The Prodigal Hero

by Nancy Butler

  He also had to admit, it pleased him to keep Quincy around, to have a member of the gentry going in and out of his home at will. He’d even hoped that her cousin’s polish would eventually rub off on Alexa.

  No prayer of that happening, he thought with a grin. Not his wild rover.

  Something about Alexa had changed, he realized. She was still as mulish and plainspoken as ever, but the quiet, simmering hostility he’d seen steadily growing in her over the past seven years had diminished. She was angry with him right now, he knew. And frustrated. But she’d faced him boldly, like the Alexa of old. There’d been none of the sniping comments, not a whisper of the creeping resentment he’d come to loathe.

  She’d just now spoken of his love for her, but for the first time since she was seventeen, he had a notion she might possibly love him back.

  He still recalled the day she’d gone off to the lady’s academy, her face at the coach window, eyes dark and bitter, silently raking him for his betrayal. That forced departure had abruptly marked the end of their easy accord, an accord that had existed between them from the time she was a toddler, riding piggyback on his shoulders. Every night since, he’d prayed that his little Lexie, the openly affectionate child she’d been before he sent her off into the world, would come back to him.

  Oh, she dutifully returned each Christmas, and they’d kept up the holiday traditions her mother had begun. Occasionally during her visits, he’d catch her eye and see her smile. But those had been his only glimpses of his Lexie. The aloof, hostile young woman who attended him over the holidays more often seemed a stranger.

  It wasn’t his fault he’d needed to send her away. He hadn’t any notion of how to turn his reckless girl into a proper lady—the requirements for females entering Society were far beyond his ken. He’d never been able to make Alexa understand that.

  It was a pity he had no sons—he knew about the molding of boys and young men, how to teach them and encourage them. He’d sometimes felt as though he had a son in Simeon Hastings—a bright, willing lad, full of ambition, and so damned talented. He’d have made any parent proud.

  Prescott would never forget the way his heart twisted tonight, when he’d recognized the man Quincy was confronting at the back of the church. There was nothing of the gilded youth in that roughened fellow. Except that his eyes had not changed. They were still steady and intense and full of quiet intelligence. He’d looked into those eyes and known without a smidgen of doubt that Simeon Hastings had come back to Cudbright.

  And that it was sure to mean nothing but trouble.

  * * *

  MacHeath walked through the village toward the Mermaid’s Tail, mulling over the past week’s events. Unsatisfactory seemed to be the watchword.

  He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration, looking up at the heavens as though an answer lay there. The sky overhead was clear and laced with stars—he instantly thought back to that night in London, when he’d gazed up at Orion and the Dippers and mourned the loss of the sea. It felt like a lifetime ago.

  Since then, he’d regained the sea, he’d re-found Alexa, he’d met up with old friends, and tonight it appeared he’d made a new one. He was a sorry Robin Hood to have acquired such a fine Friar Tuck, he reflected with a grin.

  Perhaps things were not so unsatisfactory, after all.

  His embittered soul had begun to experience the occasional rush of joy, and his deep shame at the loss of his hand had started to fade. But mixed with these new blessings was a new, keenly felt ache. The deep stirrings of affection he felt for Alexa had to be crushed. He was not the proper man for her, and he would be wise to remind himself of that whenever he drifted into dreaming about a life with her. It was necessary to tamp down every longing, every desire, before he was overcome by them. He’d suffered the loss of his hand, and somehow had survived it. He wasn’t sure he could endure the loss of his heart.

  He was nearly at the tavern, passing along a familiar street, when two men came out of an alley and took him by the arms, one on either side of him. He knew instinctively it was not Finch and Connor, but had no clue as to their identity.

  “This way, sir,” the elder of the men said, as they steered him down a narrow lane that ended at the river. When they passed by a lit doorway, he craned his head around to look at the man who had spoken.

  “William?” he said. “William Coachman?”

  “So you do remember me, Mr. Hastings. It’s been many long years since I’ve seen your face. This young fellow is my nephew Henry.”

  “It occurs to me that you and your nephew have been following me.”

