by Cheryl Bolen
"Blast it, Molly, hush! Hell will turn to ice before I let Jack hang! There has to be some way to save him." Beau paced Nell's room, drumming the heel of her hand against her brow as if to jar loose some plan, some tiny spark of hope. "That's it!" She cried out so loud Molly nigh jumped from her skin. "Its easy, so blasted easy, it might work."
"What? Beau, you cannot mean to charge into Newgate."
"Aye, but I do. Yet not the way you fear. Not in a mission to rescue Jack, but rather as a grief-ridden visitor bidding him a tearful farewell."
"I don't understand."
"Moll, something is afoot—something evil, something terrifying—and Jack has the power to expose it. He was telling me about it when Griffin came, but he didn't have a chance to finish. Jack was planning to ride tonight to expose whoever is attempting to cast him to the dogs. If I can get to Jack, if he can tell me the whole of it, I'll ride in Jack's place."
"But even if you clear him of the charges of murder, Beau, Jack's escapades on the High Toby are legend. They'll hang him and glory in it."
"Not if we can get enough coin to buy him a pardon. It is said that if you pay enough, they won't go through with execution. Instead they will deport you."
"Deport you? To where?"
Beau clenched her fists. "A penal colony."
"Nay! He'd be nothing more than a slave!"
"It is a damn sight better than being dead!"
Molly's eyes swam with tears, and she pressed her fist to her pale lips as if to stifle the sobs Beau sensed were battling to beat their way from the girl's throat.
"Moll." She tried to gentle her voice. "At the moment it is the best hope we have to offer him. We have to take it."
Molly whispered her agreement in a small voice, the expression in her eyes suddenly distant, as though the chamber and even Beau had spun away. "Where... where will we get enough coin to save him?"
Beau rubbed her throbbing temples. "I don't know. But I'll think of something after I shatter these ridiculous lies about the murders."
"By then it might be too late. The authorities—they'll be eager to see the famed Gentleman Jack Ramsey hang."
“Curse it all, what do you want me to do? It will be a bloody miracle if I can even reach Jack tonight and discover what I need to know to clear him. Blast it, Moll, just stay here out of my bloody way until I think of something!"
Beau hated her friend's stricken expression. Molly looked as though Beau had crushed her beneath her boot heel. And maybe Beau had crushed Molly's fragile confidence in herself. But damnation, she had to go, had to ride, or else all would be lost.
"Moll." Beau caught the girl by the arms, staring into those wide, pain-filled eyes. "There is nothing you can do to help Jack. Just wait. And pray."
With those words Beau wheeled, bolting down the stairs and into the night.
Molly stared after her as if in a trance until suddenly there was a bit of movement in the doorway. Nell Rooligan's lumpy body filled the opening.
"She's gone to aid him?" The old hag's voice grated against Molly's nerves.
"Aye," Molly said faintly, her stomach churning. "But she's going to need coin—a great deal of coin."
"You can have all I possess, but, Lud, girl, it will not be enough. And where the three o' us are to get more I've no way o' knowin'. Unless..." Nell's eyes narrowed. "You remember that fancy nobleman what was askin' after you so often?"
"Aye." Molly turned, her skin crawling with dread.
"He came to me yesterday askin' for you most especial t'accompany him to some fete a-goin' on this night."
"A fete?"
"Aye, somethin' t'do with a bunch o' swells. Said he needed an angel o' a woman t'tryst wi' a devil like himself."
Molly shuddered at the memory of those cold eyes.
"When I told him you were no longer in me employ he was real disappointed-like. I offered him the pick o' any o' my bevy o' pretties, and he chose Lisette, but I could tell he was wishin' that you were his partridge."
Molly drew a deep breath, steadying herself. "I want this one. What is his name, and where can I find him?"
"His name be Valmont Alistair, or Alistair something... Malcolm. Aye, that was it. He has a hunting box near that ruined chapel about eight miles from here. Perhaps he is there yet."
"Nell, I have to—to go to him. When Beau returns tell her—"
"Aye. But girl, there be railings in the other world this night. I can feel 'em."
