“How far are we from St. James’s Park?” she asked Patience.
“Why d’ye want t’ know?”
Elizabeth shrugged. Shepherd’s was near St. James’s Park. Perhaps she could get a message to Rand through his cousin, Tom. It would be best, however, if Rand fled London without her, even though that might mean she’d never see him again.
She felt an intolerable anguish at the thought.
I will see him again. I must. I cannot live without him.
Trying to formulate a plan, trying to keep her fear at bay, Elizabeth stared down upon the yard and the mews between the coach houses and stable areas, until a thick cloud of foggy mist closed over the vista like a black flux.
***
Elizabeth sat up in bed. A rose-colored wrapper with lace cuffs discreetly covered her nightshift. Various pillows were plumped behind her. A velvet overspread warmed her legs. Weak sunlight trailed through the bedroom’s white satin curtains with their pink ribbon bindings.
Walter had positioned himself on the left side of the bed. Occasionally, he interrupted his reading of the Morning Herald to stroke her hand or rearrange her pillows.
“Oh, look!” Walter’s crow of delight included Dorothea, whose head had disappeared inside a cone designed to protect her clothes while a hairdresser powdered her latest coiffure.
“The press has finally mentioned the king’s madness,” Walter continued. “It says here that he has an unknown malady. His Majesty was able to hold a levee for a brief time at St. James’s Palace on Tuesday, October twenty-third, but the strain caused a bad reaction, and he is currently under the care of his physicians.”
“Do tell!” Dorothea’s voice echoed inside the cone.
“That is not the half of it. I know for a fact that after he returned to Windsor, George had a fit. He supposedly said to an equerry, ‘I return to you a poor old man, weak in body and mind.’ Then he developed a raging fever, just like yours, Elizabeth. Only, unlike yours, His Majesty’s fever manifested itself through incessant talking. The prince’s allies say that George is totally insane. Does that tale distress you, dearest?”
“No. Why should it?” Elizabeth shot a scathing glance toward her warder, Patience, who sat at her right, wrestling with a piece of embroidery. If I lose my mind, Patience will be the cause.
Following her “rescue” ten days ago, Elizabeth had managed one outing to the theatre, during which she had been politely but insistently flanked by Dorothea, Walter, and Grosley. Unable to endure further charades, she had pleaded illness. But confinement had proven a double-edged sword. While it spared her any harsh treatment from Walter, it isolated her from the outside world.
She knew Walter’s men, including members of the Bow Street Runners, were combing London. Walter himself often came and went at a moment’s notice, conferring with strangers, or leaving the house only to return hours later. Each time, she feared he would disclose the news of Rand’s capture. But Walter kept his own counsel, which meant Rand remained free.
I must decide upon a proper plan, Elizabeth thought. She had devised several and discarded them all. Sometimes her heroines languished for months in their dungeons or locked tower rooms, but that was designed to lengthen her novels. In real life she’d never endure weeks, let alone months.
Walter pushed aside the Morning Herald. “You’ve been in such a delicate state, my dear, we haven’t had an opportunity to discuss, in detail, what happened after your abduction. Every time I mention it, you have the vapors. But today roses bloom in your cheeks.”
“I believe I am now strong enough to discuss my ordeal,” she said, even though she knew her cheeks were bleached rather than rosy. “Ask your questions, my lord.”
“What exact route did you and Turpin take?”
“John took a circuitous route, sometimes backtracking, until he had me thoroughly confused.”
“Did you sleep at any inns?”
“We usually hid within a dense forest. John said we must sleep during the day and ride at night.”
“But you robbed the Duke of Newcastle in broad daylight.”
“I didn’t rob the duke. John did. How could I, a mere woman, stop him? In any case, the day was stormy, the afternoon dark and dismal. John said we’d be safe.”
Walter fondled the froth of lace at his throat. “My men never found your residence near Covent Garden, nor any place resembling it. Do you have an explanation for that, Elizabeth?”
