by Ann Chaney
Moreham wished the sun was rising and they were heading in the other direction. Back to the manor and Gillian.
Gillian pulled the hood of Lady Roberts’ cloak up over her head and walked out of the manor to the waiting carriage. Perkins brushed past the groom waiting by the coach door to assist her. The butler winked at her as he shoved the door closed. A quick thump on the side of the coach, the snapping of the coachman’s whip and she was away from the manor. Only then did Gillian finally take a breath. She slumped into the velvet upholstery and waited. Well sprung, the carriage moved down the drive to the gates with little to no movement.
A call from the gatekeeper signaled their exit from the estate. Gillian leaned forward, peeked out the window and waited for the coach to turn toward the abbey. She had no idea what she would do if the coachman went to the left which meant they were headed in the opposite direction. A left turn would mean traveling on the road that bordered the estate’s fields and no houses where she could seek help should she be discovered. Gillian had never felt so alone as she did at that moment. She fell to the right as the coachman called to the horses to veer in that direction.
Gillian wondered where Moreham was. Had he and Cross switched places with her uncle’s friends? So lost in thought, she didn’t realize the carriage had slowed down until she heard voices outside. Her heart hurt from its frantic beating.
The door flew open and a small man entered.
“Really, Lady Gillian, did you think you would be able to escape me so easily?”
Gillian groaned on hearing the familiar voice from the abbey courtyard. “Well, one must do what one must. Rather forward of you to presume to stop my coach and importune my privacy. I have no jewels or coins should you have robbery on your mind.”
“My lady, robbery is such a common crime. Treason, on the other hand, is far more satisfying and profitable. Since you are the one present, my dear Mary must have been less than proficient in her attempt to depart without notice from the manor? I am assuming the lady is otherwise engaged. My man realized you weren’t her when Perkins all but shoved you into the coach since you are a good foot shorter than my blond Amazon.”
Gillian ignored the man’s comment. She knew she must get as much information from him as time allowed. “Who are you?” She leaned forward and looked out the window. “We have another quarter hour before we reach the abbey. Time enough for you to satisfy my curiosity. Odds of me surviving the night are not in my favor so what will it hurt to explain? Consider it entertainment for my last moments.”
“It seems you are everything Percy said you were. He worried you would see through his deception. Far too intelligent for a woman, he said.” The man crossed his leg over his knee and relaxed into a slouch against the backward-facing seat. “Very well, I am the bastard son of the Duke of Whitney. I am your cousin. Stephen Whitney Martin.”
“You lie! This is not humorous in the least. Uncle would never deny his flesh and blood even a child born on the wrong side of the blanket.”
“Before he met the first duchess he carried on with an actress, my mother, Samantha Martin. And no, you have never heard of her. Her acting was mediocre at best, but she was beautiful. My papa set her up in a house, visited her on the sly and after a few months she found herself with child. By the time she learned of her pregnancy, Whitney was long gone to America to fight.
“My mother wrote letters to him petitioning him for support. He gave her a pittance to see her through my birth. I am sure you are not surprised to hear my birthing was difficult. She was never the same. Touched in the head, mama took up drinking gin, her final death sentence. Another actress took me in… I was five years old.”
“Why didn’t you approach my uncle? He would have provided for you. He has wanted a son since my father’s death. A son to inherit.”
Whitney wagged his finger at her. “Gillian, don’t dangle that carrot under my nose. I’m not going to turn up nice and let you and the others go free under the happy aura of a family reuniting and all of us living happily ever after. I know the laws of inheritance as well as you.”
“You are talking about killing your own flesh and blood, the father who never had the opportunity to do right by you. Even now after all you have done, he will help you. Give you funds to leave England, to start over. I know my uncle and I know this to be true.”
“My dear cousin, I will have it all once Napoleon is on the throne. I will be the Duke of Whitney and since you have so graciously married Moreham, I will annex his lands as well. Not bad for an orphan, don’t you know.” Stephen Martin cocked his head to look out the window. “We are there. Now, all that is left to do is to meet my father. You’ll do the introductions, cousin.”
She folded her arms over her breasts and glared at the man. She had to delay Martin from exiting the coach. Moreham and the others needed time to get in place.
Her cousin sighed deeply and waved his pistol at her. “Gillian, delaying the inevitable won’t work, my dear. I know everything. Moreham works in the Home Office with his little band of friends and that featherbrained Philomena Preston. I also know your marriage is a sham. Moreham intends to hide you away in some backwater estate. Too bad neither of you will survive the night.
“I know he and Cross are either here at the abbey or will be soon. Don’t look surprised. Whitney’s footmen are proficient at listening at keyholes. All you can do now is be dignified in defeat and death. I hold all the cards, my dear cousin.”
The two men she loved most were walking into a trap. She must warn them. Gillian refused to give up now that she had found Moreham. She had to do as she’d done with Lady Roberts…watch for an opportunity.
She tried to distract the man with more questions. “So, Mr. Martin, you are the man in charge of this conspiracy?”
The pistol in the man’s hand wavered downward at her question. “Me? No, my dear. My thanks for giving me so much credit, but no, I am a small player in this affair. And, no, I will not tell you the name of the peer who is. I value my own life far too greatly to travel that road.”
