The Prodigal Hero

by Nancy Butler

  And he certainly would not admit that he hadn’t been with a woman since that fateful encounter with the French ship. Even the false hand had not given him any confidence that he would not be laughed at or shunned, even by a whore.

  He was about to tell her that he had absolutely no intention of discussing his blasted hand, when he realized she was prodding him toward the grain bin.

  “I am curious about how this works,” she said as she lifted the cloth from the wooden facsimile. “Would you show me?”

  He was incoherent. She must be mad to think he would reveal his most private shame to her, but Alexa had already lifted the false hand and was examining it.

  “It’s a very clever device.” Her fingers stroked over each curled finger. “Lighter than it appears, and nicely balanced.”

  He wanted to wrench it away from her, to shout at her to put it down and leave him the bloody hell alone. Instead he stood there unmoving, barely breathing, as she lifted his right arm and tugged his short cuff away from the scarred stump.

  “Am I doing this properly?” she asked as she fitted the base of the lamb’s wool wrist up against his own.

  “Yes,” he managed to gasp. He looked straight ahead, trying not to shudder, while she fastened the harness that reached to the middle of his forearm.

  “Not too tight?”

  “No,” he said. It was practically a whimper.

  “Good.” She refastened his cuff, smoothed down his sleeve, and then stood back. “You can breathe now,” she said, not trying to hide the fond amusement in her voice.

  “No one ...” he said haltingly, “no one has ... ever done that before.”

  She smiled wistfully. “Was it so terrible? I didn’t muss you about or anything, did I? I’m used to tending the soldiers at the Chelsea Hospital. I have a light touch, they all told me. With a bit of practice, I daresay, I could become rather good at this.”

  What the devil did she mean by that?

  He looked down at her and saw everything that was in her heart shining in her bright, indigo gaze. Hope warring with uncertainty, admiration mixed with caution. And the one thing he’d never expected to see in another person’s eyes—a fierce, protective concern. Not pity, not revulsion, but rather an expression that promised, I will never let anything hurt you. It made his own heart twist into a knot of longing.

  If he could choose a moment to think back on in his old age, one that held only relief and the surcease of pain, this would surely have been it.

  “Come inside,” she said gently, placing her hand on his shoulder. “We have enemies we need to outwit. We need to make a plan.”

  “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather go on without me?”

  She said a very rude word. “As if I would entrust myself to anyone but you. And, besides, you need to go to Cudbright. It’s time my father discovered the truth about that night, don’t you think?”

  “The truth? And what do you think the truth is, Miss Prescott?”

  She wrinkled her long, elegant nose. “Something that has my cousin at the bottom of it, I’m sure.”

  Chapter 8

  Finch didn’t stop roaring for a good two miles. By the time he and Connor finally drew up their horses, Finch’s coat front was covered with blood, but the neck wound had nearly stopped bleeding.

  Connor doctored him the best he could, which was difficult, since he spent most of the time avoiding Finch’s flailing fists. He soaked his neck cloth in some brandy from his hip flask, and wrapped it around the other man’s throat.

  “It’s not so bad,” he pronounced. “Just a long gash.” He thought it wise not to tell Finch that a bit of his earlobe was missing. His friend was hardly in the mood for any more bad news.

  Connor hesitantly brought up the notion of abandoning their pursuit, but Finch had his dander up now. He swore he would kill MacHeath the next time they met. “And that bitch of his, too, with her high-and-mighty airs. I don’t care about Quincy’s money any longer.”

  “Well, you should,” Connor protested. “We done a lot more for him than we agreed on. Days and nights on the road, asking after his cousin at every blasted inn and tavern. I swear, when this is over, I never want to see another landlord. We deserve to get our fair cut, Bully, and now that you been shot, we should double our fee. So no more losing your temper and tryin’ to shoot the chit. Save your anger for MacHeath.”

  Finch agreed with a surly grunt.

  Connor fidgeted with his flask. “So what do we do now? You think he’s gone to earth in Rumpley?”

