Rebel Baron

by Henke, Shirl

  “It wasn't his money,” Sin replied.

  “Then let us see just whose it was.”

  Inside they went, following the stink of boiling cabbage and rat offal as they climbed some rotting stairs to the third floor. Rather than knock on the door at the end of the hall, Sin tried turning the rusty knob. With a loud creak, it opened, revealing a dank, tiny room with one window, the panes partially broken out, the jagged edges so encrusted with grime they impeded the small shaft of light glimmering through the narrow gangway between buildings. Its pale rays shone down on splintery wood floors and a rickety pair of chairs facing a table with a broken leg. In the darkest corner, lying on what looked like a pile of rags, a figure stirred upon hearing the sounds of footsteps.

  "Hoo are ye?”" a scratchy voice asked. The nasal cockney accent did not belong to O'Connell.

  “Friends of the Irishman's,” Brand said. “Where is O'Connell?”

  The filthy figure scuttled up from the bed of rags like a crab emerging from beneath a pile of slime-encrusted rocks. He squinted at the tall stranger with his one good eye. “Don't know no bloody Irishman.”

  “You're sharing his domicile,” St. John said, withdrawing a gleaming blade from the concealment of the carved walking stick he carried. He flourished it menacingly. “Where is the Irishman?”

  “You'd better tell him,” Brand advised. “He gets right testy when someone doesn't answer his questions—truthfully, mind.”

  “I don't want no trouble, gov, honest I don't,” the man whined. “E ain't got no more need o' this place, and it be safer than the street. Rent's paid till end 'o the week.”

  “What do you mean, he doesn't need it?” Brand asked as Sin held the business end of the blade pointed directly at the little man's chest.

  “E left ‘ere last night. Said 'e 'ad a job whot paid real good. Wouldn't 'ave to live in this ‘ere muck no more.”

  “What kind of job? Working for whom?” Sin prodded.

  “Some swell. Dressed like ye,” he replied, gesturing to Brand. “All's I know is Connie was bound for Surrey. Somethin' er other about some nobleman's ‘orses.”

  “Rushcroft Hall. My stables,” Brand said grimly.

  When the tall one with the odd accent said “my stables,” the little thief blanched and began backing away. “Ain't 'ad nothin' to do wi' it, gov.”

  Ignoring him, Brand said to Sin, “If he left London last night—”

  “That doesn't give us much time. There's a train on the quarter hour, if I remember the schedule. Otherwise we'll have to wait until noon for the next one.”

  “Can we make it?” Brand asked as Sin pulled out his pocket watch.

  “Perhaps if we sprout wings and fly. But greater miracles have happened,” he replied as they dashed for the stairs.

  The moment they were gone, Benbo followed. His gnarled bones did not allow him to keep up with them, but he knew Lion would be interested in the expensively dressed pair. There might be a farthing or two in it for his trouble.

  Concluding the same thing, Lion had already assembled his crew of cutthroats. When the tall man and his small companion rushed from the building, the human wolves attacked, hoping to use the element of surprise to overcome superior firepower. But the strangers were prepared for the worst. When the first of Lion's men leaped out of the shadows, knife slashing for his throat, Sin impaled him on his sword, kicking the blade free of the dying man with his boot.

  “Watch out behind you,” he warned the baron, who was already crouching and spinning about, his pistol drawn. Sin fired and the second man went down, but not before the Adams revolver was knocked from Brand's hand by a third man. A fourth sank his blade into Brand's arm. It was difficult to maneuver in the narrow alleyway surrounded by a veritable mob intent on killing them. Ignoring the searing pain in his arm, Caruthers slipped his own blade from his boot and used its greater length to wicked advantage.

  As one attacker tried to retrieve Brand's pistol, Sin fired, hitting him square in the back. He fell with the weapon buried beneath him. Sword and pistol clutched in his hands, Sin murmured to the baron, “Pull the Webley from inside my waistcoat.”

  “I'm...occupied at the...moment,” Brand managed to reply as he slashed an attacker's hand and kicked another man back into the fellow holding his blood-spurting fingers.

