‘What’s on your mind, Jack?’ he asked. He dropped the book of poetry he was reading into his lap and regarded his son expectantly.
Having had the possible connection between his father’s cousin and the highwaywoman on his mind all day, Jack was momentarily at a loss how to begin. He poured himself a brandy from the decanter and dropped down in a chair opposite the earl. Swirling the brandy in his glass, he took a sip and looked at the fire. Flames were licking an oak log, and the only sound in the room was the faint hissing of the tree sap.
This was his father’s world; a genteel existence, a place to retire after having diligently performed his daily duties and safe-guarded the family inheritance. A fire in the summer months was the earl’s only real extravagance; he enjoyed his books and the quietude of the library, as well the congenial company of his family and the challenges of running a busy estate; he was not a dissolute man.
Jack had a terrible feeling that bringing up the subject of a family by-blow, and what was morally owed to her, would upset the apple cart.
‘Tell me about your cousin, the captain, Rupert and Alethea’s father,’ he said at last.
The earl looked startled. ‘My cousin? What makes you ask that?’
‘I would like to know everything you’d care to tell me about him. I know he did something unforgivable, and you don’t like him mentioned, but as your heir I think I have a right to know what that was.’
The earl sighed. ‘Well, I suppose questions were bound to be raised one day, although I had expected it to be Rupert or Alethea asking them, not you.’
He paused and took a hearty swig from his glass; then he stared into the fire for a long time, as if painful memories made talking difficult. Finally, he said, ‘Since you’re the first to ask, I will answer you, but you must promise me that you won’t share what I say with your cousins. I think it’s only fair they hear the story from me.’
‘You have my word,’ said Jack.
‘Well, as you know, before you were born Cecil was first in line to inherit from me – he was my first cousin and the only other Blythe male alive. I must say, your birth came as a great relief; I’m afraid Cecil was the last person I would’ve wanted to hand the earldom to.’
Jack leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. ‘Why? What happened?’
‘I didn’t take you for a dimwit, son,’ said the earl. ‘There was a scandal.’
‘What sort of scandal? A woman?’ Jack’s face reddened a little from his father’s gentle rebuke.
The earl swirled the brandy in his glass and stared into the fire again. ‘Affairs of the heart,’ he mused, ‘can have disastrous consequences. And yes, a woman was partly to blame, the catalyst, perhaps. It’s a terrible thing, being in love with the wrong person.’
Jack shrugged to hide his embarrassment at the turn the conversation had taken. ‘I wouldn’t know, sir.’
‘Never been in love?’ The earl eyed his son quizzically, but Jack thought he detected an element of concern too.
‘In lust, perhaps. Not love.’ He was not yet decided about his feelings for Miss Mardell, but whether it was love or lust, his father would no doubt judge her to be the wrong person.
‘Lust, yes.’ His father grinned, but then his smile faded. ‘That’s very different to love. Love can make even the sanest person non compos mentis. Anyway, the lady married her betrothed and Cecil went abroad, in the hope that he would forget her. Sadly, it had the opposite effect. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” I’m sure you’ve heard that expression.’
Jack nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘At first I thought all would be well. Cecil later married Elizabeth, and … er, Rupert was born. Cecil’s wife was a little beauty and I foolishly thought he’d chosen her because she made him forget his former love. I was mistaken.’
‘How so?’
‘Rupert’s mother may have been lovely, but she was a biddable little thing who never questioned anything he did; she was the perfect wife for him. And while she sat at home with the newborn Rupert, Cecil was planning to elope with the married woman whom he desired above all.’ The earl sighed and stared into the fire. ‘It was a damnable business.’
‘What happened next? Did he father an illegitimate child by this woman?’
Lord Lampton frowned. ‘What makes you ask that?’
‘Oh, just a guess.’
‘Well, I think he might have. The woman he loved was locked in her room until the birth of the baby, at which point she seems to have escaped, but she died from complications of the birth, and the child with her. A tragic outcome.’
Jack was listening intently, but the story wasn’t developing quite the way he’d envisaged. If the captain’s child had died, he was still no nearer to finding out how Cora fitted in the picture. ‘Could he have fathered more than one?’
