by Joan Smith
“Do the others know?” Black asked.
“I’ve spoken to them. They’re coming here at nine-thirty for final planning, then we’ll regroup at ten-thirty. I didn’t ask you this afternoon, is it likely they’ll be mounted? Do they have mounts?”
“No, not a horse between the lot of them, from what I saw. There’s no stabling nearby. I fancy it’ll be either shank’s mare or take a hackney.”
“Morgrave certainly won’t go on foot. You take my plain carriage. There’s a pistol in the side pocket. I’ll ride ahead and the others will follow. And, Black, I’d appreciate it if you not mention this to her ladyship, if she should be speaking to you.”
This put Black in a difficult situation. In the past it had been Lady Luten’s ruse to have him accompany her to the scene of action when Luten ordered her to stay at home while he was out on dangerous business. On those occasions Black enjoyed his alter ego of Lord Blackwell. But he was so eager to remain in Luten’s good graces, which he certainly wouldn’t if he took Lady Luten, that he said, “Mum’s the word,” with hardly a qualm.
As luck would have it, he didn’t encounter her on his way out.
The group met in Luten’s study at nine-thirty, as planned. Corinne, strangely, was not in the drawing room when they arrived.
“Where’s Corrie tonight?” Coffen asked. “Did you arrange some other activity for her? If not, she’ll be following us. You know how she hates to miss out on anything.”
Luten shot a glance at Black, who shook his head to indicate his innocence. “She doesn’t know we’re going. She’s abovestairs with Mrs. Ballard, playing Pope Joan. For pennies.”
“A cruel way to treat a bride, Luten,” Prance said, with a smile that was half a smirk.
“Would you prefer that she be shot?” Luten snapped. “Our main aim tonight is to catch Morgrave. If we can take some of his French cohorts, so much the better, but it is imperative that we catch Morgrave. Black has got a line on their hangout in Long Acre, so we might round them up later if they escape. Black has figured out where he believes they’re meeting. I’ll be riding Smoker and go in the lead, you follow closely behind. You’ll be going in my hunting carriage with Black. Leave the rig at the Gray’s Inn and walk the rest of the way.”
“Don’t you think it might be better if we all ride?” Coffen said. “I mean to say, if they’re mounted and take off away from a road, we won’t be able to catch them in a carriage.”
“Black doesn’t think they have mounts, with the exception of Morgrave, of course, and I’ll handle him personally. A carriage will be better for taking them to Bow Street after we catch them,” Luten said.
“I’d prefer to take my own carriage,” Prance said, thinking of all the preparations he had made. “It’s plain black as well, and I have a good, fast team.”
“Fine, take yours then,” Luten said, “and the others can go with you.” Prance made no demur at this. He knew Black and Coffen for good bruisers, if there should be trouble.
“Not a bad idea, in my condition,” he said, wincing. In fact, his ribs did still bother him.
“I’ll take along the pistol from your hunting carriage,” Black said to Luten, then added aside to Prance, “I’ll be at your place at ten-thirty.”
“I think that’s everything,” Luten said. “I’ll go and rescue Corinne from the card table. Might be best if you all leave before she knows you’re here, or she’ll be suspicious.”
Prance went home to finalize his preparations.
“Care to drop in for a glass of wine, Black?” Coffen said, hoping to be invited to Corinne’s old house for a bite.
“I would, Mr. Pattle. I surely would. I fear her ladyship might try to contact me, and I’d rather not be at home.”
“Ah, I never thought of that. Likely as not she’ll try me when you’re not at home. We’d best retire to a tavern where she can’t track us down. We’ve time for a quick wet. And a bite. I owe you a couple of meals,” Coffen said.
* * * *
From her bedchamber that looked out on the square, Corinne saw them all leaving and knew something was afoot, had known it from the moment Luten said he had work to do in his study and suggested that she really should spend a little time abovestairs with Mrs. Ballard. If she had stayed behind, he wouldn’t have discussed the real business but made up some foolish story and arranged his business with the men in some other fashion, by note or some such thing.