  “No, sir. Truth is, we been following those other two rascals.”

  “The devil you have!”

  “Since Reading,” Henry piped in.

  William motioned MacHeath to sit on the low wall that enclosed the grounds of the shipyard, and then settled beside him. Henry crouched down on the cobbles.

  “After you stole Miss Alexa from the coach,” William began, “me and Henry decided to follow after her. Henry’s a clever lad—he was a game tracker off in Lincolnshire before I got him a place with Prescott. He recalled what you’d said about a message, and so we went off to the Lamb and Flag in Reading that same night. The landlord was more than happy to tell us about the arrogant gentleman that had been there before us. And about the drawing that gentleman carried away with him.”

  MacHeath smiled to himself. So, Quincy had found his little message after all.

  “We went back to the White Hart to tell Mrs. Reggie that we were going after Alexa. She gave us the money that was in Miss Alexa’s purse to use for expenses, and hired us two fine horses to ride.”

  “You didn’t tell her about Quincy?”

  “We talked it over, me and Henry, and decided we didn’t have any proof against him. Just that drawing the landlord told us about. We figured who’d ever left it behind might be trying to incriminate him. So we set out toward Upavon, that being the next town of any size, and dashed if we didn’t nearly stumble over two rough characters whispering in the stable of a little inn—”

  “My friend Finch does have a carrying voice,” MacHeath noted dryly.

  “It was clear they were looking for a man and a woman. The big one was threatening what he was going to do to both of them, once he had them in his hands. But they never mentioned who they were taking their orders from.”

  “So you followed them?”

  “Aye, we did. And they never caught on.”

  “Funny, ain’t it,” Henry observed, “how a hound on a trail never looks back to see if he’s bein’ followed.”

  “We were right behind them when they got to Dagshott, and then we followed them to a small village west of there. They doubled back and headed south to Rumpley. That’s where I saw you, Simeon Hastings, and recognized you. After that skirmish on the bridge, it was.”

  “I wanted to rush in and tell Miss Alexa that we had come to take her home,” Henry interjected.

  “But I saw she was in good hands, sir. I saw you rescue her from the river.”

  “And it didn’t bother you that I’d been accused of stealing from her father?”

  “Pshaw ... I never believed that trumped-up tale. You were a good lad back then. And I knew you would never do anything to harm Miss Alexa, thief or not.”

  Henry leaned forward. “We saw you and Miss Alexa go into the house beside the livery, so we hid under the bridge until it got dark, and then, sure enough, just like we suspected, those two rascals came sneaking back into town.”

  “We stole their horses while they were lying in wait for you,” William said with a wide grin. “Figured it would give you some extra time to get away.”

  “Thank you,” said MacHeath, “it did.”

  “Once those rascals were gone from the place, we had a word with the liveryman. Told him we worked for Miss Alexa’s father. He explained everything, Mr. Hastings. How you’d rescued her from her cousin and his bully boys. He told us you were going to
Bournemouth to find your old captain who would take you to Devon by boat. We headed down there, just to make sure you got away safe.”

  “Then it was you two who frightened Alexa at the cottage.”

  “Mmm. Didn’t mean to do that. We weren’t sure which cottage she was in and was just peeking in a few windows. After you sailed off, your Mr. Tarlton had one of the fishermen take us across Lyme Bay. We been here since noon, keeping watch for you at the wharf.”

  “We didn’t come as far as the wharf,” MacHeath said. “We put ashore downriver and walked up to the house.”

  “We was waiting to warn you that the same two men were watching the house.”

  “I discovered them myself. But why didn’t you tell Prescott about them?”

  William made a rude noise. “As soon as we got here we tried to see him, to tell him that Miss Alexa was safe. But Mr. Darwin-Perishing-Quincy warned the butler that no one was to speak to the old man without he heard of it first. We were out by the stable, trying to think of a way to get a message to Prescott, when we saw those men creeping around outside the fence. That’s when we went back to the waterfront to wait.”