‘If so, I have no knowledge of it.’
‘And what then?’
‘Cecil had been embezzling funds to finance their elopement; when this was discovered, he was arrested. He made Elizabeth, pregnant with Alethea, bring him a pistol, and shot himself in gaol before he could be punished. Best thing for him, really, but it created quite a scandal, as you can imagine. For Rupert and Thea’s sake, we never speak of it.’
Jack sat back in his chair. From the little information he’d had, he’d only known his father’s cousin had died suddenly. Hearing that it was suicide, and in prison too, shook him more than he’d thought possible, and it took a moment before he could speak again. ‘And who was the woman your cousin loved? The one who died?’
‘It’s better you don’t know. It’s all in the past and forgotten now.’
‘Maybe not.’ Jack clenched his fists in his lap as he recalled Miss Mardell’s eyes.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The highw— a young woman, a local woman, who I, eh, have become acquainted with recently, has the same eyes as your cousin Cecil – very light grey-blue, almost translucent. Surely that can’t be a coincidence?’
‘The devil you say!’ The earl turned to his son, visibly startled.
Taken aback by this sudden change in his father’s countenance, Jack asked, ‘Do you know her, sir?’
‘No, not at all. How could I?’ The earl swirled the brandy in his glass and then took a hefty swig. ‘But it is undeniably curious. Perhaps Cecil sowed a few other wild oats in his time.’
‘Yes, perhaps.’ Jack decided to let the subject drop. He’d learned all he could for now and he sensed there was no point pressing his father for more answers. Perhaps he’d try again another day. He was still curious as to who Cecil’s lover might have been, and his father’s reaction when he’d mentioned Miss Mardell’s eyes had also intrigued him. When he tracked her down again, he had a few questions for her too.
Rupert had never been to the notorious Newgate Prison, although he had driven past it a few times. The smell was legendary. It was said that shopkeepers never stood in the doorways nor displayed wares outside due to the unsavoury atmosphere in the vicinity of the prison, and Rupert certainly saw no evidence to challenge this account.
The prison was situated on the corner of Newgate Street and Old Bailey, just inside the City of London, so the traffic was heavy when they arrived. Rupert left his man-servant, Hodges, to find them a suitable inn and asked him to return and wait for him when he had done so.
He pulled a scented handkerchief out of his pocket and held it up to cover his nose, although it did little to hold the incredible stench of human filth at bay. He walked through the old city gate, with its fabled portcullis rising four storeys high between two crenellated towers, and continued on to the keeper’s house, where, for a few coins, his wish to see the condemned prisoner known as Gentleman George was granted.
‘Popular one, ain’t he, sir?’ said the prison keeper and sent him a sly look. ‘Though ’is ’igh and mightiness’s other visitors ’appen to be ladies, if you get my drift.’ He rattled a set of keys set on a large ring and opened a
hatch in the floor to the condemned prisoners’ area.
Rupert had heard stories about Newgate Prison, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight which met him when he followed the prison keeper down into this subterranean dungeon, a dark room constructed entirely of stone. What appeared to be an open sewer running through the centre sent out an unearthly stench which permeated every corner.
The noise of the place was hellish, an intolerable cacophony of roaring, swearing and the ghoulish cries of those the rest of society had washed their hands of. He followed the keeper across the floor, which was strewn with all manner of filth and vermin and crunched under his feet like seaside shells strewn over a garden walk.
Some of the prisoners were manacled to the floor with hooks and chains. They lay like swine on the ground, yelling incoherently, and as he walked past some of them stretched their hands out to touch his legs and the hem of his coat. Stepping aside to avoid being grabbed, he felt as if a black cloud had descended upon him, and he could scarcely breathe, both because of the smell and the inhumanity of the place.
He knew he ought to feel pity for these poor creatures, but the only feeling he could muster was contempt for how base they had allowed themselves to become, how low they had sunk, as if they had fallen through the gate into Purgatory itself and were nothing but beasts. And what the dirt would do to his new silk shoes he hardly dared contemplate. They had cost him a pretty penny and all for nothing now.
