Lucian Merristorm watched the hackney until it was obscured by other coaches. Dear God, who will protect Ruth?
He savoured her name, almost spoke it aloud. So much in that one syllable. Lucian’s throat went dry and a tremor shook him. He had not thought of any woman in this way for a very long time. Desire was part of it but there was much more. A dangerous more. With a mental jerk he returned to his original question.
Safeguard Ruth. Not her father. He’s not even whole-minded. Do they really travel to a new preferment? What will she do if he goes completely mad?
“Merristorm!”
Lucian turned to see who called his name. A Cyprian with whom he had cavorted before serious drinking had claimed his attention waved and blew a kiss from a passing phaeton. Her breasts were bare almost to the nipple and her face was garishly painted. Her behaviour brought the taste of bile to Lucian’s mouth.
That is the kind of woman I am fit to keep company with. Not a lady like Ruth Clayton. Her father wouldn’t have permitted me within hailing distance if he knew what I am.
Besides you haven’t exactly succeeded in protecting anyone, his demon taunted.
The nightmare images of Jasmine and Magelhaes flashed to mind. An overwhelming wish to drink those images and Ruth’s to oblivion rocked Lucian.
Hailing a cab Lucian hurled his body into it and ordered it to head for his flat. His mouth was dry as the Spanish sand in the July heat. His head throbbed as much as his heart ached for what could never be.
Mayhaps this time I’ll drink enough to ne’er wake. What a blessed relief that’d be.
And the brats? his conscience whispered through the dark haze clouding his thoughts.
Lucian stilled. His will had been made. The monies resulting from the estate his grandmother had left him would be put in trust for the home he had established. But that would take time.
Slamming his hand on the ceiling of the hackney, Lucian shouted for the driver to take him to Couts Bank first. At the bank his mood darkened further as he waited to be served.
Lucian was unaware and past caring that his melancholic features teemed with a dangerously irritated tension when the hapless clerk appeared. He growled out the sum he desired to transfer into the account Eleazor Scruggs drew on for the expense of his boys’ home. With an oath Lucian snatched up the quill the clerk dropped.
When the man nearly jumped out of his skin, Lucian looked at him as if aware of him for the first time. He made an ungracious apology as he scrawled his signature. Jabbing the quill back in its stand Lucian rose and stalked away.
The bank’s door opened as Lucian approached it. The sight of the too-well remembered figure halted him.
“Good day, Gilchrist,” his father greeted him quietly.
A muscle twitched along Lucian’s jaw at the use of the honorary title he had long since rejected. The inspecting sweep of the dark eyes stiffened him. Hatred surged through him. A red haze clouded his vision. For a second after it began to clear Lucian thought he saw anguish in his father’s eyes but vehemently denied the possibility.
“Anyone who encourages you in the glut of excess you have embarked on since your return to Town is not a friend,” Marquess Halstrom said slowly. “I cannot–”
“Exactly,” snapped Lucian impervious to the stares now being directed at him and his father. “You cannot for even a moment think I would give credence to anything you say. You damned yourself long ago.”
“From what I have heard,” Halstrom challenged in a low voice, “your life is but a mirror of mine.”
Lucian trembled. “I have never killed an innocent.”
“Nor have I,” his father rebutted.
Fury seared Lucian. His arm reared back, his hand fisted before he thought to do it. The sudden thought of Ruth Clayton halted the punch half way to his father’s jaw.
The marquess lightly touched the tip of his cane to his son’s fist. “Go to Dorset. Set your mind to tending the estate your grandmother so unwisely left you.” With that he strolled away from his son.
Lucian slowly lowered his arm. He forced his fingers to unclench. With a muttered oath he stormed out the bank’s doors and leaped into his waiting hackney. “Damme you,” he snarled and would have been hard put to know whether he meant his father or himself.
* * *
Ruth Clayton’s face framed by tendrils of her luxurious burnished red hair, her eyes the mix of a stormy sea and emeralds danced before Lucian. He longed to trace the provocative arch of her eyebrows and cup her almost dimpled chin. Those lips. How sweet their taste.
Lucian reached out. The vision evaporated.
What might have been if I had met Ruth instead of Jasmine those long years ago?