  MacHeath leaned back on the bench and grinned. “The two of you are wasted as coachman. I believe Bow Street could benefit from your services.”

  Both men blushed, and William said, “It wasn’t so difficult, what we did. It was just pure luck that we stumbled across those two rogues in the first place. The rest was just a game of cat and mouse.”

  “If the cat takes his ease, the rat takes the cheese,” Henry quoted with a grin.

  “What’s to be done now?” William asked. “The old man didn’t believe Miss Alexa in church, from what I hear in the servant’s quarters. He all but called her a liar in front of half the parish.”

  “I don’t blame him for resisting the truth—Quincy has swayed him. What I need now is to connect Quincy with his hirelings. Unfortunately, I am still the only one who’s seen them together. But Quincy and I are not through with each other, and he’s sure to have his bullies nearby.”

  “We’ll scout the town, then.”

  “No,” said MacHeath after a short pause. “I think it would be better if I played the cheese this time.” One cheek drew in. “It was never a flattering role for Miss Alexa.”

  “You’re going to use yourself as bait?” William muttered.

  “Why not? If it brings Quincy to me with his men in tow, it will be worth the risk.” He clasped each man’s hand in turn. “Just stay close behind me, that’s all I ask. Behind me, but out of sight.”

  “Gor,” said Henry, with not unwarranted smugness. “We can do that with our eyes closed.”

  Chapter 14

  MacHeath spent the night visiting every grogshop in Cudbright, which was a considerable number. He spilt more gin than he drank, knowing that he needed to keep a clear head, but by his listing walk and slurred speech, not a man in the village would have guessed he was still sober when three o’clock rolled around.

  He was bellowing out an old smuggler’s chantey, feeling his way along a dark alley, after being rousted from the Capstan, his last stop of the night, when the two men came up behind him.

  He turned to face them, and then appeared to lose his balance. “Sorry,” he said with a sloppy grin as he leaned into the brick wall. “Ever’thin’s spinnin’ aroun’ and aroun’.”

  “Bleedin’ sot,” Finch said with a sneer. “Look at him ... he’s disgusting.” He raised one tree-trunk leg and booted MacHeath in the belly. He went spinning in earnest and landed on his stomach in a puddle. He tried several times before he was able to raise himself up onto his elbows.

  “Alf!” he cried brightly when he saw the weedy little man beside Finch. “Lookee ... iss m’old frien’ Alf.”

  As Finch pulled out his pistol, MacHeath rolled onto his back, his arms wrapped around his middle. He gazed up at the man with a wide smile. “Teash you a lesson, Bully ... gonna teash you ...”

  “You’re not gonna shoot him, are you?” Connor asked worriedly, tugging at Finch’s sleeve. “Remember our orders, what he told us, we are not to harm him....”

  Finch spat. “I recall it well enough. Our peacock wants that pleasure for himself, and he’s paid well for the privilege.” He fingered the fine gold snuffbox in his coat pocket. It was only a small inconvenience that the initials A.C.P. were inscribed on the lid. He knew a handy fellow in London who could alter those letters all out of recognition. “Anyway, we’ll get to watch. Never seen the gentry at play ... it might be entertainin’.”

  Between them they hoisted MacHeath onto his feet and half carried him out of the alley. MacHeath continued to sing lustily—in a surprisingly strong baritone—as they made their way up the cobbled street, but his captors were unconcerned. To any stray passerby, they would appear to be three harmless men returning from a night on the town, the two steadier ones, in time-honored tradition, helping their jugbit friend to stay upright. It was Christmas, after all, and celebratory excesses were likely to be overlooked.

  They stopped at a boardinghouse on a street near the riverfront, and Connor pushed the door open. As they dragged MacHeath, now singing lyrically about the ladies of Spain, into the front hall, the door on their left cracked open an inch, and a bloodshot eye appeared in the opening.

  When the door swung wide, Finch glared at the harridan in the dingy linen bed gown. Landladies and their ilk did not rank high on his list of tolerable people.