If he said she looked tired and should retire early, she would watch the street to see what carriages left, and in which direction they went. She must also get word to Black. She hardly knew what to think when Coffen and Black got into Luten’s hunting carriage that was standing in front of her old house and drove off. Perhaps Luten wasn’t going out after all. He sent Evans upstairs to see if her ladyship had finished her card game yet. He was alone and would enjoy her company. She came down promptly.
“All alone, eh?” she said brightly. “You should have joined Mrs. Ballard and me.”
“It’s cosier with just the two of us,” he said, and led her to the sofa before the grate. To distract her, he said, “Let us plan a trip, my dear. We never did have a proper honeymoon.”
“Can you get away?” she asked, surprised.
“The party will have to do without me for a week or two. I thought you might enjoy the Lake District. It should be pleasant this late in April.”
“I would love it of all things!” she said.
Luten got out travel books and they discussed various locations for the better part of an hour. Around a quarter past ten, Luten began yawning and said, “I have a few papers to look over before retiring. You look sleepy, my dear. Why don’t you go on up and I’ll join you soon?”
“Yes, I am a little fagged,” she said at once. “You won’t stay down too late, Luten?”
“Within the hour,” he lied, already worrying about how he’d explain away his lack of appearing. But she’d be as thrilled as he when he told her he had caught Morgrave. A little duplicity was a small price to pay for capturing a traitor. He gave her a long, passionate kiss and accompanied her to the bottom of the staircase.
When Mrs. Ballard came tapping on her door to see if she needed help in undressing, Corinne sent her away. “No, I’m not retiring yet,” she said. “I’ll look after myself. You go on to bed, Mrs. Ballard.”
“If you’re quite sure, milady. I don’t mind staying up.”
“I’m quite sure.”
As soon as she was alone, Corinne ran to the window to see if Luten had sent for the carriage. Finding the street empty, she tore off her gown and hurried into a plain, dark afternoon suit. She snatched up a shawl, changed her slippers for walking shoes and stood at the window, watching.
Chapter Sixteen
Corinne had not long to wait before seeing some action. The first movement was not a carriage drawn to the door as she expected, but Luten slipping quietly out of the house and walking away on foot. He was becoming quite sly in his efforts to avoid her help. He was meeting his carriage at the corner lest she hear it arriving, since her bedroom faced the street. In a trice she ran to the top of the staircase and peered down into the hall.
Seeing no sign of Evans, she concluded that he, believing she had retired and having been told by Luten that he would be gone for some time, had gone to the kitchen for some company and refreshment. She nipped quietly below, retrieved the whistle that always hung in readiness near the front door and left. She first ran across the street to her own former home to seek Black’s company. The house was in darkness, but that didn’t stop her.
Black often watched the street in darkness for the comings and goings of the Brigade. But after three loud knocks with no answer, she knew he was not at home.
She ran next door to Coffen’s house. After three raps of the door knocker a grumpy footman opened the door and said, “Oh, it’s you, Lady deCoventry. Mr. Pattle ain’t at home.”
She didn’t waste time informing him of her change of name.
Imagine him not knowing! “Where is he? It’s most important that I find him.”
“He’s out, isn’t he?”
“But where? Is he at Sir Reginald’s house?”
“He didn’t say. Why don’t you try it?” the ill-bred man said, and closed the door in her face. Coffen really must do something about his servants.
She rushed back across the street to Reggie’s house, where Soames, under orders from Sir Reginald, played his role to perfection, answered on the first knock, said “Good evening, Lady Luten. May I be of some help?”
“Is Mr. Pattle here, Soames?”
“No, milady.”
“Then I’ll speak to Sir Reginald.”
“He’s not at home this evening. He indicated he might be late.”
“Is he with Pattle?”
“He left alone, Madam, didn’t say where he was going. Can I be of any help?” he asked again.