Gillian pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side. She hoped she looked harmless, curious, but harmless nonetheless. “Moreham says men like you are masters of deception. Never as one seems.”
“Dearest cousin, my mere existence proves your husband’s words to be true.”
Gillian clenched her fists in the folds of Lady Roberts’ cloak to keep from slapping the pistol out of the supercilious little man’s hand and scratching his eyes out. The viciousness of her thoughts surprised her.
The insidious little worm had no idea with whom he was dealing. She had no intention of dying. Not when she had finally found the one man she loved. She intended to live to be an old woman with Moreham at her side and their children all around them until she drew her last breath.
Taking a deep breath, she glared at Martin. “I shall enjoy your comeuppance at my husband’s hand.”
Her newly revealed cousin laughed which gave her the chance she’d been waiting for. Gillian shot forward and grabbed his pistol with both hands and jerked the weapon from him. Gillian fell on the seat and turned the pistol on Stephen Martin.
“Give me the pistol, my lady,” Martin growled at her. “All you can do is shoot me which will bring the coachman and groom to investigate which will land you in deeper water. Neither man has any morals, in this for the money. Your life means nothing to them.”
The coach rocked from side to side. The cur took advantage of the movement and lunged across the coach. Gillian screamed and lurched to the side of the seat while Martin fell headfirst into the seat cushions. She raised the pistol and smashed the butt of the weapon downward into the back of his head.
Gillian pushed herself into the seat and looked down to find the man crumpled at her feet. She could hear his breathing, but he didn’t move.
Inaction on her part was not an option. The worst eventuality would be for her so-called cousin to regain consciousness. She laid the pistol do
wn at her side within reach. She’d shoot him if need be. How she wished she had worn a gown then she would have a petticoat. She pulled her shirttail from her breeches and ripped two strips of cloth. She now had an appreciation for the long shirts men wore.
Gillian grabbed Martin’s arms then tied them behind his back. She took the second strip and stuffed the fabric in his mouth. Uncle Whitney had taught her how to tie knots and she had learned well. Her captive would not weasel free. Maybe she should teach Moreham the skill. A quick search of his pockets bore fruit in the form of a pouch of coins.
She moved to open the coach door and realized Lady Roberts’ cloak was more of a hindrance. She tore at the ribbons knotted at her neck and tossed the cloak aside.
The coach lurched forward and stopped. Gillian shook with fear of what would happen next. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Martin was right. Moreham and the others would have to travel the same road they had to the abbey. Since no horses had passed them so she was on her own.
Gillian opened the door and jumped down from the coach She pointed the pistol at Martin’s coachman and groom. “Don’t do anything foolish. I’m on the King’s business. If you value your lives, pull the coach past the abbey and wait for me.” She tossed Martin’s pouch of coins up to the coachman. “This should ensure your loyalty to the Crown for the night at least. Fleeing will only lead to your capture and hanging for treason. Best you spout loud your loyalty to the Crown and keep your former master quiet, if you want to avoid the noose at Newgate.”
The men hesitated an instant seeming to take each other’s measure before nodding their agreement. The coachman eased the coach away from the entrance to the abbey into the shadows.
Gillian turned around in a circle trying to see if there was anyone around who she’d rather not engage in conversation. The night was quiet. No voices echoed through the silence. The abbey archway stood tall in the moonlight.
“Lady Gillian, I presume?” A man’s droll voice came from the archway.
The voice was not familiar to her. Gillian leaned forward trying to see the man speaking. Maybe if she saw him, she would be able to recognize him. The night shrouded the abbey in dark shadows. The conspirators had chosen their meeting place well. Gillian clung to the knowledge the voice resonated with the distinctive intonation of someone educated at Eton. The speaker was a gentleman.
Gillian moved forward closer to the archway. She must distract the man until James and Cross arrived. “I assume you are cousin Stephen Martin’s superior. A spymaster, perhaps,” she replied.
A loud clapping of hands shattered the night’s silence. “Well done, my lady. Your assumption is accurate. I am sure you will forgive me for not introducing myself. The less you know the better. Now since we’ve seen to the introductions, if you would step forward. It appears I have underestimated you. A singular occurrence I assure you. I pride myself on staying one step ahead of my enemies. My friends, Roberts’ viscountess and Whitney’s by-blow, should have arrived in that coach. I assume you have done away with them and bought the cooperation of the coachman as well. Quite impressive for a lady of Polite Society to comport herself so.”
“My lord…, I assume you are a peer. I have had a very unsettling night, being accosted by the viscountess first, and followed by Mr. Martin and his rather shocking revelation of his paternity. My patience with this business is growing thin. I am in search of my uncle and his guests.”
“You are a sly one, my lady. I have had your new husband’s friend Sturmbridge in my custody for three days. Amazing what a fellow will divulge when in pain. I know all about your farce of a marriage. I know Moreham is at this very moment hunting for me. Please, come forward. I will not ask for your cooperation again. I will put an end to our interaction with a bullet between your eyes. I am not bluffing, my lady.”