The man he’d come to see was more fortunate than some of the other prisoners. He occupied a solitary cell at the far end of the dungeon and had been furnished with a mattress stuffed with straw and a small table with two stools, which had likely cost him an extortionate sum. How a cut-throat like Gentleman George had come upon a large enough sum to pay for such relative luxuries was anyone’s guess, but Rupert was willing to wager that one or two of the prisoner’s lady visitors had something to do with this. Right now he was sitting on one of the stools, intent upon a game of solitaire with a crumpled deck of cards, and didn’t acknowledge them.
‘Gen’leman, someone to see you,’ said the keeper, rattling his keys.
The condemned highwayman slowly peeled his gaze away from the cards and looked up at Rupert with an insolent expression. ‘What for? Do I owe you money, sir? In that case, you’re too late for I’ll be dancing the Tyburn jig in a few days, and I haven’t got a shilling to my name and no way of acquiring any either.’
‘Leave us,’ said Rupert to the keeper. ‘I wish to speak with this gentleman alone.’
The keeper sent him an uncertain look. ‘Are you sure, sir? This one’s dangerous.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ Rupert had noticed that although the condemned man lived in reasonable comfort compared to some of the other prisoners, his ankles were shackled to the floor. Dangerous the robber might be, but Rupert reckoned he stood a fair chance against a man thus restrained. And he didn’t want the keeper to eavesdrop on the conversation.
‘Well, it’ll be on your head, sir,’ said the keeper. ‘I won’t be held responsible if he wrings your noble neck. When you’re finished, rap on the door, and I’ll let you out.’
‘Yes, fine,’ Rupert snapped. ‘Now be off.’
The keeper left them. Through the window grille Rupert watched how he kicked a couple of prisoners on his way back across the maggoty floor.
‘Blood-sucking whoreson,’ muttered Gentleman George. He rose and with a bow indicated that Rupert should sit down on the stool opposite him. ‘Why don’t you take the weight off your feet, sir, and tell me what I can do for you?’
Rupert accepted the offer of a seat but wiped it with his handkerchief before sitting down. ‘It’s more what I can do for you, I think,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard of your exploits, which, may I add, I have much admired, and have come to pay my respects in your hour of need.’
Gentleman George threw his head back and laughed. ‘Pull the other one! I may be locked up, but I’m nobody’s fool. You’ve come here because you want something from me, and as I haven’t got anything other than the clothes on my back, I reckon it’s information you’re after.’
‘Quite right. So it is.’ Rupert placed a bottle of brandy on the table between them, along with two small glasses, a clay pipe and a pouch of the finest woodbine he had been able to procure in Hounslow. ‘But first I think we need a drink. I find that a conversation is always more enjoyable with a bit of brandy inside to warm a person up.’ And it loosens the tongue, he thought to himself.
Gentleman George’s eyes lit up. ‘Very generous. Very generous indeed, sir. Can’t fault you, and it is, as you say, my hour of need. Haven’t had a drop since the day they caught me. Ironic, one might say, that enjoying a drink, which is what gave me the greatest pleasure in life, will be the death of me,’ he added with a wink.
‘That certainly is ironic,’ said Rupert, ‘but here, let me pour you some brandy while you stuff your pipe.’ He popped the cork and poured them both a generous measure. ‘To you – may your dance at Tyburn be a short one.’
‘Amen to that, sir.’ George emptied his glass in one; then licked his lips and held it out for a refill.
Rupert obliged him, and, raising his own glass, took a small sip.
‘Ahh, that’s better.’ Gentleman George knocked back his second drink. ‘Makes me feel like a man again. You seek information, you say. What kind of information?’ He held out his glass.
‘I seek a highwayman.’
‘Well, seems like you’ve found him.’
‘I seek a different highwayman,’ Rupert said and gripped his glass tightly so as not to wipe the smug grin off the other man’s face with his fist. ‘A young man, a lad really, who has been putting the fear of God into the people of Hounslow and surrounds for a good few months, holding up coaches and riders.’