“I told you. I was confused and couldn’t recall details, except for the abandoned baby near the gate. I swear on my life there was a baby.”
A knock on the door mercifully interrupted. Walter’s butler entered.
“A message just arrived, m’lord.” The butler handed Walter a piece of paper. “Most important, I was told.”
Walter unfolded the paper. After scanning its contents, he laughed mirthlessly.
Dorothea had just finished inspecting her coiffure in the looking glass. “What is it?” She flicked her wrist at the hairdresser, dismissing him. “Good news, I trust.”
Walter addressed the butler. “Who left this?”
“A street urchin, sir. He scampered away before I could question him.”
Walter handed Dorothea the missive. She perused its contents, shot Elizabeth a triumphant look, then read it out loud.
“‘I demand a duel to the death, on sunrise of the morrow. I will meet you at the end of the Mall, near the entrance to St. James’s Park. Mistress Wyndham is to be on the opposite end of the park, near the Horse Guards, where I can easily see her. If you do not comply precisely with my instructions, I will not appear.’”
“It’s signed with the initial ‘J,’” Walter stated.
Elizabeth kept her expression serene as she tried to figure out what Rand had in mind. Under the circumstances, a duel was worse than reckless. It was stupid.
“You’re not going to fight him, are you?” she asked Walter.
“Of course not. He’s no gentleman. A duel would be impossible, even if I were so inclined. The whole idea of an officer of the law dueling with a criminal is completely absurd. Who the hell does he think he is?”
Dorothea bent her head and tapped her teeth with her finger. “There must be some way to turn this to our advantage.” Raising her chin, she glared at Elizabeth. “How could the highwayman know where Lord Stafford lives? How could he know that Lord Stafford… redeemed you?”
“Dear Dorothea,” Walter said, “my address is on the posters and handbills. I’m sure Turpin has connections who have informed him of Elizabeth’s whereabouts. I didn’t try to hide the fact. Actually, I did quite the opposite, to flush him out, which is precisely what happened.”
“How clever. Then I assume you’ll greet him with a welcoming party.”
Walter reached for his snuffbox. “You assume correctly.” He sniffed a pinch up each nostril. “I shall hunt the hunter.”
“You are so wonderfully devious, my lord.” Dorothea clapped her hands. “By this time tomorrow you’ll have the fiend in Newgate, where he belongs.”
“Or even better,” Walter said, smiling at Elizabeth, “he’ll be dead.”
***
Walter’s coach rattled through a street, deserted save for a handful of laborers. St. James’s Park was nearly adjacent to Great George Street, an easy stroll, but Dorothea had insisted on riding.
“We shall be safe inside the carriage,” she had said. “No one can get in to cause mischief. And you”—she motioned toward Elizabeth—“cannot get out.”
Squeezed between Dorothea and Patience, Elizabeth sat with her back pressed stiffly against the cushions. She wore a cream satin dress over paniers. Her hands were clasped tightly together, warmed by a white velvet muff, but she couldn’t control the chattering of her teeth. Accompanied by two dozen men, Walter had already left for the Mall. As soon as dawn ar
rived and Rand finished his ride, he would be captured or killed.
And I am the bait that draws him to his doom. Not a willing betrayal, but just as bad.
Once the carriage entered the Mall, Elizabeth tried to grope back into the recesses of the past, to touch the emotion that Lady Jane had felt the moment she removed her necklace—the moment she knew she would betray Ranulf. If Elizabeth and Rand were not connected with Jane and Ranulf, why did she experience such panic at the very thought of that centuries-old betrayal? Panic, yes, and an overwhelming despair.
She yanked herself back to the nonce. She must not face that abyss or she might splinter and become trapped forever between the past and the present. She might even become as mad as His Majesty, babbling incessantly, making no sense at all.
The Mall was little more than a grand alley, wherein royalty had played the game of pall mall. Elizabeth couldn’t see Lord Stafford’s men, but she knew they were stationed behind the trees that flanked both sides of the road—four towering columns of trees, their spidery branches tangled against the horizon.