  He forced himself to smile. “Sorry, Mrs. Cloyne. Our friend’s got hisself the devil of a toothache. We called in the barber to have it out, but we figured to get him drunk first. He’s turned a mite noisy.”

  She motioned to the stairwell with her chin. “Get him out of my hall, then. He’s wailin’ fit to wake the dead.”

  “Once the barber gets here and starts in to work on him, there’s no tellin’ how much of a squawk he’ll make. So don’t fret yourself if you hear him screamin’ up there.” Finch passed her a coin to make sure they would not be disturbed.

  She bit into it with her few remaining teeth, and then nodded once before retiring back into her chamber.

  It was tough work getting MacHeath up the narrow stairs. He’d gone limp on them by the second landing, still singing his lungs out as he lay sprawled on the planked floor. Finch muttered that he was of a mind to pitch him over the railing, and have done with it, but Connor managed to get him on his feet again.

  He knew that Bully could have easily carried MacHeath unassisted, had it not been for the wound on his neck, the dog bite on his thigh, the gash on his forearm, and the injury to his temple, which was a swollen, stippled bruise of red and purple, quite like the inside of a pomegranate. The bruise on his own head was painful but fortunately less visible.

  Connor recalled their recent interview with their employer. Old Quincy’d sure had his work cut out for him, convincing Finch not to kill MacHeath outright once they caught up with him. Alf had never seen his mate so riled. But Quincy had soothed him with promises of an even greater reward, and had made him swear on his mother’s grave—an oath that held some meaning, even among the denizens of the East End—that he would bring MacHeath in alive.

  They finally reached the top floor, where the room they’d rented earlier that evening, on Quincy’s instructions, was situated. It had several things to recommend it—it possessed a fireplace, a luxury both men were looking forward to after their shivering sojourn in the abandoned barn, and it was the only chamber on that floor. No nosy neighbors, no squalling brats, no one to ask after the identity of the blond gentleman who would be arriving there as soon as they got word to him.

  He helped waltz MacHeath into the room, and then shut and locked the door. MacHeath slumped onto the floor the instant Finch released him, and he only grunted slightly when Finch kicked him hard in the ribs.

  “He’s out,” he pronounced, before he bent down and divested his captive of both pistol and knife, murmuring in admiration over the clever sheath t
hat held the latter weapon behind the man’s back. He’d have to get one like that ... much handier than reaching down into your bleedin’ boot.

  Together they tugged off MacHeath’s cape and greatcoat, then they propped him up in a greasy upholstered chair and tied his wrists firmly to its arms.

  “Go fetch him,” Finch said to Connor as he sat down at the pine table and filled a mug from a bottle of stout. “No, stop looking at me like that. I promise I won’t kill him.” He eyed the knife that lay on the table beside the fine dueling pistol. “I’ll maybe just have a little fun with him, once he comes to.”

  Connor was still shaking his head as he went down the four flights of stairs. Quincy better come along lively like if he wanted to have his chance at MacHeath.

  * * *

  MacHeath congratulated himself on ending up exactly where he wanted to be. Most men would consider being tied up and at the mercy of Bully Finch a less-than-heartening situation, but he still had a few aces up his sleeve. William and Henry, for starters. He’d seen the two dark shadows on the opposite side of the street just before Connor had shut the front door. His loud singing had made him and his two captors easy to follow. And, as he’d hoped, his drunken placidity had kept either of them from doing him any real harm. He’d been the very essence of benign nonresistance.

  He shifted his head onto one shoulder and began to snore in loud, irregular bursts. Several times Finch came over and slapped at his face, and got nothing more than incoherent mumbling for his trouble.

  “Bleedin’ sot,” he muttered.

  After fifteen minutes had passed, Finch finally resorted to dousing MacHeath with the dank water from the pitcher on the washstand. He watched in satisfaction as his captive returned to sputtering consciousness.

  “Hello, Mackie,” he said with a grin.

  “Zat you, Bully? M’eyes are all foggy. And what’s wrong with my arms?” He twisted in the chair. He raised his head and saw the bottle of stout. “Lord, Bully, I need a drink. Just a little drink ...”