  Lion stood back, letting his boys do the dirty work, but it looked as if they might not be able to handle the job. Pity. Ten of them against the two swells, and one of those barely larger than a circus midget! As his victims made a break for it, leaving the bloody remnants of his gang swarming after them, he faded into the shadows. If his boys were able to subdue their prey, he would be at the kill to claim the largest share of the bounty they stripped off the foreigners.

  Lionel Biggs was not called the Lion for nothing.

  The chase was on through the labyrinth of rookeries, where old mansions collapsing in decay abutted shanties erected with rotted, mismatched boards pried from fallen-down fences, even pulled from the slime and mold of the Thames. The inhabitants were the living dead—thieves, beggars and those too near death to be either one any longer. One newspaper had written that Europe's grandest mansions were flanked by its worst graveyards.

  Now all Brand and Sin wished was to not end up in this one. It seemed that as soon as they evaded one group of armed rabble, they were cut off at another intersection by a new band. “We're well and truly lost, I fear,” the baron said as they hid in a tumbled-down ruin of what had once been the mews of the towering three-story home fronting it, now overgrown with weeds and vines.

  “No, I've kept my bearings...I believe.”

  “That's reassuring,” Brand replied dryly. “Because I think I hear beaters moving this way.”

  Sure enough, a group of men was thrashing through the house, asking the inhabitants if they had seen two rich fellows, one of them a blackamoor. The subjects of their inquiry made a dash out of the mews and down the cobblestones, slippery from a brief summer rain.

  “Damn, they're gaining on us. Can't you run any faster?” Brand asked.

  “Only if I had a horse beneath me,” Sin panted. “Your...bloody...legs are twice...as long as...mine.”

  “We still on course?” Brand surveyed the end of the narrow passageway they were in and thought he saw a streetlight. Civilization! “Only a few hundred yards farther,” he urged his small companion.

  Gradually the footfalls began to grow fewer as more of the cutthroats gave up. Their victims were indeed approaching a thoroughfare. When they reached it, a huge grin split St. John's face.

  “There's the hansom. Didn't I tell you I'd kept my bearings!”

  * * * *

  Lori approached the door to her mother's office, determined not to be put off for one more moment. Miranda had been closeted all day with Mr. Aimesley, who had arrived around noon with urgent business papers for her to look over and sign. They had not even stopped to take luncheon, and Lori's pleas to be allowed to speak with her had been ignored.

  As soon as she heard Aimesley in the foyer, accepting his hat from the butler, Lorilee raced down the hall at a most unladylike speed. She tapped, then stepped inside without waiting for permission to do so, lest her mother turn her away. Miranda was hunched over her desk, staring at a sheaf of papers laid out across the surface, her head cradled between her hands. When she looked up, Lori gasped.

  “Mother, you look dreadful! Oh, I did not mean—”

  “I thank you for your kind words of reassurance after the grueling afternoon I have just spent,” Miranda interrupted, rubbing her temple as she reached for a pen and began tapping it against the polished walnut desktop.

  “You know it's not this afternoon but last night I wish to know about. Tilda told me the baron called on you early this morning...again.” She waited expectantly.

  Miranda sighed and shoved back the contracts. For a few brief hours the problems of the American railway investment had held at bay her sense of desolation. Now she wou
ld have to face it. But the pain was too private to share, even with her only child. “As to last night, what was between the baron and me is none of your concern,” she said as gently as she could manage.

  “Was between you?” Lori picked up on the nuance immediately. And did not like it. “He left the ball almost as soon as you did. I know he followed you home.”

  “You know nothing of the sort,” Miranda snapped indignantly. “And I will not have this conversation with a young lady just out of the schoolroom. It—it isn't proper.”

  “Oh, bother what's proper. Did you quarrel?” Lori asked impatiently. “Is that why you dressed like a Billingsgate fishwife to greet him this morning?” She tried for a teasing tone but could see at once by the stubborn set of her mother's chin that all she'd succeeded in doing was making her furious.