The thought fleetingly disconcerted Lucian’s certainty about the truths that ruled his life. He longed to hang onto the disloyalty of it rather than see it as an insight too revolting to consider.
Ever’thin’ I believe is true,” he swore and took a gulp of brandy. It was too large and he choked, coughed. His throat closed, rebelled. For long gagging seconds, Lucian thought he could cast up his accounts.
Gasping for air he heard his father’s voice again.
Your life mirrors mine.
He had imbibed three bottles since returning to his flat with a dozen in hand. They had proven a hollow failure in quieting, much less, silencing those dismal damning words.
Your life mirrors mine, it insisted.
Lucian swore and swung his hand in an arc to find another of the bottles he’d set about his chair. He’d empty the dozen if that is what it took to silence his father’s voice.
Your life mirrors mine, it persisted.
Lucian’s hand shook as he attempted to fill his glass. The tremor was so bad that he paused, waiting for the worst to pass.
Your life mirrors mine.
Each time it peeled louder. The thought harder to deny. Lucian managed to get the glass full and downed it. He leaned back hoping it wouldn’t prompt another urge to vomit.
Unconsciously Lucian began a vague examination of his life. Where to start?
That black day when he had failed Jasmine had to be one of the worst of his sins, he reasoned.
Not challenging his father, another.
Women?
Lucian’s gut clenched at a vision, so vivid he’d have sworn it was in the here and now. His father in the Blue Boar, each arm about a whore. His invitation to join them.
He gagged. Clenching his teeth he drew in a long, slow breath through his nose. Then he returned to listing his sins.
Drink?
He unclenched his teeth, defiant unreasonable pride rising in how different he was in this from his father. Then an uneasy qualm stirred. Have you ever seen him foxed? Heard of it?
Lucian refilled his glass and drained it again as the litany he had so carelessly begun marched on under its own power. But then it stuttered on Magelhaes.
When I love they die. I’m dammed to live.
The muted image of the red-haired beauty shimmered before him. He could smell the faint floral scent that mingled with, enhanced her own and realized what it was. His grandmother had worn it all her days. Lily of the valley.
Lucian poured another glass and then dropped the empty bottle to the floor unaware the door to his flat had opened.
Before he could lift the glass to his lips a figure loomed over Lucian.
“Bloody hell,” swore Sir Brandon Thornley. “How long have you been at this?”
“Not long ‘nuf,” Lucian slurred.
Thornley clenched his fists. He resisted the urge to strike the drunken sot. “You’ll not cheat me by drinking yourself to death,” he muttered.
“Wha’s th’t?”
“We’re promised to Lade’s to sup,” Thornley said tightly. He glanced around, then strode into the bedchamber. When he returned he touched Lucian’s night candle to the guttering flame and set it beside it. Then he stalked to Lucian and held out the towel he had wet.
“You’d need to freshen up a bit before we leave.”
“Not goin’.”
“You gave your word,” Thornley lied. “Is it worth so little?”
* * *
Peace watched the men welcome the Preventive Officer and then look back at her. From the laughter and tone of the jests she gathered that they asked if they’d won the wagers cast two weeks ago. Jenkinson dead little more than six weeks and they bet I’ll take another man into my bed. The fools.
You are the fool, an inner warning belled.
Snatching her thoughts away from Geary’s lean figure, Peace tried unsuccessfully to deny her attraction to the man. She turned and slipped through the door behind the bar that led to her private quarters and began to pace.
Dally with a Riding Officer? That is too great a risk. The men welcome him, but who is he? What is he about? He has played a close game since his arrival but I feel like a mouse hunted by a cunning cat.
Peace halted by the fireplace. Her gaze went involuntarily to the age darkened brick hearth. No one ever saw the blood, she told herself. Just as no one here knows of my past. Geary cannot ferret out what no one but I know. I’ll not let him. The thought calmed Peace. After a few deep breathes she returned to the tavern. The meeting he requested this eve would go as she wished it.
Much later that evening, after everyone but Geary had left, Peace locked the tavern’s door. She walked slowly toward the tall lean figure watching her.
