by Regan Walker
He grabbed a piece of bread and washed it down with a gulp of ale. Around him sat half a dozen men wearing discouraged and exhausted looks. With the remaining time being short in which to end the uprising, he reminded those sitting closest to him that they might have already witnessed a man’s death, not to mention the treason to come. The men stared down into their tankards, shamed by what had taken place.
“There’s still time to leave,” Martin prodded. “You know this will not end well.”
“Ye might be right, but we’ve come this far,” said one.
“London is farther still,” Martin reminded him. Several others nodded their agreement and cast furtive glances toward the door as they downed the rest of their ale.
A half hour later, when Brandreth ordered the march resumed, the men, many of whom were swaying with drink, stumbled out of the inn. Martin heard Brandreth promise the innkeeper he would be paid for the ale and bread when the revolution saw its rightful end. Martin doubted the man would see a farthing, so he left several coins on the bar as he departed.
The smell of wet earth rose to Martin’s nostrils as he stepped outside. Shivering in the cold morning air, he drew his damp coat tightly around him. The rain had diminished to a mist. Still, a number of the men he’d been speaking with were so soaked, dispirited and disturbed by talk of hanging they apparently took his advice and decided to retreat to their homes and their work. Martin was heartened to see them go. Perhaps the budding revolution would die here and they could all go home.
Thoughts of Kit made Martin restless and increasingly anxious to leave. She would be worried by now. Long past worried. He was warmed again by the knowledge she was safe in Pentridge, perhaps still tucked up in their bed. She had often reminded him of a red tabby cat when she curled up to sleep, and it was that image that heartened him now. He wanted to share with her all he’d withheld and join her in that bed. The very thought that his new wife loved him lifted his spirits more than anything. He couldn’t wait to sweep her away on the wedding trip he’d been planning in his mind as he’d slogged through the night. But first he must see an end to this Midlands madness.
At Langley, not halfway to Nottingham, Brandreth’s men fell in with George Weightman’s group. Together, notwithstanding the desertions, Martin could see in the clear light of the new day the two groups numbered more than two hundred men. He wondered how many were still committed to the venture and how many remained from fear of Brandreth’s wrath should they try to leave. Some, he knew, were still there because they’d been pressed into joining. Day was dawning, and it was now more difficult for any to sneak away.
Brandreth paused in his march to question Weightman on what he had learned. The young man answered his comrade’s inquires with what Martin was certain to be an improbable lie.
“All is right, lads,” George declared. “You have nothing to do but march on. At two o’clock this morning, Nottingham was given up to us.”
John found Martin and gave his own report. “Weightman’s become as unhinged as his captain, sir. He only wants to look good in Brandreth’s eyes. Ye’d not believe the wild actions I’ve witnessed. ’Twas just an excuse for mayhem.”
“I’d believe most anything,” said Martin. “My own eyes have witnessed what may have been murder.” With a sigh he added, “One way or the other, it will soon end. With the dawn, let us hope the men who remain will see reason and take their leave even if they must face Brandreth’s wrath to do so. Did you have any luck turning some back?”
“Aye, I did, but not all as ye can see.” John gestured to the throng of men, discouraged.
“If only they carried no weapons,” Martin said aloud, “they might be seen as the Blanketeers, but even that did not end well. I would send them all back now if I could.”
“’Tis sure some are leaving. See there,” said John, gesturing to a group of men scrambling over a small hill in the direction of Pentridge. “Those are Ripley men who were with us all night. I guess they disbelieved Weightman’s words.”
Martin watched the men, mud-splattered and rain-drenched, struggle up the slippery incline to depart as fast as their tired legs would take them. “We can only hope there will be more.”
Once more, with Weightman’s encouragement and Brandreth’s order, the men who remained plodded on through the cold.
“I can scarcely believe so many are still about this fool’s errand,” Martin muttered to John a short time later. “Even with the desertions, there must be over a hundred men still blindly following…though half appear foxed.”
