by Jane Feather
The coachman muttered something inaudible and cracked his whip. The horses reached the top of the hill and broke into a canter. Octavia sat back, licking her dry lips. How far along the road would Rupert make his move?
The coach swung sideways, and she glanced out of the window again. They were rattling along a dirt road much narrower than the main highway across the heath. She could see trees up ahead, lining the track. Would it be there?
She sat back again, searching for a neutral topic of conversation that would distract them both. But nothing would come to mind, and her companion seemed content to watch her with that glittering, predatory gaze that she knew was stripping her naked.
She closed her eyes, tried to relax, to allow the swaying motion of the carriage to insinuate its rhythm into the flow of the blood in her veins. She told herself she had nothing to worry about. All she had to do was scream, swoon, have hysterics. Any or all of them, while Rupert dealt with Philip.
Rupert would have only the jarvey to worry about, and Octavia was convinced the man carried no weapon beyond a sturdy blackthorn. Rupert should be able to deal with him very easily. Philip, of course, had a sword at his waist. But he wouldn’t have pistols, not on a romantic assignation.
The thoughts circled wildly in her head, and yet the pistol shot made her jump, made her heart leap into her throat, her gut turn to water.
The jarvey swore and hauled back on the reins. The horses reared and came to a stamping halt.
“Odd’s blood! It’s a damned highwayman!” Philip declared, hissing through his teeth as he unsheathed his sword. He cast a cursory glance at Octavia, who had shrunk cowering into a corner, her eyes wide with fright, her hand pressed to her mouth; then he wrenched open the door just as Lord Nick turned from disarming the coachman.
For a second two pairs of slate-gray eyes met. Philip paused, stunned by the cold power emanating from behind the highwayman’s black silk mask. Then he leaped to the ground, flourishing his sword.
“Cowardly blackguard! I’ll see you hang for this!”
Lord Nick swung off his horse, and his sword was in his hand in almost the same movement.
“I’d be delighted to fight for my spoils,” he remarked lightly, in that slightly husky accented voice Octavia had heard before. “On guard, sir.”
Philip hesitated as the highwayman easily took up his stance. The gray eyes in the slits of the mask seemed to be amused now, but the humor did nothing to disguise the danger they held.
Philip raised his sword point. And then it happened.
There was a great crashing in the trees, and four men on foot erupted onto the path. They were burly ruffians, dressed in buff coats and leather britches, flourishing pistols and staves, and before Lord Nick could take a step, they had him surrounded.
“We got ’im,” one of them declared. “We was a bit late. But better late than never, eh?”
One of his companions guffawed. “Got ’im redhanded. Lord Nick hisself, unless I’m much mistaken.”
He walked all around the highwayman, who stood still in the path, saying nothing as he assessed his chances of escape.
Philip Wyndham put up his sword. “I’m glad to see the Runners aren’t quite as useless as their reputation would have us believe,” he observed dryly. “What brought you here?”
“Oh, we ’ad a tipoff, sir,” one of them informed him as he took a length of rope from his belt. “An’ beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but we does our best wi’ little enough ’elp from the public.”
“That may be.” Philip waved a dismissive hand. “Shouldn’t you unmask the ruffian first?”
He stepped close to the highwayman, and Lord Nick suddenly lunged forward with his sword, pinking one of the Runners on the shoulder. A stave swung, and the highwayman went down to the path, blood pouring from a gash in his head, black spots dancing before his eyes. But in the melee, Philip had been distracted from his intention, and Rupert knew that a broken head was a small price to pay to keep his anonymity. Not only for himself, but for Octavia.
Octavia had begun to scream, a distracting, high-pitched keening that couldn’t be ignored. Philip turned back to the carriage as the Runners were binding their quarry’s wrists behind him.
“For God’s sake, woman, stop that caterwauling,” Philip snapped. “You’re not hurt. No one’s hurt—with the exception of that ruffian. And if I had ten minutes with him, he’d be begging for the hangman on the spot,” he added savagely. “We can be on our way again immediately.”
Rupert, still on his knees, retching miserably as the nausea caused by the blow to his head became invincible, heard these words with a dull desperation. His own fate was immaterial at this point. But he was going to be forced to abandon Octavia to Philip … Philip, whose physical appetites would only be sharpened by the afternoon’s excitement and his part in bringing a felon to execution.
“We’ll be needin’ some details, sir, afore ye go,” the leader of the group said. “Ye’ll be a material witness, sir, in the crown court when they brings our friend ’ere from Newgate to trial at the Old Bailey. If ye’d be so good as to write yer name and direction fer me.”
With an air of great self-importance, he pulled a sheet of grubby paper out of his waistcoat and handed it to the earl.
“I’ve a lead pencil in ’ere, somewhere. Never goes anywhere wi’out ’em. Useful for material witnesses and tipoffs, you see, sir.”
Philip tapped his foot impatiently on the road. He snatched the writing materials from the man and scrawled his name. “There.”
“Oh, thank’ee, my lord. Thank’ee, your lordship.” The Runner looked at the scrawl and then gazed respectfully at his lordship.