‘A young man, you say?’ Narrowing his eyes, Gentleman George emptied his glass again. ‘I’ve not heard of any young lads robbing coaches, and it’s only been a few weeks since I was outside of this place. Of course I don’t know everything that goes on, but I do know a fair bit. You wish to apprehend this young rascal?’
Rupert shook his head. ‘Not apprehend. I wish to talk to him.’
‘And why do you want to talk to this young man?’ Gentleman George reached for the bottle and poured himself another glass. His hand trembled slightly, and he sloshed brandy beside the glass. Having filled it to the brim, he lifted it to his lips, but drank only a little.
The highwayman was suspicious now, Rupert could see that. He would have to proceed very carefully. He assumed that the robber in question was known to Gentleman George, and, if so, he would be well aware this was no boy, but a woman. The question was, were they on friendly terms, or were they enemies? Gentleman George was caught because someone had betrayed him – or so the story went – and it wasn’t impossible that that someone was the highwaywoman, or perhaps an associate of hers. If they were deadly enemies, Gentleman George would have no scruples about selling her out.
If, on the other hand, they were allies, or even companions, Rupert sensed that this man, however low he had sunk and however soon he would feel the rope around his neck, wouldn’t give her away, not for all the brandy in the world.
‘The thing is,’ he said, proceeding cautiously, ‘I want to talk to this young highwayman because I need to warn him. You see, he made the mistake of holding up a cousin of mine the other night, and I’m afraid my cousin is very observant. He noticed one or two things about this young rascal which, shall we say, made him determined to meet up with … him … again.’
Gentleman George scowled at him, suspicion still lurking in his eyes. ‘What sort of things would that be?’
‘Something that made him feel rather amorous, I’m sorry to say. In short, my cousin believes the young scoundrel to be a woman.’
‘Never.’ George’s voice wobbled ever so slightly, giving away the fact that he was getting nervous. Rupert decided to continue prodding.
‘Oh, ye
s, no doubt about it. And my cousin is a great one for the ladies, I have to say. Once he sets his sights on a particular wench, there’s no stopping him. Now he reckons that the young lady wouldn’t be holding up coaches off her own bat. She must have been taught by someone, or forced even, and who better than a master highwayman?’ It had to be someone close to her and presumably occupations like that ran in the family like any other. ‘Perhaps a relative of hers?’ he finished, and was pleased to see George’s knuckles turn white because he was gripping his glass so hard.
‘A likely tale,’ the man spat, but he wouldn’t look Rupert in the eye.
‘No? Well, let me tell you, my cousin has been making enquiries, and the net is beginning to tighten around the lady and her accomplice. Soon they might find themselves in the same position as you, unless the lady is handed over to my cousin. Trust me, my cousin’s ruthless enough to use every means at his disposal and I just want to warn her. I’m all for law and order, but it pains me to see a woman’s virtue threatened in this manner and it would pain me even more to see her hang for something she’d been made to do by unscrupulous relatives. I’m quite sure it’s not her fault.’
‘The devil you do! I don’t believe a word of it.’
‘But you do know the name of this highwayman? Don’t bother denying it; I can see it in your eyes.’ Rupert leaned forward, making his gaze as threatening as he possibly could. ‘You’d better tell me, or I’ll make damned sure you’ll suffer a lingering death. Imagine that hempen rope squeezing your windpipe, your legs kicking out for purchase, your bowels loosening. You’re looking at a long, slow, painful death.’
Gentleman George blanched, but spluttered, ‘Never!’
Rupert pressed home his advantage – he could see the highwayman’s hands trembling now. ‘Trust me, there are ways of prolonging your Tyburn dance. I know the beadle and he’s an expert. A tidy sum and …’ He let the threat hang in the air.
After a lengthy silence, George whispered, ‘It could be Mardell, but then again maybe not.’ The word came out as if slowly torn from his body, his eyes seemed sunken and hollow, his shoulders hunched. A broken man, Rupert thought and almost felt pity for him. Almost, but not quite.
The Highwayman's Daughter Page 10