“The mud would have discouraged me long afore this,” said John, raising his boot. The mud sucked at his sole and made a popping sound. “Were I my own man.”
Martin chuckled. “Ah, but you weren’t raised in country mud, John. They were. Up to their knees and still marching forward.”
“’Tis enough for me,” an older man suddenly growled in front of them and peeled off.
“I’ve still me west field to tend today,” said another, departing with him.
The desertions became more frequent, and Martin’s hopes rose for a fully peaceful end to the cold, gruesome night. But it was not to be. Two miles further on, a report was shouted back that a group of Derbyshire Yeomanry, voluntary cavalry, were headed their way, and with the threat of real opposition Brandreth’s mob panicked. The lines broke apart and the tired farmers and laborers scattered like flies, running as fast as the mud allowed, dropping weapons as they did. It was then that more than a dozen hussars of the Fifteenth Regiment came into sight over a ridge, their flashy uniforms of dark blue splashed with silver braid and white breeches ending in black Hessian boots an impressive symbol of the Crown’s authority.
“Bloody hell!” said John in a hoarse gasp.
“Precisely,” echoed Martin. “The cavalry has arrived. It was only a matter of time.”
Martin had no intention of fleeing but pulled John from where he stood transfixed to the side of the road and into the trees, out of the line of fire. They watched as Brandreth’s remaining men faced the dragoons’ sabers with only a few pistols, spears and pikes. Shouts filled the air, and Martin saw Brandreth running away as the mounted soldiers plunged into the disbanding rebels. All was chaos as the last of the men soon fled from the charging horses.
Martin lingered only long enough for the seized men of Derbyshire to be rounded up before he and John approached the hussar captain who was taking charge of the captured rebels. As the orders were given concerning the prisoners, Martin stepped up to where the dragoon officer sat his horse. In his most proper British accent, Martin identified himself.
“Captain, I am Sir Martin Powell, on assignment for the Crown.” Pointing to John, he added, “This is my assistant, John Spencer.”
The uniformed man eyed them critically, taking in their simple clothing. Martin observed the doubt written in the lines of his face, and seeing no alternative he pulled from his jacket the oilskin pouch that protected the letter Ormond had given him on their last day in London. He had hoped he wouldn’t need to use the communication from the Prince Regent, but it now appeared he must. “I believe this will clarify my purpose in being here.”
The captain leaned down from his horse, took the proffered letter and read it, then leaned down to hand it back, offering his hand to Martin. “Captain Philips at your service, Sir Martin. It’s not often the monarch sends his own man to the Midlands. Were you with this rabble all night?”
“We were, sir. Trying to send as many home as we could and attempting to prevent violence. Not that many were truly committed to the uprising. Some only joined after they were threatened with force. I had hoped more men would leave off this folly.” Suddenly reminded of the crime he’d witnessed during the night he inquired, “Have you been to the Widow Hepworth’s farm?”
“I dispatched one of my men there earlier. The news is not good. The servant who was shot succumbed to his wound. Did you happen to see who fired the shot? Mrs. Hepworth did not know the
brigand.”
“Yes, I did. It was Jeremiah Brandreth, the one they call the Nottingham Captain.”
“I know of him. The reports have identified him as the instigator.” The hussar captain turned back, gesturing to the group of rebels his men had confined. “Is he among these?”
Martin and John surveyed the group of more than forty captured. In the morning sun they appeared bedraggled, muddy and dazed. “No, not one of them,” he said. “He must have gotten away.”
“No matter. We will find him. With a fifty pound reward on his head, I suspect he will soon be produced.”
Chapter 23
Martin and John’s trip back to Pentridge took less time than expected, owing to the horse the good captain loaned them. Martin sent John to tend the animal and arrange for its return, and to get some breakfast. His only thought was only to find Kit.
Knocking the dried mud from his boots on a stone outside, he hurried into the White Horse Inn and up the stairs to their rooms, anxious to finally share with her all that had happened. He had told her he would be late but had not expected to be gone all night. By now she’d be worried.
