Lucasta

by Melinda Hammond

  ‘I can protect myself. ‘She reached into the pocket beneath her voluminous skirts and pulled out a pistol.

  ‘Lord a’ mercy! Never tell me that thing is loaded.’

  ‘But of course it is, and you know I can use it, you said so yourself, on Hansford Common.’

  ‘Aye, and what a deuce of a pickle we have been in since then!’ He shook his head at her. ‘I’m only a servant and can’t order you to leave here, miss, but I wish you would go. I wish to goodness my lord was here!’

  Lucasta sighed.

  ‘I wish that, too,’ she murmured.

  As the light faded the wind grew colder. One by one the huge windmills stopped working, their huge sails turned on edge to the wind and silence descended over the fields, broken only by the creak and rattle of timbers buffeted by the wind. Jacob shivered.

  ‘It is well nigh dark now, miss. Eight o’clock must be past by now and nothing has occurred. We should go back.’

  Lucasta looked down towards the trees. Nothing was stirring.

  ‘Perhaps you are right. Perhaps those men were merely on their way home.’ She sighed. ‘Very well, Jacob. Help me to mount, please.’

  ‘Am I to take you back to Sophia Street, Miss Symonds?’

  ‘Yes.’ She settled herself in the saddle, rearranging her skirts while she waited for the groom to climb onto his own horse. ‘Oh dear, it will be so late when we get back that I shall be obliged to tell Mama I dined at Filwood House. How hungry I shall be by then! Perhaps you would let me have the rest of that cheese, Jacob—’

  ‘Hush, miss! Look.’

  He pointed towards the lane. A solitary rider was approaching. Even in the low light she could see he was wrapped up well against the night air in a travelling cloak, his hat pulled down over his face.

  ‘That cannot be Miesel,’ said Potts. ‘The man is much too tall.’

  They watched the rider disappear into the shadowy darkness of the trees. Then there was a cry, the sudden neighing of a horse.

  ‘It is an attack. Quickly, Jacob!’

  ‘Should we ride for help, miss?’

  ‘No, that would take too long.’ She pulled the pistol from her skirts. ‘We must go and help.’

  Ignoring the groom’s protests, she set her horse at a gallop towards the trees.

  Lucasta could hear nothing above the thud of her horses’ hoofs and the wind whistling around her, but as she reached the lane there were sounds of a commotion. The road disappeared into the shadowy tunnel of the overhanging trees. Peering ahead, she could just make out several figures struggling together in the darkness. A riderless horse hovered nervously at the side of the road. It was too dark to see clearly, so Lucasta raised her pistol and fired into the air.

  For a moment the struggling figures froze, but as Potts came thundering up behind her they took to their heels and fled. Only one remained. The traveller was lying face down and motionless on the ground.

  ‘Oh pray heaven he is not dead!’ whispered Lucasta, jumping down.

  ‘Be careful miss!’

  Jacob’s warning went unheeded as Lucasta fell to her knees beside the still figure. She leaned over him.

  ‘He breathes! Help me turn him, Jacob.’

  With some difficulty they rolled the man onto his back, Lucasta gently cradling his dark head on her skirts.

  ‘He is coming around, Jacob. Will you fetch your brandy flask, if you please? No, do not try to move, yet, sir. We need to ascertain how badly you are hurt.’

  She looked down into the bearded face and smiled reassuringly even though it was doubtful he could see her in the darkness. She did not know how he would react: confused, perhaps, or gasping with pain. She was not prepared for the blazing anger when he spoke to her.

  ‘You interfering baggage! What the devil do you think you are doing?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Lucasta was so shocked her hands fell away from him.

  ‘Adam!’

  He sat up, groaning slightly as he did so.

  ‘And who else did think it would be? What the devil are you doing here if you didn’t follow me?’

  As Potts came back at that moment she was not obliged to answer. The groom’s relief at finding his master was evident and he held out the flask, bidding my lord to drink as much as he wanted.

  ‘I’m mightily pleased to see you, my lord. Very pleased indeed.’

  ‘You won’t be so pleased when I’ve finished with you,’ growled the viscount. ‘What the devil do you mean by bringing Miss Symonds into such danger?’