Molly's lips curved in a solemn, aching smile. "There is no world for me at all if Jack Ramsey doesn’t dwell in it." Nausea clenched within Molly's belly as she turned and forced her feet down the stairs into the night that Beau had always seen as a friend. Into the night that for Molly had ever been haunted with demons and phantoms preying on unwary souls.
* * *
The tiny cell reeked of despair, the light from the torch in the guard's outstretched hand dribbling over mildewed stone and filthy straw.
Bile rose in Isabeau's throat as her gaze swept the hellhole that was to be Jack Ramsey's final stop before the grave. This was no highwayman's cell decked out with whatever comforts the brigand's coin could buy. There were no thick blankets or tankards with fine ale, no candles driving back shadowy fears. Even the water in a wooden bucket was covered with scum, the candlelight turning the liquid's surface a stomach-churning shade of green.
But Beau would have preferred to stare into that poisonous water forever or count the rats skittering across the straw. Anything rather than look at the man who sat in the cell's far corner. A huge iron collar was locked about Jack’s neck. Shackles weighed down his wrists and ankles, the iron bands linked together with lengths of heavy chain.
The shadows carved deep hollows in Jack Ramsey's face, giving it the appearance of a cadaver, while a vicious purple welt slashed across his once-handsome features.
The guard grumbled as he stalked over to jam the torch base into a rusted sconce, and he wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth with the back of one grimy paw. "Ye've but five minutes wi' the murderin' scum, doxy. An' ye'd best take joy in 'em, 'cause it is said the bastard'll hang before the week be out. People don't take t'women bein' carved up, do they, Ramsey?" The guard sneered, kicking a tuft of soiled straw into Jack's face.
"Stop it, you blasted cur," Beau snapped, her fist clenching. "Stop it before I—"
"Afore ye what, missy?" The man's rotted teeth were exposed by his shiny, wet lips. "Punch ol’ Barnt here into eternity? A bit o' a thing like ye? I be fair tremblin'."
"Beau, don't." Jack's voice cut through her racing fury. "Its’ not worth it. He'll only drag you out of here if you do, and I—I need to... talk with you... one last time."
Beau forced her fingers to relax, tamping down her temper with all the inner strength she possessed.
"Backin' down, me sweeting? It’s most wise of ye."
"You've had your amusement at our cost, Barnt," Jack said. "Now leave us the hell in peace."
"Ain't goin' t'be peace where ye're goin', Ramsey. Jest hellfire an' brimstone. I wonder how ye'll take to it when it’s yer flesh splittin' beneath the devil's blade." Barnt chuckled.
"I can only hope that Lucifer has a good whetstone," Jack retorted with a mockery of his lazy smile. "I find dull swords annoying."
At last tired of his game, Barnt cursed, scratching his crotch as he exited the cell. He slammed the door into place, the grinding of the lock making the hair at Beau's nape prickle.
But she turned again toward Ramsey, the sight of her friend so abused making her hands tremble.
"Jack." She croaked his name, knowing that she must not cry.
"You must excuse the accommodations," Jack said. "It seems the cells for highwaymen and those for murderers are somewhat different."
"You'll not be in here for long."
Ramsey gave a rough laugh. "So they tell me. However, the alternative does not seem much more alluring. What think you, Beau? Do you believe in hell? I do. Now."
&
nbsp; "Don't be absurd. You're not—not going to die."
"And how, pray tell, are you going to prevent it, Impertinence?" The use of her pet name made a lump rise in Beau's throat. "Forces far more powerful than we are tilting with my fate now."
"Well then, they had better be damned powerful, for they'll have to rip you from me at the forfeit of their lives. I've been thinking—"
"God save us."
"Blast it, Jack, I've been stewing it over in my mind ever since I rode out from Nell's, and I think there may be a way to spare you this." She gestured toward the gruesome surroundings. "You spoke of some devilment to take place tonight. You had planned to go there, to dispatch this beast who has blackened your name."
"Aye. But now it is hopeless. Impossible."
"No. I think it is almost better. Better that you are here, locked away."
"Thank you for your kind concern."
Beau went to him, knelt down upon the straw. "Listen, damn you. With you imprisoned here there is no way you could be held accountable for whatever happens tonight. I'll go back to Nell's and raise a band of men. We'll ride to wherever this... this ritual you spoke of is to take place, and we'll snare the blackguard who is responsible for this."