“I — no, I think not, Soames, thank you,” she said, and went home. She slipped quietly back into the house and back up to her room, her mind alive with questions and frustration. They had all gone out, and that could only mean they were on some dangerous mission. But where were they? She couldn’t just hire a hackney and drive all over London. The only people she knew to be involved were the Morgraves. She heartily disliked to call on Samantha at this hour. And what could she say to her?
No, Luten had learned something and had taken the whole Brigade — except her — to do battle. The whole group would not have gone just to make some investigation or inquiries. No, this was the night. It must be a confrontation — a dangerous confrontation as he had taken such pains to hide it from her. Oh what should she do?
As she sat, wondering, Prance’s carriage drew up to his house. Prance came hurrying out and climbed in. He had been home all the time! While she was digesting this piece of treachery, Coffen and Black appeared around the corner, hastened toward the carriage and climbed in. She darted downstairs as fast as her legs would carry her. But by the time she got the door open the carriage had already pulled away. She ran after it to the corner to see which direction it took.
Then she used the whistle and blew a signal for a hackney. On this night when everything was going wrong, she was highly gratified when a carriage appeared before she had quite lost sight of Prance’s rig. “Follow that carriage!” she shouted up to the driver, then pulled the door open, climbed inside and sat with her head stuck out the window to watch Prance’s carriage draw steadily ahead.
“Faster! Can’t you go any faster!” she called up to the driver. Prance’s rig was drawing farther ahead every minute as the hackney traveled north on Davies Street, but she saw it turn right on Oxford. Where the devil could they be going?
Traffic was light on Oxford Street, so she could keep the carriage in sight as it traveled east, then turned left, heading north. But which street had it taken? None of the names sounded familiar. Had Luten discovered where the French spies lived? Was he even now attacking them? They would be armed, dangerous men. She shouted to the hackney to turn left at the next corner, but after a few blocks with no sign of Prance’s carriage, she told him to turn around, drive on to the next block and try it.
It was so difficult to communicate with the driver that she finally told him to stop, and she climbed up on the driver’s seat beside him. This gave her a much better view of the surroundings. But the surroundings were anonymous, just houses and some businesses. Above, the black sky added an ominous touch. It was also chilly up here with a brisk wind pulling at her shawl. She wrapped it around her head and shoulders and wished she had brought a proper coat.
She was happy to see the driver was a young, stout fellow who looked as if he could handle himself in a brawl, should it prove necessary. “Where was it exactly you wanted to go, Mum?” he asked in confusion. The lady looked half demented. At least she didn’t look like the sort who’d stiff him on his fare.
“I don’t know,” she said, close to tears. “Where are we anyway?”
“I’ve lost track, Mum. We turned north off High Holburn. There’s not much here a lady like yourself might be interested in. What was it, exactly, you were looking for?”
“Frenchmen,” she said, and drew a long, frustrated sigh.
“Ah, a Frenchman. There’s plenty of them just west of here at Somers Town. They’re building new houses and all. It’ll be a bit of France in England, you might say.”
“Really! Let us go there — What is your name?”
“Tommy Tucker,” he said, “like the nursery rhyme.”
Tommy — that was a lucky name. It was a Tommy who had rescued Prance. “I’m — Lady — that is, Miss Clare,” she said, reverting to her maiden name.
With a snap of the whip over the team’s heads, the hackney was in motion again, driving straight into trouble.
* * * *
Luten peered through the darkness as he rode north on Grays Inn Lane, searching for a stand of trees, the “arbour” the Frenchies had spoken of. April was still chilly at night, and the stiff breeze didn’t help. The moon was invisible but a brighter patch in the leaden sky indicated where it was trying to show through. It was a desolate enough spot after dark. There was some traffic but certainly nothing in the nature of Morgrave’s mount.
After a longish ride he spotted a dark, amorphous, cloud ahead, that revealed itself as a little spinney as he drew nearer. This must be the place. He looked all around as he approached. No one was about. He walked Smoker into the patch of trees, dismounted and looked about for a good tall tree that he could identify later on. He chose a sturdy oak that towered above the others and tethered his mount to it.