  ‘Now you are being unfair, my lord,’ cried Lucasta. ‘And ungrateful too, when we have come to your rescue!’

  ‘I did not need you to come to my rescue. Help is at hand, I needed only to hold out for a moment longer.’

  ‘When I arrived you were unconscious on the ground!’

  ‘Only because I was distracted by that damned pistol-shot—’

  ‘Someone’s approaching!’

  Jacob’s warning silenced them.

  ‘All’s well,’ muttered the viscount, getting to his feet. ‘It is Loughton.’

  Lucasta jumped up.

  ‘Mr Loughton? What is he doing here?’

  ‘He was looking out for me. Well, did you catch them?’

  ‘Aye, my lord.’ Loughton trotted up to them. ‘I thought we was going to be too late, for I missed the way and we ended up at Frog Lane, but we was just coming up to the wood when they ran straight into us. And only too willing to blab. From what they have already told me we can safely arrest Miesel and, if he still has the necklace, that will wrap it up nicely. I have left my men to bind em up tight and take ’em back to Bow Street while I came to see that you was not hurt.’

  ‘Do you mean to tell me you planned this?’ demanded Lucasta, staring.

  ‘Aye,’ replied the Runner. ‘Well, apart from the fact that we was meant to be following closer to his lordship, to be ready for any attack, you see.’

  ‘Well you were not ready, and that was very remiss of you,’ put in Lucasta crossly. ‘Lord Kennington might have been killed if he had been obliged to wait for you to turn up.’

  ‘One might ask just what you are doing here, Miss Symonds,’ retorted Loughton, bristling. ‘And you, Potts: you are still under suspicion, don’t forget.’

  ‘I think we should postpone this discussion,’ put in the viscount. ‘Miss Symonds is shivering. Here.’ He shrugged off his greatcoat and draped it around her shoulders.

  ‘Thank you.’ She tried to read his expression in the darkness. ‘Are you sure you are not hurt?’

  ‘Nothing more than a few cuts and bruises.’ His hands rested on her shoulders and Lucasta knew an impulse to step forward and cling on to him, to reassure herself that he was truly alive. Then the moment was gone and he was saying briskly, ‘There is an inn a little way back down the road. Potts, you can come there with me while Loughton escorts Miss Symonds back to Sophia Street.’

  Angrily she pulled away from him.

  ‘I will not go home until you have told me what is going on.’

  ‘Do not be so foolish, Lucasta. You cannot be seen in a common inn.’

  ‘This is as much my adventure as yours now. Besides, you are in my debt: I have just saved your life.’

  In the tense silence she heard Mr Loughton chuckle.

  ‘She has you there, my lord. Perhaps we can hire a private parlour, and grease the landlord’s palm to stand mum about it.’

  ‘An excellent plan, Mr Loughton.’ Lucasta walked over to her mare and took up the reins. ‘Please throw me up, Jacob.’

  But it was the viscount who marched forward and tossed her up into the saddle.

  ‘You are dangerously headstrong, Lucasta. Quite heedless of your reputation.’

  ‘My reputation is none of your concern,’ she flashed.

  ‘No, thank God.’

  They rode in silence to the inn, where Mr Loughton went in first to procure a private room for them. Despite Lucasta’s protes
ts the viscount threw his coat over her head and hustled her past the tap room door, only releasing her from his vice-like grip once they were safely inside the private parlour. She threw off the greatcoat and glared at him.

  ‘That was quite unnecessary, my lord. I am not known in this area.’

  ‘And I want it to remain that way.’

  Mr Loughton coughed.

  ‘Perhaps, ma’am, you would like to sit down and I will pour you a glass of wine?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘I think we should all sit down,’ muttered the viscount.

  Mr Loughton guided Lucasta to one of the rickety chairs beside the table, requested the viscount to take the other, assuring him that the three-legged stools would be perfectly suitable for himself and Mr Potts.

  ‘Now,’ barked the viscount, when they were all seated. ‘Jacob, you will explain yourself, if you please!’

  Lucasta opened her mouth to object, but as she met the groom’s eye he gave a tiny shake of his head, warning her to remain silent. She closed her lips again. Perhaps it was best for Jacob to speak to his master, since everything she said to the viscount seemed to inflame him.