  “Mmm. Probably waiting there in that inn for cover of darkness before he tries to leave.” He hunkered down against a wide tree trunk. “Plus, the chit’ll need time to recover from being dunked in the river.”

  “What if she drowned?”

  “Then, I say good riddance to her. But he’ll still be there,” he muttered as he reached up and snatched the flask from Connor. After a long swallow, he swiped his sleeve across his mouth. “And then he’ll regret the day he ever crossed our path, Alf. By God, he will.”

  * * *

  It was twilight when their quarry came strolling along the high street. Finch watched from a shadowed alley opposite the inn as the man in the black cape and the woman in the blue pelisse made their leisurely way toward the Squire’s Hat. Several times they stopped to peer into a shop window or to nod at one of the numerous passersby.

  Finch growled to himself—there were too many people out there on the street for him to risk a shot at MacHeath. For such a small town, the pavement seemed to be awash with humanity.

  Once the couple had entered the inn, Finch gave a sharp, high whistle. Connor’s head popped out of the alleyway directly across from him, and he nodded once before his head disappeared. Two minutes later Finch saw him flit across the road at the far end of the village. When Connor finally crept up behind him, he was breathless.

  “You spotted ‘em, Bully?”

  “Mmm. No use you minding the back door of the inn—they weren’t staying there after all. They just came down the street from the direction of the bridge, arm in arm and bold as brass.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Look,” Finch said with glee as he pointed to the front of the Squire’s Hat. The couple was just settling themselves at the table nearest the inn’s bow window, their profiles back-lit by the candles in the dining parlor. “Couldn’t ask for more than that,” he proclaimed softly. “We’ll follow them when they leave. If they don’t use the front door, then we’ll run around to the back and surprise them as they come out.”

  The two waited for over an hour, and still the couple seemed intent on their meal. After another half hour, Connor began to squirm. “What’re they doin’, Bully? Samplin’ every bleedin’ thing in the kitchen?”

  Finch watched as the man and woman in the window touched their glasses together in an obvious toast. He chuckled. “I fancy they be congratulatin’ each other on gettin’ shed of us.” He added softly, “That’s right, MacHeath, drink to Bully Finch. And I’ll drink to you when you’re in hell.”

  Finally the couple rose from the table. Less than a minute later, they came out onto the pavement and set out in the direction of the bridge. They had only gone a few feet when the man bent to the lady and whispered something into her ear. She erupted in a peal of loud, cackling laughter.

  “Ooh, Ebbie,” she shrieked. “You have a wicked, wicked tongue on you ... and I should know.”

  Finch immediately lowered his gun and swore. “Something’s amiss.”

  “That don’t sound like Quincy’s cousin,” his companion concurred.

  The couple resumed walking, and the tall man started to sing in a braying voice. “The ladies down in Hades wear garters made in France, and if you’re willing to pay a shilling, the devil makes them dance ....”

  The woman began to giggle loudly, while punching her partner playfully in the ribs.

  “We been duped,” Finch snarled. “C’mon, let’s see if those two jugbi
t fools know anything.”

  Connor was halfway into the street, when Finch caught his arm and yanked him back. “No, we best go around and catch them at the bridge. We’re less likely to get interrupted there.”

  They headed down the alley at a run, Connor a little in front of his mate, who had to move gingerly because of his neck wound. By the time Finch reached the field behind the shop, Connor was stomping around and cursing.

  “Our horses are gone!” he cried, pointing to a leafless lilac thicket. “And I tied them good and tight.”

  “Maybe some pranking boys set them loose. But we ain’t got time to look for them now. Come on ...”

  They hurried along through the unlit yards that lay behind the shop row, stumbling over refuse barrels and piles of cord wood, and then assumed a more leisurely pace once they were on the street. The tipsy couple was just crossing the bridge when they caught up with them.

  “ ‘Scuse me, ma’am,” Finch called out. “If I might speak with you. Me and my friend are from Bow Street.”