He stood still, looking all around, listening for any faint sound, then crept forward as quietly as the undergrowth allowed to reconnoitre. He didn’t hear them coming behind him. He didn’t suspect a thing when the attack came.
A heavy blow to the back of the head sent him to the ground. He didn’t see a shower of stars, his mind just faded into dark oblivion. When he came to later, he had been bound to a tree with his arms tied behind him, his eyes covered and a rag of some sort in his mouth, tied tightly around his head.
Had they known he was coming, or did Morgrave always take the precaution of having a lookout stationed an hour before his meetings? Worst of all, he couldn’t warn the others. He struggled against his ropes until his wrists were worn raw. He couldn’t even dislodge the rag in his mouth to allow him to call out to them. He was helpless, and afraid they might plan to kill him before they left.
His small consolation was that at least Corinne was safe at home. His regret was that the last words he had spoken to her were a lie.
Chapter Seventeen
“Are we all armed?” Prance asked, as a prelude to amazing them with the armoury stored in his carriage side pockets.
Black pulled out his pistol. Coffen felt in his pocket and muttered, “By Jove, I forgot my pistol. It was going to that tavern that did it. I meant to pick it up before we left, but me and Black went to a tavern instead. Your rig was standing by when we got back, Reg. We hid out in a tavern to prevent Corrie from recruiting us. You know what she’s like.”
“I do indeed, which is why I instructed Soames to say I was out when she called — as she did.”
“I knew it!” Coffen said. “Luten would have my head on a spike if she’d talked me into it.”
“I had alerted Soames. He reported she had already called on you two. I was her last resort when she found neither of you was available.” This did not sit well with Baron Wolfried. Perhaps this was the night she would realize her error.
Black was struck with an agonizing pang at having failed her. Would she ever forgive him? Would she ever trust him again. “Poor lass,” he murmured.
“You’d best take this pistol, Coffen,” Prance said, reaching into the capacious side pocket and handing Coffen a pistol. “It’s loaded, so handle it carefully. God only knows what we’re walking into. I have not come entirely unprepared, however. What
we must do is take these weapons with us, since we’re to stable my carriage at the inn. Knives, anyone?” he asked, delving into the pocket again and drawing forth a couple of knives of different sizes.
“A pistol’s my weapon,” Black said. Coffen accepted a small knife and stuck it in his pocket.
“I wonder now if laudanum will be required — to knock them out, you know. I have brandy as well — for our own use if necessary.”
“I’d leave them weapons in the rig,” Black said. “It’s not likely they’d be accepting a drink in the middle of a brawl.”
“I meant the laudanum to subdue them after we’d defeated them,” Prance explained.
Black ignored this foolishness and said, “The brandy might be welcome when it’s all over.”
“Perhaps you’re right. We don’t want to be overladen. I do feel, however, that these bindings are necessary.” As he spoke, he drew a few pre-cut lengths of rope from the pocket. These were acceptable to Black, but he smirked in the darkness when Prance explained his cunning ruse of wearing a long, narrow length of linen to form his cravat in case the ropes should prove insufficient. The ropes proved so awkward to carry that in the end they left them in the carriage.
“You’re like a magician pulling tricks out of his hat,” said Coffen, intrigued. “Anything else in there?”
“Well, just these,” Prance said, drawing out some large ornamental agates he used to keep in a bowl in one of his spare bedrooms. “I thought they might come in handy if we wanted something to throw at someone. My own aim is not unerring. How about you, Black?”
“You’d ought to put them in the toe of a sock and they’d make a dandy weapon to give a fellow a clout on the head,” was Black’s opinion. “Here, let me wrap them in my hanky. You never know, sometimes you want to knock them out quiet like.” He took the agates and tied them with a knot into his handkerchief and whirled it around a few times to get the feel of it before sticking it in his pocket.