  Miranda stood up and stopped herself at the last second from smoothing the wrinkles from the horrid gray monstrosity. “This is one of my best dresses, scarcely what a ‘Billingsgate fishwife’ could afford.” She was unable to keep the sharpness from her tone. “But that is neither here nor there,” she said, taking a deep breath. “You will not question me any further about the baron or my wardrobe again. I am a woman of business, and this is how I must appear to conduct it.”

  “Does that also apply to wearing your hair in a ratty knot that I know Tilda did not braid and having dark circles beneath your eyes?” Lori asked, genuinely concerned about her mother's exhausted appearance. She rounded the desk and before Miranda could stand up, Lori knelt and threw her arms around her, laying her head in her mother's lap. “Oh, please don't let us fight. I did not mean to hurt you.”

  Miranda stroked her daughter's silky hair and felt the tears building up behind her eyelids. She squeezed them back, fearing that once the floodgates opened, there would be no stopping...ever. I'm too old to behave like a girl Lori's age. “I did not mean to speak so harshly to you, but this has been a...difficult time for me. Mr. Aimesley brought even more bad news regarding the railway venture. Another bidder in America is trying to force his way in—some banker who is holding up the entire project for us.”

  Work was a safe topic. But not one she normally discussed with her daughter.

  “I'm sorry that has not gone well, but it's only money,” Lori replied.

  “Spoken like one who has never been forced to do without it,” Miranda said with equal parts humor and sadness.

  ‘It's your happiness I worry about, not your pocketbook.”

  “Alas, the two are all too often linked together. Someday you may find it to be true, but I hope not. In the meanwhile, I believe there is a recital at the Wimberlys' tonight that you would enjoy attending, is there not?”

  Realizing that the subject of the baron was closed—at least for the present—Lori sighed in resignation. She would enlist Tilda in arranging to meet with him. If her mother would not explain what was wrong, surely he would. One way or the other, Lorilee was determined to see this misunderstanding, whatever its cause, straightened out.

  She gave a sniff and wiped her eyes, noting her mother's were also suspiciously damp, and said, Terrance Wimberly is a crashing bore and his sister Hortense will only torture us with her harp music. I believe a relaxing evening at home and some rest for you would be best.”

  Miranda regarded her dubiously. “Are you certain?”

  “Quite,” Lori replied, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. “Now, I'm going to have Cook fix a hearty supper for us, to make up for your not eating a bite all day.”

  Miranda watched Lori hurry from her office. Her intuition told her the girl was up to something, but then she looked down at the paperwork on her desk and became distracted. Best to go over the figures again so she could have a restful meal with Lori and get some sleep tonight. I’ll be all right in the morning, she assured herself. But she could not make herself believe it.

  * * * *

  “I tell ye, yer lordship, if not for me rheum'tism acting up, every horse in the stable would have to be put down.” Wiggins, an elderly groom, squinted through his rheumy eyes and spat into the hay. “I forgot 'n left me lin'ment here in the feed barn. Coshed me pretty good, they did.”

  Brand asked, “How do you feel now?”

  “Oh, I got a right nasty bump on me head 'n some cuts and bruises. Cook wanted to send for the doctor in the village, but I told him he's a better healer. Got lots of practice. Young Mathias come running from his place when he heard the commotion, but it were too late. I'da done better, but they was half me age. Got off a shot with me blunderbuss, I did, though.” He spat again, then added, “Missed ‘em, blast it all.”

  “What did those fellows look like? Can you describe either of them?” Sin asked the old stableman, who obliged.

  Brand and his friend exchanged a look. One was certainly O'Connell.

  "Caught 'em at the granary, door wide open and them loading a cart," Wiggins said, picking up his story once again. "They already had the feed bins overflowin' inside the stables. Reiver, all his mares and the colts was just startin' in to eat."

  “And they would have continued to eat until they were foundered,” Brand said grimly, realizing how close this saboteur had come to ruining him. If turned loose with unlimited grain, most horses would die of ruptured intestines. He and Sin would have been fortunate to save even a few of his prize breeding stock.