She was not in their rooms. All his instincts were on alert as he gazed around the sitting room and saw no signs of his wife’s having been there that morning, no breakfast tray, newspaper, or teacup where she often left them. Striding to the bedchamber, he saw the bed still turned down for the night, not mussed from sleep as he would have expected. Dread crept up his spine like icy fingers. Something was terribly wrong.
Could she have left him? She’d been angry with him for refusing to tell her why they were here or what he’d been doing at the rebels’ meetings. It was for her own protection he hadn’t told her. If she knew he was working for the Crown, Kit would have been in the middle of it, maybe even would have tried to help. He wasn’t taking that chance with his kitten. She had finally given herself to him and told him she loved him.
For that reason, despite the state of the room, he knew she would not leave. Certainly not without talking to him or leaving a note. Not without taking her clothes.
There was no note, so he made a quick search of the bedchamber’s armoire and her trunk. His fear grew, a brooding omnipresence, as he realized not a thing was missing. Not her reticule, not even her brush and comb. Then he saw the sketchbook.
He picked it up and flipped to the last page she had drawn upon. It was his face as seen through the eyes of love, different from the first one of him she had drawn. No, she would not leave him, he felt certain. This image was proof. But had she followed him to Hunt’s barn? He had not seen her there.
He set the sketchbook down. She had been gone since at least last night and had not left on her own, of that he was now quite certain. Hastily descending the stairs, he spotted Nanny Weightman staring out the front window of the inn. Glancing through the glass, he saw nothing of note that she could be watching.
At the sound of his boots on the floor, the older woman turned to face him with an anxious look. “Oh, Mr. Donet. It is terrible, terrible! My sons have been arrested. Have ye heard? Were ye there? Did ye see what happened?”
He joined her in the entry. “I am afraid the rebellion was doomed from the start, Mrs. Weightman. The hussars have arrested many of the men and are searching for the others.”
She sank into a chair. “It was to have been so grand, a new government where the common people had something to say….”
Her words trailed off and she stared into space, and Martin was tempted to express his opinion about a mother who would push her sons into joining an uprising against the Crown, but he could see she was hurting so he refrained. Likely her sons would go to prison, or worse. Based on what he knew of Sidmouth’s plans for quashing the stirrings of rebellion, he held little hope they would remain free.
“I am truly sorry your sons and you were involved,” he said. It was the only comfort he could give the woman. The weight of Kit’s disappearance was heavy on his heart as he asked, “Have you seen my wife, Mrs. Weightman? She is not in our rooms, and it does not appear she slept there last night.”
“What?” Nanny Weightman stared at him then shook her head as if coming out of a dream. “Oh. A gentleman called on her yesterday. He told me he was to bring her to ye.” She eyed Martin, a puzzled expression on her face.
“What gentleman, Mrs. Weightman? What was his name?”
“Didn’t give a name. But I could see he was a gentleman by his clothes. There was a man with him, a hired man I’m thinking, and they had a carriage. At least I saw a carriage waiting. I returned to the kitchen before they left.”
Speaking slowly, as if to a child, Martin commanded, “Describe the man for me. The gentleman.”
“He was tall, though not as tall as ye. He had dark brown hair and eyes, and he was well groomed and clean-shaven. His face was most stern, now that I recall, even when he smiled.”
That described half of London. “Was the man from these parts?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve never seen him afore. His speech was very proper. Such men as that are rare in this part of Derbyshire.”
“Think carefully, Mrs. Weightman. Was there anything unusual about him, a mark of any kind?”
“Why, yes. There was a scar on his left temple.”