  While the groom explained how he had followed Miesel and overheard his conversation in the Whitechapel tavern, Lucasta leaned back in the chair, cradling her glass of wine between her hands. In the safety of the well-lighted room and with a fire crackling merrily in the hearth, her jangled nerves grew steadier. She found herself studying Lord Kennington. The dark bag-wig and rough beard that covered half his face gave him the look of a stranger. Even his grey eyes had lost their usual smile and appeared darker. She looked closer. The areas of his face not hidden by hair were cut and bruised from his recent beating. She had seen at least four attackers. Had he really been fighting them off successfully before she intervened? The thought of the violence made her shudder.

  ‘Well, madam, am I so disgusting that you must stare at me with that look of horror upon your face?’

  Lucasta jumped.

  ‘Oh, I – um – I beg your pardon, my lord. You look so different …’

  ‘It was a necessary disguise.’

  ‘Oh? Why was that?’

  When the viscount failed to respond to her enquiry she looked to Mr Loughton.

  ‘You see, Miss Symonds, the duchess wanted to draw Miesel out, to make him think he had been seen on Hansford Common.’

  ‘The notice in the newspapers,’ cried Lucasta. ‘That was a trap.’

  ‘As an officer of the law I cannot be condoning traps,’ said Mr Loughton heavily. ‘Her Grace assured me it was merely a means of – ah – inducing the killer to show his hand.’

  ‘I disguised myself as a French traveller and persuaded Miesel that I had seen him kill Sir Talbot,’ said Lord Kennington, pouring himself a second glass of wine. ‘Told him I would take the emeralds in exchange for my silence.’

  Lucasta stared at him.

  ‘You never expected him to give them to you!’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Why not? It was too dangerous for him to sell them.’

  ‘Then the men he met in the tavern,’ she looked at Potts. ‘He was plotting tonight’s attack?’

  ‘It would seem so,’ replied the viscount. ‘And not completely unexpected. When he told me to meet him at eight o’clock at the northern edge of Finsbury Fields I guessed he might be planning something of the sort.’

  Lucasta swallowed hard.

  ‘And you walked into the trap? Knowing … knowing you might be killed?’

  ‘I did have support: Loughton and his men were following me, only of necessity he had to keep his distance.’

  ‘Yes, he was so far away he got himself lost!’

  ‘Now, miss, that is unfair,’ protested Mr Loughton. ‘I was on the scene only moments after yourself.’

  ‘And in those moments Lord Kennington might have died!’

  ‘And you, Lucasta, might have got us both killed,’ the viscount struck in. ‘I wish to God you had stayed at home, woman.’

  ‘So, too do I,’ she flashed at him, colour flaring in her cheeks. ‘But since I am here I want to know what you plan to do next.’

  ‘Loughton and I are going to Milk Street to arrest Miesel. It’s my guess that he will be in his rooms – he is too clever to let those ruffians know where he lives so he will not yet know that his plan has failed.’

  ‘Even if he did he wouldn’t get away,’ said Mr Loughton, ‘I have one of my men watching him tonight.’

  ‘I hope he’s doing a better job than he did t’other night,’ muttered Jacob.

  Mr Loughton looked slightly abashed.

  ‘Yes, well, even at Bow Street we cannot always get the right sort o’ men. I admit we did slip up a bit in our observation of Mr Miesel.’

  ‘You do no worse than those poor fools General Bradfield has set to watch Filwood House,’ grinned the viscount. ‘They still believe I am safely indoors. Come along, it is time we were away.’

  Lucasta put down her glass.

  ‘I am coming with you.’

  ‘Oh no you are not. You are going home.’

  ‘You cannot make me!’

  He swung round to face her, his eyes hard and unyielding as granite.

  ‘If you insist upon defying me I shall send you home tied to your damned saddle! Potts, fetch the horses. You are taking Miss Symonds home.’

  The groom coughed.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I think I should come with you to Milk Street. Miesel could turn nasty, and I want to assure myself that nothing else in that establishment is – er – damaged. That is, that no innocent parties is hurt.’

  The viscount stared at him.

