimly. “I know that.”

  With a frosty smile, Mowry said coolly, “Excellent. I look forward to our next meeting, gentlemen.”

  It sounded almost like a threat.

  PART IV

  “All for Love, or the World Well Lost.”

  —John Dryden

  28

  It had been hours since Lord Easton had left her to her own, and Celia hadn’t slept at all. She was too tense, too nervous, and there seemed to be no way out. Oh God, what would happen if she didn’t leave willingly? Would he truly deport her? He could, and she’d end up in Australia or even India, or some other territory. She had no illusions that he would take sudden pity on her. There had been steel in that voice and his eyes—a family trait, no doubt.

  She could tell when the sun came up, because slivers of light poked through chinks in the wall. There was no window, no avenue of escape, and she paced fretfully.

  When voices outside penetrated her despair, she whirled around to face the door, and braced herself for another interview with Lord Easton.

  But to her surprise, the man who entered was a friendly face. She flung herself at him, crying out with relief.

  “Sir John! How did you ever find me? Oh, it doesn’t matter, nothing matters but that you’ve come to help me. I cannot believe that you’re here—”

  Harvey smiled, his hazel eyes regarding her with an expression she couldn’t read. He gently put her back from him a little bit.

  “Miss St. Clair—Celia, it’s not quite what you think. I wish it was, but I’m afraid I cannot do anything for you. It’s beyond my help.”

  “What do you mean? Has Lord Easton threatened you, too? Oh, he wouldn’t send both of us away. He couldn’t! It’s not the same with you as it is me, and he couldn’t get away with it. What has he told you? Has he told you everything?”

  Sir John looked slightly embarrassed. “It’s beyond my help,” he said again, helplessly. “I wish you’d stayed out of this.”

  “Out of what? I don’t know what’s going on, and I’m not at all certain it has anything to do with me. Does this have something to do with that map?”

  “Map?” He gave her a blank look. “I know nothing about a map. All I know is that you’ve managed to earn a powerful enemy.”

  Taken aback, she stared at him. “An enemy? If you mean Moreland, there’s a reason for that.”

  “Reason or not, it’s done.”

  Agitate
d, she snapped, “Yes, it was done ten years ago, by God, and now he wants to avoid justice!”

  “Please,” he said, almost desperately. “I don’t need to know any more. I just have to take you with me.”

  “Don’t you want to know why? Don’t you want to know the kind of man you’re helping escape justice?”

  Lord Easton appeared in the doorway, his tone mild as he said, “Really, Miss St. Clair, you aren’t helping yourself with this hysteria.”

  “Hysteria, my lord? It’s not hysteria to tell the truth, is it? Or perhaps you think it is. Why don’t you tell him why you’re doing this?”

  “Harvey needs to know only to follow orders, not to think for himself. It’s much more profitable for him that way.”

  It dawned on her now that this was no rescue, or random visit. Harvey was working with Easton! Somehow, and for whatever reason, they were in collusion and she was fated to suffer for it.

  Drawing on a reserve of strength she hadn’t known she had left, she faced Easton coolly. “I see. Very well, my lord. If I’m to leave England I will do so. I should like, however, to choose my destination, as you offered me last night.”

  “That can be arranged.” He regarded her with a faint smile. “As long as it is across an ocean. France is out of the question, for it’s much too close.”

  “I’ll return to America. You were right, of course. It is my home and where I belong. The air there is so much more clean and fresh.”

  He looked amused. “I agree with your rather unsubtle views. London society does have a habit of tainting the air. But be that as it may, time is fleeting. Dover is at hand, my dear, and so, it seems, are you. By this afternoon, you should be on a ship bound for America, with a tidy little sum in your purse to make your way easier.”

  “You mean to purchase my silence. No, your money is not needed,” she said quietly, “for I will not accept payment for the lives of two people I loved. You may be able to send me away, but you are not able to buy redemption in whatever form it is that Lord Moreland wishes.”