  “Ooh, Bow Street,” she crowed to the man beside her. “Fancy that, Ebbie.”

  Finch felt his bile rise. He took a deep breath before he continued. “We be looking for a woman with a blue coat exactly like the one you are wearing. I was wondering how you came by it.”

  “I gave it to her,” the man said proudly. “Foun’ it behind the tailor’s shop this afternoon. Soaking wet, it were. Wetter than an old wet hen.” He began to giggle softly.

  “What time was that?”

  The man shrugged. “Sommat past two.”

  The woman preened and ran her hand over the embroidered sleeve. “Fine, ain’t it? I dried it by the fire, and bless me if it didn’t fit just right.”

  “You didn’t see anyone suspicious around?”

  “You mean strangers?” As the man spoke, he listed so far to one side that he nearly obscured his companion. “None but you and yon little scrap of a fellow.”

  Finch touched his forelock to the couple and quickly retraced his steps to Connor. “MacHeath’s scarpered,” he said with a scowl. “And those two don’t know nothing about it. We’d better find our horses and get after the girl.”

  After an hour of fruitless searching, they concluded that their horses had not merely wandered off, but had been stolen.

  “Imagine that,” Connor mused as they trudged along the dark street to the livery stable, which had been pointed out to them by a young man lounging near the inn.

  “Imagine what?”

  “Someone having the bleedin’ gall to steal our horses.”

  They hammered repeatedly on the door to the liveryman’s house, but there was no answer. Which should not have surprised them, since there were no lights showing in any of the windows.

  “Looks like we have to help ourselves,” said Finch with a guttural whisper.

  He tried to force the front door of the barn, but it was latched from the inside. A window on the far side of the building appeared more promising. Unfortunately, he had barely begun to jimmy it open, when Towser—who was a terrier of uncertain ancestry, but with no lack of terrier tenacity—came racing around the corner of the building. He catapulted into Finch and sank his teeth into the back of his thigh.

  Finch screamed and tried to shake the animal off.

  “Shoot the blasted dog!” he cried, dancing around the stable yard like a man possessed by six devils. But when Connor drew his pistol and started to take aim, Finch realized his backside was in as much danger as the determined dog. “No, don’t shoot!” he wailed. “Run!”

  Towser did not let go until the men had crossed the bridge at a brisk gallop. With his honor satisfied and his territory safe once more, he shook himself from snout to tail and went off to inspect a barrel of refuse that had been overturned behind the butcher shop.

  A good dog’s work was never done.

  Mr. and Mrs. Gable waited another hour before they relit the candles in their parlor. “You think we’ve seen the last of them?” she asked.

  “They’ll be away after the real MacHeath by now,” her husband replied. “But thanks to us, he and his lady have a decent lead on them.”

  “Well, then, Ebbie,” she said, aping the accent she’d used in the street, “I’m thinkin’ we deserves another little toast.”

  “You were a treat to do this for my friend,” he said as he poured them each a glass of brandy. “Especially since the big, ugly one came right up to us. MacHeath and I never thought he’d do that when we planned this out. I wouldn’t have let you be part of the masquerade otherwise.”

  “I wasn’t afraid.” She clinked her glass against his, and her eyes danced. “You had your pistol with you, after all. That’s one advantage of marrying an ex-smuggler—you know your man can handle a rough customer or two.”

  She winked at him roguishly, and gave him a teasing smile. They might as well make a night of it, she reckoned; she’d sent their boy off to a neighbor’s earlier, to keep him out of harm’s way, so they had the house to themselves for a change.

  Her musing was abruptly interrupted by a loud knock on the door. Mrs. Gable nearly dropped her glass. Her husband quickly extinguished the candles and went to look out the front window.

  “It’s two men,” he said over his shoulder. “No, my love, don’t tremble so. It’s not those two rogues. Looks to be an older man and a young fellow.”

  “Should we see what they want?”

  “Mmm. Might be they’re just looking for horses to let.”