When Rand appeared, Walter would allow him to ride all the way to the entrance of St. James’s, where Walter himself waited. Then he and his henchmen would surround Rand.
The highwayman comes riding, Elizabeth thought. Death comes riding. She could scarce believe that Rand had picked such a vulnerable place to rendezvous. Couldn’t he have anticipated Walter’s treachery? Suddenly, for no apparent reason, a man who lived by his wits had shown himself uncharacteristically witless. “I’m not Zak,” Rand had said atop Westminster Bridge. But he was just as reckless. Rand planned a duel with Death, not Stafford, and Death must always win.
Dorothea rapped her gloved knuckles against the carriage window. “Yonder lies St. James’s Palace.” She pointed toward a red brick building with pale stone edgings. In the uncertain light, the gate-tower was a chiaroscuro of smoke and charcoal.
“I wonder if the king is in residence,” she continued, when Elizabeth failed to comment. “Perhaps, at this very moment, he is drooling about the halls or shouting obscenities at some buffle-headed maid.”
They passed Green Park, whose flower beds provided wisps of darkness against the spacious lawns. The carriage turned into St. James’s Park. Opposite the park was Buckingham House, but for once Elizabeth didn’t care about history. Her fingernails bit into her palms as she pictured Rand’s body being shattered by a dozen lead balls. She tried to imagine a life without her beloved. Lady Jane had carted Ranulf’s body for five years, then willed herself to die so that she could lie alongside him. Could “Bonny Bess” do the same?
St. James’s Park was only a half-mile long. The sun had not yet risen, so the copses, statues, and grazing deer were indistinct blurs. A large lake the color of graphite rested in the park’s center.
The Horse Guards—which housed the king’s personal soldiers—was a tall building located at the park’s southern edge. As they circled to a stop beside a stone wall, Elizabeth battled down a feeling of helplessness. Flanked by Dorothea and Patience, she would not be able to alter the future by so much as a whisper.
Through the carriage window, she watched the sky lighten. Clouds swooped low, like hawks marking their prey. The air smelled of coal smoke and waste, and near the stone wall, of dampness bred too long in ancient places.
Dorothea removed and replaced her gloves, toyed with the window shade, and repeatedly cleared her throat. “I cannot tolerate this,” she groaned, pushing open the door and stepping from the carriage.
Almost immediately, she addressed the coachman. “Go see what is happening.”
The coachman dutifully set off toward the park’s entrance.
Dorothea circled the carriage. She peered up at the Horse Guards, focusing on its distinctive clock turret. She walked along the park wall and kicked at a discarded purse. Then she stalked back to the carriage, yanked open the door, and glared at Elizabeth. “I’ll wager your lover never even shows. He knows how badly we want him.”
Elizabeth shed her muff and stood, her heart pounding. “Let us watch for him together.” She stepped past Patience.
“Stay right where you are,” Dorothea warned.
“But how will he know I’m here? If John cannot see my face, he’ll get suspicious. He might even run away.” Nonchalantly, Elizabeth extended her leg to the topmost step.
“I mistrust you in open spaces.” Dorothea slammed the door, barely missing Elizabeth’s shin.
Rather than give Patience the satisfaction of witnessing her distress, Elizabeth sank onto the seat and gazed out the window. A handful of exotic ducks dotted the lake. Otherwise, the park appeared deserted. Atop the rocks, a lone pelican rested. It looked as forlorn as Elizabeth felt.
Finally, the coachman returned. “Beggin’ yer pardon,” he said breathlessly, “but ’e’s comin’. ’Tis the ’ighwayman fer certain, enterin’ the Mall.”
“Damn and blast! I’ll miss all the excitement. Oh, I do hate not to see him.” Turning, Dorothea surveyed the carriage as if weighing her options. “Patience! Don’t let Miss Wyndham leave. I don’t care how you restrain her, but if she escapes, it will go hard on you. Do we understand each other?”