"Beau, it is not that I'm ungrateful," Jack said slowly. "I thank you from my heart for coming here, but it is too late, my sweet. I'm a highwayman. They'll hang—"
"God's teeth," Beau raged. "Between you and Molly we might as well nail the lid upon your coffin and be done with it! I'm sick to death of the both of you! Now tell me where the bloody hell this ritual is to take place, and who the blazes is to command it, before I wrap those cursed chains about your neck and strangle you myself!"
She was seething, fresh, revitalizing anger surging through her. And as she glared down at Jack she suddenly saw the tiniest flicker of what might have been hope. But the highwayman merely arched one dark brow, wincing a trifle as the muscles pulled at his bruised flesh. "Methinks," he said solemnly, touching one finger to the iron collar, "that you would have the very devil of a time finding any neck to get the chains around."
Beau balled up her fist and dealt him a thudding blow in the chest, reluctant laughter bubbling up inside her. "Believe me, I shall manage, if you don't hasten to spill the whole of it."
"It is a stable lad who told me. He had happened upon it and overheard the brutes plotting." Jack's face went grim, sick horror on his features. "They are a mob of aristocrats, Beau. Maybe eight, ten of them that gather at that abandoned abbey hidden away in the wood. Gethsemane it was called before it was ruined."
"I know the place." Beau shuddered, remembering the scene within the clearing, the stench of blood, the carcasses of animals tortured, dead.
"It seems the leader dulls his followers' senses by beginning with beasts," Jack went on, "dipping their hands in blood upon the ruined altar. Once... once they are neck-deep in the reveling and frightened of him, he drags them deeper into horror." Jack shuddered. "Their initiation, their final ritual, is that of human sacrifice, Isabeau. Women. Young women. Beautiful women. Angels, they call them, who carry the men's pledge of loyalty to the devil. And what those girls suffer before—" Jack's mouth twisted, his face gray. "They must beg for death."
Beau's mouth went dry, her nails digging deep into her palms. "Then I'll need a dozen men. At least that, well armed."
"And where are you going to get them?" Jack gave a sick laugh. "Do you think you'll find anyone to aid you in saving Gentleman Jack Ramsey from the gallows? When they believe me to be capable of wreaking such horrors upon innocents?"
"I'll find a way—some way." Beau's mind filled with images of Griffin, his gaze warm with compassion, raw with love for her. Love enough, she hoped, to grasp this single chance to acquit the man he believed to be his brother's killer. "Stone—he has that many men. If I can convince him to give me this chance to prove—"
"Lord Stone would lay the moon at your feet if it was within his grasp. He loves you, Beau. Aye, and despite this"—Jack jangled his chains—"Stone is a good man. Even as he was leaving me here I overheard him tell his servants he was returning to Nell's to make certain you were all right. But as for his helping me..." Jack leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes closing. "Your Lord Stone truly believes I murdered his brother. It would be a miracle if he agreed to such a plan."
"Even if he doesn't, I'll find some way, Jack."
"I know you'll try, Beau. I thank you for that. But if in the end you cannot bring the bastards to justice, I want you—need you to do me one last favor. Kill him for me."
"Him?"
"The bastard who began it. The bastard who has the rest of the idiot louts beneath his spell. The bastard who wields the knife."
"I vow it. Who?"
"Alistair, Isabeau. Malcolm Alistair, Marquess of Valmont."
Beau stared at Jack, feeling as though she had stumbled into a gaping hole. "Alistair." She whispered the name, her skin clammy as she recalled the day she had first arrived at Darkling Moor. He had been there. That cold-eyed, white-faced specter that had made Beau's flesh crawl. Was it possible that Charles—Griffin's misguided nephew—could be snared in Alistair's web? Was it possible that that was the reason William Stone had been slashed down?
"Isabeau." Jack's voice tore her from her frenzied thoughts. "There is one more thing. These women—these angels the worshippers cut down—they are all alike in two features. Their hair must be honey gold. And their eyes—"
"Blue." Isabeau forced the word through stiff lips as Molly's chilling words drifted back to her... fears about a pale man, a nobleman with cruel eyes who had offered to pay Nell a fortune.
Thank God Molly was safe.