Octavia’s distraught face appeared in the carriage window. She was still weeping hysterically, but her eyes were sharp and assessing as they went to Rupert, who was being dragged roughly to his feet by two of the Runners. The blood still poured from his forehead, soaking his mask and blinding him, but she could do nothing for him.
If she tried to wipe away the blood herself, she would jeopardize her own role as a woman out of her head with shock. If she suggested they wipe it themselves, they would remove his mask to do so. Either course would give one of them away, and once Rupert’s true identity was known, then everything would be irreparably lost.
So she continued with her low keening, although her heart filled with rage as she saw how savagely they hauled him onto his horse, fastening his bound hands to the saddle behind him, tying his feet into the stirrups.
Rupert swayed in the saddle, still dazed by the blow to his head. He tried to shake the blood from his eyes and focus on Octavia’s face, feeling her eyes on him, but she was lost in a hazy fog.
And through his hopeless dread ran the thought of his own arrogance in refusing Ben’s assistance. If Ben had been watching, this might have been averted. Now he would be hurled into the void of Newgate jail, and he was abandoning Octavia here. Leaving her to Philip. Because Philip now would expect her to make good her promises.
One of his captors pulled Peter around on the path, and the big horse snorted and tossed his head at the rough hand on his bridle. His master’s weight was not properly distributed in the saddle, and the horse was confused by the sense of being riderless even though he wasn’t. He skittered and Rupert lost his precarious balance, slipping sideways. He managed to curl his ringers over the saddle behind him and pull himself up again. But the effort increased his nausea.
It was going to be a long ride back to London.
They moved off, his captors walking briskly beside the horse. And Octavia watched them go.
Her brain was working furiously now. If she allowed herself to think of Rupert’s plight, she would be paralyzed. If she allowed herself to think of his physical miseries at this point, she would be engulfed in futile compassion, feeling those hurts herself. Now she had to get away from Philip. And when she’d done that, she could think about the next step.
“Carry on, jarvey.” Philip sna
pped his fingers at the coachman, who’d remained on his box the entire time, staring open-mouthed at the scene unfolding on the path below. “Wildcroft village.”
He jumped back into the carriage, then stared. “Hell and damnation!”
Octavia lay on the floor, unconscious, her skirts billowing around her, her eyes closed.
“What the devil is this?” He knelt beside her just as the coach lurched forward. Unbalanced, he fell heavily sideways and knocked his elbow painfully on the edge of the seat.
“Odd’s blood!” Swearing, he bent over her again. “What’s the matter with you?” He slapped her cheek, and when it had no effect, slapped her harder.
Octavia’s eyes fluttered open. “Oh, my lord. I must have swooned. It does happen sometimes in these circumstances, and I don’t believe I have my smelling salts. I wasn’t expecting it, you see. Oh, sir, I feel so ill.”
Astounded, Philip continued to stare at her. “What the devil do you mean, in these circumstances?” he demanded. “And of course you weren’t expecting it. How the hell many times have you been held up?”
Octavia closed her eyes again. “No, I didn’t mean that, my lord. Of course such a dreadful thing has never happened to me before. It’s … oh, dear, I don’t how to explain.”
“Sit up.” He put his hands under her arms and heaved her up. “By God, you’re no light weight,” he muttered, hauling and shoving at her until he had her on the seat, where she slumped in the corner. “Now, what are you talking about?”
“The shock … it must have brought it on …,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to say it … I’m so embarrassed, my lord. It’s a woman’s thing….”
“What?” He stared at her. “What the devil is this nonsense?”
Her eyelashes fluttered on her cheeks. “The flowers, my lord,” she whispered. “The shock must have brought them on. It’s early … but sometimes …”
“Dear God in heaven!” he exclaimed, flinging himself back onto the seat. “Are you telling me you’re unclean?”
Octavia whimpered. “I am in such pain, my lord. My belly aches most dreadfully. Please take me home.”
Philip’s glare of rage and disgust would have seared a piece of meat. He banged on the roof of the carriage with his sword hilt.
“Yes, guv?” The coachman’s upside-down head appeared in the window.
“Turn around. We’re returning to London.”
“Lady’s a bit upset, I daresay,” the coachman observed considerately.
“Turn this damn hackney around!” was all he got for his pains.
He withdrew with a phlegmatic shrug and turned the vehicle on the narrow path. They rattled down the narrow track, the iron wheels clanging on pebbles, the horses as anxious as their driver to get back onto the main and more populated thoroughfare.
Within, Philip sat back in his corner, morosely nibbling a fingernail, glaring in the darkness at the hunched and still whimpering figure of the woman he’d expected to make his mistress. Some devil was abroad in this matter.
But he would have her.
His fingers curled. Part of him wanted to be done with her and her feeble female complaints. But stronger than that part was the determination not to give up when he’d set his mind to this. He still wanted her, even now, when the strong and spirited woman who had originally attracted him had proved as weak and spineless and susceptible as the rest of her breed.
He would have her. He would make a cuckold of Rupert Warwick.
As they crossed Westminster Bridge, he banged on the roof. “Take me to St. James’s Square first,” he instructed. “You won’t mind, my dear, returning alone to your house?” he inquired with mocking solicitude.