  ‘You refer to Mrs Jessop, I suppose.’

  Jacob put up his stubbly chin and met his master’s eyes with a steady gaze.

  ‘Aye, sir, that would be it.’

  Lucasta nodded approvingly, a tiny, triumphant smile curling her lips. She watched the viscount’s gaze travelling from her own face to Jacob’s stubborn countenance, then on to Mr Loughton’s gently twinkling eyes.

  ‘Very well.’ The viscount’s chair scraped back as he rose and snatched up his hat. ‘Let us go.’

  As he stormed out of the room, Lucasta heard him mutter, ‘God protect me from overbearing women and love-sick fools!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  March winds tore at them as they rode back into London, gusting between the houses and swirling the dust in the darkened streets. When the reached the corner of Milk Street they drew rein. Mr Loughton beckoned to a muffled figure sheltering in a doorway.

  ‘Any news, Price?’

  The man touched his forelock.

  ‘No, sir. He went to the tavern for his dinner, then back to his lodging. He’s there now.’

  ‘Very well. Look after the horses, Price. We’ll go in.’

  The shutters were up on the cheesemonger’s window but light shone through the cracks. Potts knocked softly on the door and when he heard movement on the inside he said quietly, ‘Sarah? It’s me, Jacob.’

  The door opened a crack and the widow looked out, clearly startled to find such a crowd on her doorstep. Mr Loughton stepped forward.

  ‘No need to be afraid, Mistress. I’m here from Bow Street on a matter of business to see your lodger, Mr Miesel.’

  ‘What he says is right, Sarah,’ said Potts. ‘Open the door, my dear.’

  As the door opened Lucasta found the viscount gripping her arm. He turned her, forcing her to face him.

  ‘When Miesel finds he is cornered he might turn vicious,’ he said. ‘Too many of us in one small room could be very dangerous, This time I must insist you do as I say, Lucasta. You will stay downstairs with Mrs Jessop, is that understood?’

  He gripped her arms, giving her a little shake.

  ‘Do you understand that, Lucasta? You must stay downstairs, promise me.’

  His eyes bored into her and she read concern in their dark depths.

  ‘I p
romise, Adam.’

  ‘And promise me, whatever happens, even if Miesel should escape, you will not put yourself in any danger.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  He smiled, sliding his hands down her arms until he reached her gloved fingers, which he squeezed gently.

  ‘Thank you, my dear.’ He straightened, and gave Mrs Jessop his charming smile. ‘Now, ladies if you would please wait here?’

  Adam and Jacob followed Loughton up the stairs into the darkness of the landing. There was a strip of dim light coming from under one door. Loughton knocked and entered upon the echo. Miesel jumped up as they entered, scrabbling to throw a blanket over the little collection of items scattered over the bed. With surprising speed Loughton sprang forward and caught him.

  ‘Not so fast, my fine fellow. Let’s have a look at what we have here.’

  Adam crossed the room. He heard Jacob give a low whistle behind him.

  ‘Looks as if he’s been caught red-handed.’

  The dim lamplight glinted on the silver-backed brush and comb,. An enamelled snuff-box nestled in the folds of a fine silk handkerchief bearing the initials “TB” clearly in one corner, and next to that, winking beside its leather pouch, an emerald necklace curled sinuously over a crease in the bedcover.

  ‘No, no, it’s not mine!’ protested Miesel. ‘It was here, like this, when I came back from my dinner. Someone is trying to pin the blame upon me.’ He caught sight of Adam, still wearing his dark wig and unshaven beard and his eyes narrowed. ‘Him!’ he hissed out. ‘The Frenchy. He tried to blackmail me. He put these things here!’

  ‘No, no that won’t work this time,’ growled Loughton, not releasing his grip. ‘Those fools you hired to attack this gentleman were a rum lot, Miesel. When they was caught they didn’t take much persuading to tell us who put ’em up to it.’

  Miesel stopped struggling. He glanced malevolently at Adam.

  ‘So you did go to the magistrates. After the reward, was you?’ When Adam said nothing he sighed. ‘Very well. If that’s the case I suppose it’s all over.’

  The fight went out of him. His shoulders drooped, his head hung to one side, signalling defeat.