Geary rose with the deadly lithe grace of a lion. She had once seen such a beast charge its keeper. When he bowed and held out a chair, Peace furiously blinked back the threat of tears at such simple gestures so lost in her past. Drawing on the discipline gained in the horror of the days of her escape from France and desperate marriage to Jenkinson, she concealed how much they affected her.
Before the guillotine changed everything I would have flirted with the man. The thought warmed and then chilled Peace. Why does this Englishman inspire such a memory?
“You are suspicious, madam,” Geary said as he studied her. “Shall I show you my orders?” he asked with a grave air.
“The men who frequent the Wise Owl do not welcome Riding Officers,” Peace said coldly but held out her hand. “Why do they continue to abide you?”
“Was the tavern named after you? You are very wise,” Geary said. He handed over a piece of stained, folded parchment; its seal broken.
Peace read the few words quickly. She handed the paper back. “You knew Damler before you came here. The men welcomed you. Why pretend you do not know about this tavern?”
“I am going about this rather badly.” Geary hunched his shoulders and gave a reluctant frown. “I–I,” he managed to colour, “I am distracted by your beauty.”
The man is feigning this concern, Peace thought and started to rise.
Putting out a hand, Geary said, “I apologize. I assure you, I shall say nothing more on that head–without your permission.” His features turned grim. “My apologies. I must broach a topic that will cause you pain. But I need your help. I believe even now weapons, ammunition, and cannon are being collected for the French.”
Peace gazed at him in disbelief.
“I assure you, madam, I speak the truth. Already one ship has taken enough arms to fit a battalion. I believe another such shipment will soon be on its way.”
“That is impossible, sir,” Peace said and stood. “The men in Whitby do supplement their incomes by owling. But they smuggle only for the pleasures of life; brandy, wine, lace, silk. They hate Napoleon as much as I. As you.”
“You deny they smuggled flintlocks?”
“Of course not. Those weapons were for the English Volunteer Corps,” Peace replied spiritedly. “The Office of Ordnance stupidly had none available for the men.”
“In my conversations I did not find a great belief that Napoleon will invade England,” Donatien countered. “Why arm them? In fact, Major Simpson’s men–”
“The Volunteer Corp still meet once a month,” Peace said but frowned. “Did you say an entire ship of arms was sent to France?”
Geary solemnly nodded. “I must stop the next shipment. To the men here I am a gentleman on hard times. A Riding Officer willing to look the other way when it comes to their activities for certain consideration.”
“That is a dangerous game, sir.”
“But not so hazardous as the one your husband played.”
Pearl studied Geary. She could not decide how much he knew or how much he merely guessed. But the news that the War Office was aware of the shipment of weapons shook her. It confirmed too much she had feared. “Can you prove that another shipment is being readied?”
When he said nothing, Peace again asked, “Can you?”
“I shall take you to where the weapons are hidden.”
“If you know where they are, why do you not arrest those involved and take the weapons?” she asked sharply.
“Because I wish to have everyone involved and all the weapons. Word has it that more are soon to arrive.”
“You mean to arrest everyone involved? Even the innocent?”
“Innocent?” Geary’s eyes narrowed. “How can anyone who aids the tyrant Napoleon be innocent?”
The hatred in his voice chilled Peace. It told her he would be a dangerous enemy. She stiffened and met his gaze with a nonexistent calm. “The people here survive by smuggling. They may not realize what they carry.”
“But they break the law in any case.”
“You have never done so, monsieur?”
“Do I look like such a person?”
“Non,” Peace replied, stood and walked away from him.
Geary was behind her in an instant, a hand to her elbow. “Do you fear for yourself? I assure you–”
“I have no reason to be afraid,” Peace said, turning. She found herself but a few inches from Geary. His dark-eyed penetrating gaze startled her.
“Do not fear me, madam,” Geary said, his voice raw with the struggle of conflicting emotions. “I would never harm you.”
“I do not fear even Madame la Guillotine any more, Mr. Geary,” Peace bit out. “Nor am I a fool.”
“Then come with me on the morrow. See the proof.” When she hesitated, Geary added, “Your husband, madam, was a leader among the smugglers. Perhaps he discovered what was really happening. That may well be why he died. Surely you long to have his murderer found?”