  Mrs. Gable rallied slightly. “Then, let them in, Eb. But keep your pistol handy.”

  * * *

  Gambling was in Darwin Quincy’s blood. The turn of a card or the outcome of a horse race quickened his pulse and made his brain hum. So it was the most natural thing that he should venture into Alexander Prescott’s office without knowing whether Alexa had yet written to alert her father about his own part in the abduction plot.

  He found Prescott at his desk, his back to the large window that overlooked the riverfront and the shipyard. The older man looked up as he came through the door. Quincy hesitated, awaiting some sign of accusation, and when nothing more than a surprised, “Best of the season to you, nephew,” was forthcoming, he tossed his hat onto a bench with a silent sigh of relief.

  “I didn’t look for you this year,” Prescott said as he pinched his half glasses off his nose and set aside the papers he’d been reading.

  Quincy schooled his face into somber lines. “I am come here to share your sorrow, Uncle.”

  He was gratified when Prescott’s face paled. “My sorrow? Good Lord, what has happened?”

  “I thought you must know by now,” he said softly. “Else I would not have sprung it on you so abruptly. I assumed Mrs. Reginald had written to you the night it happened. Ah, but she was so overset, and perhaps feared your anger ... because, after all, she allowed such a thing to occur while your daughter was in her care.”

  Prescott set his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Is it Alexa? Quick now, don’t drag it out.”

  “She has been abducted, sir.”

  Prescott started back in his chair. “What’s that?”

  “Outside Reading, a rogue lured her from the coach and carried her off.” He paused a moment, watching as his uncle’s eyes narrowed. “I instantly enlisted several men to search for her ... I led them myself for two days, and then thought that I could be of more service here. I was sure you would need someone beside you in your time of distress. It ... it never occurred to me that you had not been notified or I’d have sent word myself.”

  Prescott got up slowly, like Zeus arising from his Olympian throne. His white brows quivered in barely contained fury as his fist crashed down on the desk. “Who had the blasted impudence to carry off my daughter?”

  “I ... I have no idea, Uncle. I assumed the man was holding her for ransom. But I gather you have received no message from him. That is most strange.”

  “If I know my girl, she coshed the f
ellow on the head the instant his back was turned and ran off. That would be just like Alexa.”

  Quincy sniffed. “She is a gallant girl, certainly, but perhaps you give her too much credit.”

  “Nonsense, she is my daughter, and more of a trouper, even as a cub, than you ever were.” Prescott drew in a steadying breath. “But that’s old business. You are here now, and I thank you for it. I never figured you for a man to come through in a crisis. Looks like I have to rethink things a mite.”

  He moved to the window, and Quincy saw that his hands were trembling as he plucked at the heavy draperies. “My poor girl,” he murmured. “My poor little Lexie.”

  Quincy went to his side and laid a comforting hand on his broad shoulder.

  “Let me support you, sir. Because I care for you, and because it is the least I can do to repay you for all your kindnesses to me.”

  Prescott turned to him, his usually robust face now gaunt and gray.

  “She’s everything to me,” he said raggedly. “If I were to lose her ...”

  “Come.” Quincy motioned him back to his chair. “I will tell you what I have learned so far, and then we’ll put our heads together and determine the best way to get her back.”

  “Yes, together we will get her back,” Prescott said with some of his former vigor. “I never doubted you were a clever lad, Darwin. Never for a minute.”

  Quincy slid into the chair opposite the desk and crossed his legs. The smug, satisfied smile that curled his thin mouth lingered there only an instant.

  Chapter 9

  MacHeath and Alexa kept up a punishing pace as they traveled across the rolling countryside of south Hampshire. They were making excellent time for a change. The horse Mr. Gable gave Alexa had lived up to her reputation, easily keeping abreast of MacHeath’s hunter. Alexa had insisted on riding astride, and neither MacHeath nor Mr. Gable had tried to dissuade her. Over cross-country terrain, they knew, it would be far safer than using a sidesaddle.