With each word the French sympathizer uttered, Gillian homed in on his location. Now, the question was how to get the upper hand. She had no idea. All she could do was keep the stranger talking. Where were Moreham, Cross and her uncle? They should have arrived by now.
Gillian pushed her spine upward and stepped closer to the archway. She kept her steps fast enough so he would be satisfied with her progress, but slow enough to buy more time. She prayed Moreham would appear with each step she took. She promised herself when this night was over, she would never be separated from Moreham ever again.
Chapter 19
Moreham watched the courtyard. Waiting. The sound of a coach rolling to a stop alerted him that someone was coming. He kept himself in check. To expose himself too soon would jeopardize the mission.
Voices broke through the night. Too faint for him to understand what was being said. A shiver of dread flared through his body, one of the voices was that of a woman.
Gillian.
He held his breath as the voices grew in volume only to gasp at the sight of Gillian as she entered the courtyard. He lunged forward. He must get to her. Cross grabbed his arm and held him back. With his attention focused on Gillian, he’d forgotten his friend was with him.
“Moreham, think man. He knows we are here. Threatening Lady Gillian is a ploy to draw you out. You heard him say he has Sturm. We must be careful. Look at her. She’s calm, watching and waiting. No matter what we do, she’s ready to help.”
Moreham's heart stuttered with each step Gillian took forward. He willed her to feel his presence. He was glad they’d decided to use the back entrance to the abbey instead of the front way. Now, hidden in the same monk’s cell he and Gillian had occupied that first day, he waited for his chance.
“There’s a stairway to Gillian’s right. I’m going to climb the stairs and when she draws near, grab her.” Moreham pushed back from the window and headed for the door. “When I grab her…shoot him…”
Cross kept his eyes on the courtyard below and nodded. Moreham knew Cross was the better shot. When Cross fired his pistol, he hit his target.
Whitney was outside by the rear entrance to the abbey with the horses. The duke was of no use to them in the state he was in. With Gillian standing below, he was glad the old man had not come inside with them. The sight of his beloved niece in danger would have given the man apoplexy.
Moreham edged his way down the corridor to the stairs closest to Gillian. Since the monk’s cells were on the level above the courtyard, he had to go down the steps. Not an easy feat with the cobbled steps crumbling away. One misstep and he would fall to the bottom.
Halfway down the stairs, he could hear Gillian talking, but couldn’t make out what she was saying. He stepped down to the last step then hid in the alcove by the doorway and waited for his moment.
“Where is this husband of yours? I sent word to your uncle to bring our recruits to me at one o’clock.” Silence. “According to my timepiece it is half past the hour. Are you the diversion while they surround the abbey to capture me? Rather unseemly of the King’s Own, and your uncle, to use you so shabbily. I would treat you better, my dear. Would you like to go to France with me? I was supposed to take Lady Roberts, but since you have taken care of her, why not take her place completely?”
To Moreham’s amazement, Gillian inched her way closer to his hiding place. Did she know he was near or had she remembered the stairs? As she moved closer so did the stranger. Moreham crouched down and picked up a stone, the size of a small apple.
“You know, should you harm me in any way, my husband will hunt you down and kill you. He takes care of his own.”
Gillian took another small step closer to him.
“My dear, your husband and his friends have been looking for me for almost six months to no avail. I have beaten him at every encounter. This one will be no different. Your last chance to leave the abbey alive.”
Gillian laughed. Moreham seized the moment and threw the hefty stone at the stranger’s head. The man fell to his knees and landed face down in the dirt. Before the traitor could recover, Moreham lunged for Gillian who spun around and flew into his arms. At l
east that was how he saw their frantic joining. He would never forget the fear he had felt at the sight of his enemy’s pistol trained on his darling.
Moreham grabbed her then propelled her up the crumbling steps. Shouting echoed through the cells as the ringleader realized his captive was gone. A single shot in the night punctuated the shouting and then silence reigned.
“Don’t fret, dearest, Cross fired that shot.” Moreham kissed her hard on the lips. “I must go below. Stay here.”
“Moreham, if you think I am going to hide in this cell while you go down and face that fiend, you are not as intelligent as I have been led to believe. Shall we?”
Gillian took his hand walked out of the cell to the stairs to make their way back into the courtyard where they found Cross kneeling over the now bleeding man.
“Is he dead?” She asked.
“No, I got him in the shoulder. He’ll mend and then we can hang him,” Cross replied before turning his attention back to the wounded man at his feet. “Where is Sturmbridge? You said you had Sturmbridge?”
Moaning, their prisoner pointed off to the other side of the abbey. “He’s in one of the cells. Over there.”
Cross jumped to his feet then ran to the other side of the courtyard shouting Sturm’s name all the way. Moreham wanted to go with his friend, but he could not leave Gillian alone with the man who had wanted to kill her only moments earlier. If Cross needed him, he would call out.
“Go ahead and finish me off. Better for my family. Moreham, you owe my mother that much.”
Moreham frowned the voice sounded different now. Who was this traitor? He knelt down to get a better look and gasped.
“Rodney? Is it really you? Why would you align yourself with the French?”