  Brand instructed Wiggins, “As soon as the sheriff arrives, send him directly to the house.”

  Of course, by the time the sheriff rode in and the hue and cry went out around the local countryside, the culprits had vanished.

  Brand and Sin shared a late supper in the kitchen of the old manor house, discussing the day's events. The first time the baron had said he would share a meal with his stable master, the cook and house servants had been scandalized that a peer would eat in the kitchen. Even worse, he would dine with an employee, a blackamoor! Perhaps since St. John spoke as if he were a peer himself, that was why his lordship treated him thus. There was simply no understanding the aristocracy.

  “Most probably O'Connell's back in London, trying to collect his pay from whoever sent him,” Brand said glumly, stabbing a potato with his fork.

  “I don't doubt it, but if I catch the morning train, I may be able to run him to ground again,” Sin replied hopefully.

  “He won't return to that stinking hole in Seven Dials if he's got coin enough to find better accommodations.”

  St. John nodded in agreement, dabbing his lips with his napkin.

  “But who would pay him without first verifying that my stables have indeed been ruined? After all, he botched the first attempt with the fire at the mews. Why hire an incompetent for a second attempt?”

  Sin put down his napkin and shoved away his plate, appearing thoughtful for a moment as he murmured, “Unless it didn't matter whether or not he succeeded, only that he made the attempt.”

  Brand's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “Even if we hadn't found out O'Connell was headed here, we'd have received a wire immediately after this debacle...”

  “Which would send us rushing pell-mell to the country,” Brand finished St. John's thought, recalling how they'd jumped on board the train as it was pulling from the station, in hot pursuit of O'Connell.

  “All the better if we had sick and dying horses to tend, but perhaps even one night out of London would be enough.”

  “Miranda!” Brand cried, shoving his chair back from the table.

  Both men were up and reaching for their coats, food forgotten as they realized they had fallen into a trap and an innocent woman would pay the ultimate consequences.

  * * * *

  “Be quiet, Tilda, else you'll waken Mother,” Lorilee whispered as the two conspirators tiptoed down the servants' stairs at the back of the house. Dinner had seemed interminable as Lori had waited for Miranda to finish her dessert and linger over coffee, but she had not wanted to arouse her mother's suspicions by seeming to rush her off to bed.<
br />
  Tilda had gone through her usual ritual of brushing her mistress' hair a hundred strokes and pulling back the covers, even bringing a book of Lord Tennyson's poems for Miranda to read in bed.

  “If anything should put her to sleep, that will,” Lori had murmured. She was no admirer of the Queen’s poet laureate.

  When they heard no sounds stirring in the dark house, the two women set out, but Tilda still worried. “I sent a note to Mr. St. John and have received no reply. It is not like him to fail to answer an urgent letter. Perhaps the baron does not want to discuss what went on between them any more than does your mother.”

  “Nonsense. Just because they act like fools, that is no reason we should accept it. Anyway, we can leave a message if, for some reason, Lord Rushcroft is not at home.”

  “I still don't like this,” Tilda groused as they slipped into the alley and began walking to the next square. “It's late. What if we cannot hail a hansom driver?”

  “Then we shall walk,” Lori said determinedly.

  “All the way from Kensington Gardens to St. James Square!”

  They did not see the man in the shadows as they closed the back gate. He smiled to himself. This was going to be even easier than he could have imagined. He glided through the cover of the shrubbery and emerged on the next street. A hansom driver waited for his instruction.

  “She's coming to us, a right obligin' colleen,” O'Connell said.

  “Out alone this time of night?” the driver asked incredulously.

  “Not alone. She has the maid with her. We'll have to nab the two of them. All the better to convince the widow she'd best be cooperating.”

  “If ye say so,” the driver replied, looking about the street as if expecting a Peeler to pop from the bushes at any moment.

  “Just drive around the corner, boyo. They're afoot. Sneaking off to see himself or I miss me guess.” O'Connell chuckled. “All we have to do is offer them a ride. They'll jump right in.”