Even though she had anticipated his question, it hit Peace hard. It would be best, she decided, to discover exactly what this man knew. “Where and when shall I meet you?”
“At the church of St. Cedds.”
* * *
Lucian watched Thornley refill the glass in Lucian’s hand through blurred vision. He tried to raise his other hand to rub his eyes but found it resisted moving. Lucian managed to flatten his palm momentarily against his chin before letting it drop back to his lap.
“Had too much, Merristorm?” Lade boomed and nudged Freddy Pinlar seated beside him at the table.
The words threaded their way to Lucian through a fog that had begun blanketing his mind three or four glasses ago. He shook his head and by concentrating, raised his glass to his mouth and drank. Through the growing haze he heard muffled laughter and saw fingers point at him unaware that some of the port had dribbled from his uncooperative mouth and down his chin.
“Leav’ fellow ta’lone,” Thornley ordered with false drunken pomposity. He clamped a hand on Merristorm’s shoulder. “Shouldn’t make fun of m’friend.” He began to refill Lucian’s glass from the bottle that sat on the floor between their chairs.
“Why don’t y’share?” Freddy Pinlar demanded across the table.
Thornley filled Lucian’s glass and then topped off his own with what remained in the bottle. He shrugged at Pinlar as he offered the empty bottle to him.
“Think it a jest do you?” Pinlar asked, surly.
Lade thumped a bottle in front of the man. “Speakin’ o’ jests,” he said expansively and looked at Thornley with a mean-spirited sneer. After a drunken chuckle he continued. “Tell ever’one ‘bout that little ‘jest’ you thought we ought ta play on Merristorm next time he drank himself senseless.”
Lucian heard his name and raised his head. When had his eyelids grown so very heavy? He raised his glass. “A toast to . . . death.”
“He’s beastly foxed,” Pinlar snorted.
“His pater’s the beast for refus’in us membership in that club o’ ‘is,” Fowler snarled. “’Haps we should repay the debt.”
Thornley saw Lade nod agreement and lowered his head to hide his smile.
The glass fell from Lucian’s fingers as he lowered it.
“I think he’s ripe for the jest,” Lade said, a hint of malice colouring his words.
“Jest? Explain it,” Pinlar demanded excitedly like a hound who had caught the scent.
“’Twas nothing,” Thornley insisted. “Merristorm and I should take our leave.”
“Tell ‘bout the jest first,” whined Henry Fowler. “It’s been an age since we’ve enjoyed a practical joke.”
“I’ve thought better of it,” said Thornley with a theatrical wave of his hand as if to shoo away the idea.
“Lade, tell us,” asked Pinlar peevishly.
“Something about putting Merristorm on the stage going up the Great North Road after he had drunk himself senseless.”
“That’d be a fine one,” chortled Freddy.
“Take Merristorm down a peg or two.” Fowler raised his glass in salute. “Let’s do it.”
“Gentlem’n,” Thornley managed a good pretence of slurred words. “I withdra’ idea.”
“Too late,” Lade told him. “Think of all the wagers. What stop he regains his senses. How many days it’ll take him to find his way back to London.”
“I’ll put a pony on ten days,” Pinlar squealed in delight.
“Count me in for a baker’s dozen,” Fowler thumped his hand on the table.
“I don’t think I want to deal with an angry Merristorm,” Thornley told them. He put a hand to Lucian’s shoulder and gave him a shake.
Lucian slumped forward, his head hitting the table with a thud.
“Thornley,” Lade commanded the man’s attention. “Didn’t you say a mail coach left Holborn every morn at six?”
“Well, yes, but I protest,” Sir Brandon spluttered. “Chap’s in no condition.”
“That’s the idea,” Fowler chortled but Merristorm stirred. He choked into silence, his gaze riveted on the crow black hair on the bowed head.
“Lade, order your closed coach afore he regains his senses,” Pinlar advised.
Thornley, pleased that the sense of urgency proved contagious, protested.
“Since when do you play the part of marplot?” Lade objected. “Should Merristorm prove troublesome on his return to London we’ll swear you blameless.” He shoved Thornley forward and motioned for Pinlar and Fowler to bring Merristorm.