The rasping of the key in the lock made Beau start, and she hastily flung her arms about Jack, the edges of his bindings cutting deep into her flesh.
"I'll be back, Ramsey. I vow I will," she pledged fiercely. "With the Marquess of Valmont's head upon a pike."
* * *
Aches ground deep in Beau's muscles, exhaustion dragging at her like leaden weights as she reined Macbeth into the deserted inn yard. It was as if the mayhem of hours before had been wiped away by a giant hand, only the distant rumble of thunder hinting that a tempest was brewing. A tempest whose poison could touch everyone she loved—Jack, Molly, and Griffin as well.
Beau shivered against the wind, clambering down from Macbeth with an unaccustomed awkwardness as she prayed that Jack had not been mistaken, that Griffin had indeed returned to Blowsy Nell's. Even when she had purported to loathe and despise him, it would be like Griffin to still attempt to shield her behind his powerful shoulders. Shoulders that had borne far too much pain for their years, far too much grief, too little joy.
And now every fragile hope they had of finding a future together could be crushed by one flare of the stubbornness within him.
He'll listen. He has to listen, Beau raged inwardly. I'll force him to see reason.
She dared not think of what would happen if Griffin refused her. She crossed to the heavy door then swung it open. The firelight from the hearth cast an eerie glow about the familiar room, gleaming upon pewter tankards, worn wood tables and glass hurricanes whose flames had all been extinguished, except for one that still struggled against the darkness in a distant corner.
The tongue of flame limned the haggard planes of Griffin's face. He was here.
If Jack Ramsey's hell did indeed exist, Beau was certain the condemned could not look as tormented as Griffin Stone did now. She felt a desperate urge to fling herself into his arms, to drink in his hard warmth, his strength, to comfort him, and to have him croon to her that this night was nothing but some hideous dream.
But it was spine-chillingly real.
"You're... you're here." Her voice quavered, her knees suddenly wobbly with relief as she hastened toward him. "Griffin, thank God you are here."
"Where the blazes else would I be? From what I was told, you bolted out of here half-crazed. I couldn't find yo
u." Even through the accusatory tone of his voice she could hear the worry for her.
"I had to go to Jack, see him, so—"
"You went to Newgate?" Griff paled. "You little idiot! What if someone had recognized you?"
"As the Devil's Flame? Unless I was rigged out in full cloak and mask, how would they have guessed? But even if there had been a chance they would, I'd have gone there, if I'd had to, to hear the rest of what Jack had to say."
"Oh, aye, I'd wager he filled you full of claims of his innocence, his—"
"Damn your eyes, Griffin Stone, the man is innocent! But it is not his own life he fears for this night. It is the lives of others—others like those girls who lie murdered, aye, and misguided striplings like your Charles."
"Charles? I don't understand."
"Maybe that is because you never bloody listen!" She crossed to him, catching his face in her hands. "Those murders are part of a ritual, some sort of hellish ritual by men sucked into worship of the devil. The leader gathers up youths—youths who are lost, at odds with their families—and he gives them... gives them approval, goads them into doing hideous things... horrible things."
"And you think Charles..."
"I'm not certain, but he's with the murdering bastard often enough! The girls—they are sacrifices, the final step in initiation, and tonight—Jack vows that tonight—"
Griffin's fingers came up, tangled in her hair. "Beau! Stop this, for God's sake! I know full well Charles is no model of honor and propriety, but he is no more capable of murdering a woman than I am. And as for Ramsey, I wouldn't believe him if he said the bloody ocean was wet."
With a sob Beau tore away from him. "Damn you to hell, Griffin Stone! Damn you to hell! You claim you love me, but you won't bloody trust me. You say you want to bring William's murderer to justice, but you're willing to let an innocent man hang! How the devil will you feel when Jack Ramsey lies dead and the Marquess of Valmont goes on murdering?"
"Valmont?"
Beau's wrath cleared. Griffin's features were hard, cold, as if carved in ice. Only his eyes were alive with blue flame. "I told you it was he! He's been master of this from the beginning—murdering and then weaving his web so that it would seem Jack was guilty! For God knows, who would believe lowling scum the like of Jack Ramsey or—or me, when Valmont's a blasted marquess? Even you won't—"