A stern-faced gentleman with a scar on his left temple? Suddenly Martin knew who it was. But how could that be? How could Rutledge have found Kit this far from London? There were only two explanations that made any sense. Either he’d followed them, which Martin doubted; he felt that his instincts would have told him if that had been the case. Or, more likely, Rutledge was somehow involved in Sidmouth’s plot in the Midlands. Either he or Castlereagh might have asked Rutledge to do the dirty work of assuring there would be armed men to shatter the rebellion urged on by Oliver. Martin had always believed someone else in the peerage was involved.
Rutledge has Kit. Tightness seized his chest as he considered the possibility of what the evil earl might already have done to his beautiful bride.
John was just sitting down to breakfast when Martin found him. “John, Kit is missing and I believe her brother-in-law Rutledge has taken her.”
John dropped his bread and nearly choked on his egg. “The same Rutledge yer lady was running from in London?”
“Yes. The same. While you saddle the horses, I’ll check the other inns in Pentridge. Perhaps I’ll get lucky and he’ll have been staying in one of them. Otherwise, we’ll have to go to South Wingfield. The magistrates there will know if a peer has been involved in this business.”
It didn’t take Martin long to end up at the Dog Inn. As he entered, he recognized the obviously distraught woman who approached. He’d seen her before. He was loath to press her for information, but there was no choice. “Madam—?”
“Mrs. Onion, sir,” she said anxiously.
No wonder she was upset. If she was married to John Onion, her husband might not have come home. “Mrs. Onion, I am looking for a man. Lord Rutledge. Might he have been a recent guest of the inn?”
“Aye,” she said. “We don’t get many gentlemen like that. I’d not be forgettin’ him. His lordship stayed with us several weeks, though he was gone much of the time. He left a few days ago.”
“This is very important, Mrs. Onion. Do you know where he went when he left?”
“I did ask him,” she admitted, crossing her arms over her chest and drawing her brows together as if pondering. “I recall only that he said he’d taken a house nearby.”
“He didn’t say where?”
“Nay. At least, I cannot recall if he did.”
Martin started to thank her for her time, but another thought occurred. “Would you by chance know from whom he rented the house?”
“Why, there be only one man ye can rent from in these parts, sir. That would be His Grace, the Duke of Devonshire hisself. He’s landlord to us all.”
Of course! Hadn’t Ormond said the duke owned the lands of Pentridge?
&n
bsp; He returned to the White Horse, and there Martin hastily explained what he’d learned to John and sent him to South Wingfield to get a report from the magistrates. He himself hurriedly changed from his muddy clothes, donning those more appropriate for the road north to Chatsworth and an urgent call on Ormond’s friend.
* * *
After twelve miles of hard riding, Martin was relieved to finally cross the stone bridge spanning the Derwent River to Chatsworth House. His raw anxiety for the terror Kit might be experiencing was the only thing keeping him in the saddle. His fear was a stark contrast to the calm picture of sheep grazing on the grass-covered grounds in front of the majestic stone estate the young Duke of Devonshire called home.
He could feel some of the tension ease from his body when the duke’s butler told him His Grace was in residence and could be found in one of the gardens undergoing expansion. Martin was not surprised, as Ormond had told him the duke had a reputation as an accomplished horticulturist.
Martin wasted no time in bringing his desperate errand to the fore when he found the duke. “Your Grace, I am Sir Martin Powell, a friend of the Marquess of Ormond. I believe he sent word I might call without notice.”
The duke held out his hand to shake Martin’s. “Ah, yes. I recall the mysterious message. I must get to London soon to visit him and his lady. In the meantime, would you like to see the latest additions to the gardens and then stay for luncheon? We can dine on the terrace.”
“On another day I would gladly accept your invitation, Your Grace, but I’ve come on a desperate errand and must return immediately if I am to prevent disaster. A man to whom your agent leased one of your houses in Derbyshire has abducted my wife, and I believe he is keeping her there to evil purpose. I do not know which house, and that is why I’ve sought you out. When it comes to my lady, the man is obsessed and has previously threatened her with violence.”
The duke’s face twisted in puzzlement. “Obsessed? I daresay. Who is this man?”