Shortly after six in the morning pot valiant and partially blinded by the thick yellow fog, Lade reined the teams around the corner into the coach yard too fast and too sharp and almost toppled the closed coach. Swearing and sawing on the reins he yawed it to a halt near a coach bearing the Stamford mark.
With raucous shouts of abuse, Fowler and Pinlar stumbled out of it. With a hostler at his team’s head Lade alighted and led the way to the coach office.
Inside Lade’s coach Thornley pulled a small vial from his waistcoat pocket. He prodded Lucian’s head up against the squabs and then pinched the man’s nose shut. When Merristorm opened his mouth to breath, Sir Brandon poured the contents of the vial down his throat.
Choking, Lucian instinctively coughed and spewed what he hadn’t swallowed into Thornley’s face.
“Damme you,” Sir Brandon swore and pulled back his fist. But Lade’s spiteful laughter marked the two men’s return. He hastily wiped his face and stuffed the square of linen into the pocket of the caped greatcoat into which they had wrestled Merristorm.
“Is he ready?” Pinlar asked leaning drunkenly on the door.
“Bid your adieu’s,” Lade told Thornley.
“You mean to do this?” Sir Brandon asked loud enough to draw the Stamford coach’s hostler’s attention. Satisfied he had proof of his protest he pulled Lucian’s arm over his shoulder and tugged him toward the door.
“Take him, blast you,” Thornley grunted. Lowering the dead weight of the unconscious man he paid little heed when the side of Lucian’s head banged against the door frame.
“Careful there,” Lade cautioned sarcastically. He caught the tall form and kept Merristorm upright as Pinlar grabbed a hold.
“Lah, he must still be fifteen stone,” protested Pinlar as they dragged Lucian toward the mail coach.
“It’s all the port he guzzled,” Fowler chuckled.
Both men laughed, almost dropping their burden. Thornley followed carrying Lucian’s beaver hat.
Lucian tried to bring his lolling head upright when they halted before the Stamford coach’s door. He opened his eyes but couldn’t focus. He heard the Earl of Lade but the man’s words, an unintelligible jumble faded as consciousness fled.
Thinking Lucian conscious Lade kicked at Merristorm’s calf to prod him to take a step up. That proving fruitless he stepped back. Pinlar and Fowler half threw Lucian up and onto the floor between the seats.
“You can’t let him lay there,” Thornley protested fearing Lucian would simply be thrown out when the other passengers tried to get into the coach.
Lade motioned Fowler to climb over Merristorm’s legs. Pinlar followed him. Both men cursed as they wrestled the dead weight up onto the seat and wedged Lucian into the far corner with his back to the horses.
Thornley surveyed the struggling pair with great satisfaction. When they climbed down he stepped up and clapped Lucian’s low crowned beaver hat on his head so that his face was more or less concealed. That done, Sir Brandon jumped down.
Pinlar slammed shut the door. He hooked Lade’s arm as well as Fowlers. The threesome staggered back to the coach.
Hard put not to shout his triumph, Thornley followed them at a forced staid pace. He estimated the laudanum he had forced down Lucian along with that in the drug-laced wine the man had downed would render him unconscious until late in the day or the morrow.
From the corner of his eye Thornley saw a heavy man with an equally stout wife plodding toward the Stamford coach. Their stained and worn clothing made them fitting companions for Merristorm. Sir Brandon was less pleased by the old man led by a young girl and followed by a tallish young woman that came after them. On second thought he decided their clean and prim dress bespoke the prudish–the sort that would either ignore or taunt a fellow passenger far gone in his cups.
By the time Lade had turned his coach the driver of the Stamford roared, “Let ’em go.”
A deep satisfaction filled Sir Brandon as he watched the guard atop the Stamford bleat a warning through his yard of tin. Then its team thrust against their collars and jerked the coach into motion toward the North Road unknowingly implementing his vengeance.
“Revenge shall be sweet,” Thornley mused. How easy it had been. If all goes as well as this– Sir Brandon shook aside a suspicion of disaster. Arrangements had been made to avoid that. By the time he followed Merristorm to Whitby Lucian would be a common vagrant. Sweet revenge indeed.