Patience bobbed her head. Dorothea bounded across the lawn, escorted by the coachman.
How close is Rand now? Elizabeth wondered. Halfway down the Mall? I must warn him.
“Ye’d best behave. I’ll obey me orders even if I have t’ chop yer legs off.” Intent upon her charge, Patience didn’t see the carriage door swing open.
“Good morrow to you, Bess.” Rand saluted her with the muzzle of his pistol.
Patience wasn’t the least bit intimidated. She let loose with a stream of obscenities.
“Stop it,” Rand ordered. “If you’ll shut up, I’ll not hurt you.”
Patience inhaled, preparing to scream her bloody head off.
Rand knocked her across the chin with his fist. She grunted and collapsed against Elizabeth’s shoulder.
“Damn! I dislike hitting a woman, but I warned her.” Rand held out his hand. “Come along, Bess. We haven’t much time.”
Elizabeth stood. Patience drifted to the floor.
“What if she awakens?” Lifting her skirts, Elizabeth stepped over the inert form. “Shouldn’t we tie her up?”
“Not enough time.” Rand swung Elizabeth down, then pulled her through a door cut into the park wall.
While running past the Horse Guards, following the curve in the wall, she peppered him with questions. “How did you get here? Lord Stafford’s coachman said he saw you. How did you slip Walter’s trap? How can you be in two places at once?”
“Shepherd’s is close by. My cousin Tom is on a business errand. If you recall, Tom looks like me. Any moment now, Stafford will discover he’s made a dreadful mistake and will be forced to apologize profusely to my cousin.”
They reached Birdcage Walk, which skirted the park, before they heard an ear-splitting scream.
“Patience,” Elizabeth cried. “The woman you clobbered,” she explained.
“Impossible. I hit her hard enough to keep an ordinary person unconscious for hours.”
“Patience is anything but ordinary.”
“True enough. She looked as bluff as bull beef. Never fear, Bess. The horses are close by, just beyond the gate.”
Halfway up Birdcage, they veered out Queen Anne’s Gate. The maid’s screams followed them.
“Christ,” Rand swore. “She’ll wake all of London.” He hoisted Elizabeth atop Greylag, then mounted Prancer.
“’Tis a difficult seating,” Elizabeth murmured, squirming in the saddle and catching up the reins. “I wish I had my boots and breeches.”
“Damn me for a bird-wit! I should have brought them.” He looked doubtfully at her petticoats and voluminous skirts. “If we should become separated, we’ll meet in D
over. On the beach, below the castle. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“If Stafford catches me, I’ll hang. If you’re captured, you must say that I forced you to flee at gunpoint, that I threatened to shoot if you did not comply.”
“All right. Walter might not believe me, but he does not like to be made the fool.”
Rand dug his heels into his stallion’s flanks and began galloping along the narrow streets.
Elizabeth raced after him. Sparks flew from Prancer’s iron-shod hooves. They clattered past Westminster Abbey and along the Thames. Custom houses loomed dark and silent. Upon the Thames itself, boats stirred and groaned and slipped into the current. The river’s scent filled Elizabeth’s nose. Above the water, patches of fog hovered like hesitant ghosts. To the east, the sun burned a crimson hole through the clouds.
Suddenly, the clatter of other hooves mingled with their own. Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder and saw several riders galloping toward her, their arms upraised, their hands brandishing pistols.
Rand pulled farther ahead. Elizabeth crouched over her mare. “Faster, Greylag, faster!” she urged.
A musket ball whizzed past her ear. Greylag’s mane lashed her face and stung her eyes. From the various docks, dogs yapped. Elizabeth dared not look back. The entire world might be chasing her.
Rand swiveled in his saddle. “I love you,” he said, the wind whipping at his words. “I always have and I always will.”
Elizabeth slammed her heels into her mare, who responded with a powerful surge. The Thames lapped at the embankments. A patch of sunrise splintered the clouds and flashed scarlet upon the water.
The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter Page 25