“Not at all, Philip,” she said.
To his relief she seemed to have recovered some of her composure. Her countenance strangely bore few signs of her earlier distraction and the violent storm of weeping. In fact, it was more beautiful than ever, so pale in the shadows, her eyes golden pools, liquescent with the faint residue of tears.
“I beg your pardon,” she said humbly as the carriage drew to a halt before Wyndham House. “I don’t know how to apologize enough. But in all the upset …”
“Oh, never mind,” he said impatiently. “I’m not really interested in the intimate workings of the female body. The next time I will make the arrangements, and there will be no mischance and no put-off, madam.”
He jumped from the carriage as if he couldn’t wait to get out of her contaminated presence.
Octavia breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a desperate ruse, but all she could think of on the spur of the moment. She’d suspected that her shock at the holdup wouldn’t have been sufficient excuse for Philip. He might have compelled her in some way to go through with the assignation. Which could have been very awkward, not least because there was no convenient little love nest awaiting them in Wildcroft village.
But now she was free of him. And the first thing she had to do was go to Ben.
Ben would know how one visited prisoners in Newgate. He would know what Rupert would need to make his imprisonment more comfortable. She had a vague notion that one could buy all sorts of things—like easement of shackles, and medicines. And his head wound would need tending.
For a dreadful moment she saw the gibbet at Tyburn Tree as it had been on the day she had met Rupert Warwick. Two bodies, black stick figures in the dawn, swung from the scaffold. She blinked the images away. She mustn’t think of them. She mustn’t think of anything but first improving the conditions of his imprisonment, and then effecting his escape.
There had to be a way. The knowledge that no one ever escaped from Newgate was another unhelpful reflection. Maybe she could buy his freedom. The jailers were all corrupt. It was common knowledge. And they had money.
Buoyed up by these plans, she sprang down when the carriage drew up at Dover Street. Philip hadn’t paid the jarvey, of course, even though it would have been the gentlemanly thing to do. She handed the man a sovereign and ran into the house.
“Have my horse brought round, Griffin. And I’ll not be dining at home today.”
Griffin had already been informed that Lord Warwick was going out of town for several days, so she had no need to explain Rupert’s absence to the staff, or indeed to anyone. Not unless it became prolonged.
No, don’t think like that!
Ten minutes later she was riding back toward Westminster Bridge. She pressed her mare to increase her speed, wishing that she were riding Peter on this errand. What would they do with Peter in Newgate? Would she and Ben be able to take him away? It was an issue irrelevant to Rupert’s safety, but her mind fixed upon it until she could think of nothing else.
The mare did her gallant best, but she couldn’t match Peter’s pace, and it was almost six when Octavia reached the Royal Oak.
The gangly Freddy didn’t appear as she rode up, so she flung herself from her horse, looped the bridle over the railing, and entered the inn. “Ben? Bessie?”
Rupert had said these two had stood his friends and would stand hers if she ever needed them, so when Bessie appeared from the kitchen, with a scowl on her face and a dripping ladle in her hand, Octavia said simply, “Nick is taken. Where’s Ben?”
Bessie’s angular features twisted, and Octavia thought the woman was going to cry.
Then Bessie said brusquely, “He’s at the cottage, waiting for Nick. Come you in and tell me what’s ’appened. I’ll send Tab to fetch ’im.”
“No, I’ll go, if you tell me the way. My horse is outside.”
“Where’ve they taken Nick?”
“To Newgate. Bow Street Runners. Tell me how to find Ben.”
Bessie responded to the urgency in her voice with a curt nod. She walked out into the street.
“Take the road to the end. Take the footpath across the fields. Cross the stream and keep to the right. Ye’ll break through the hedge onto the lane after a quarter mile. Turn right on the lane. Cottage’ll be ahead of ye.”
“I’ll recognize it,” Octavia said. “Even though it was dark when I was last there.” She remounted the mare.
“Bring Ben back ’ere afore ’e goes off wi’ ye. ’E’ll need a steadyin’ hand,” Bessie said. “You, too, I shouldn’t wonder.”
It sounded grudging, but Octavia was beginning to learn to ignore the woman’s tone and listen to what lay beneath.
She followed the directions in the gathering dusk and reached the cottage just as the evening star popped into the sky. The building looked deserted, windows and doors closed tight. The stable was a low hunched shape in the small yard behind.
The mare’s hooves clattered on the cobbles. The kitchen door flew open.
“Where’s Nick?” Ben ran into the yard.
“Newgate,” Octavia said.
“I knew it!” he muttered. “I knew ’e couldn’t be this long fer no reason.”
“Bessie wants us to go back to the Royal Oak.” Octavia leaned down, holding out her hand. “Can you ride pillion?”
“Aye.” He took her hand and clambered in an ungainly fashion onto the saddle behind her. “Tell me what ’appened. I knew ’e shouldn’t be doin’ personal business on the road.”
He was doing it because of me. Because I couldn’t go through with the original contract.
But Octavia didn’t say this. Instead, as calmly as she could, she explained what had happened. “They were waiting for him, Ben. The Runners said they’d had a tipoff.”
Ben cursed under his breath. “God ’elp me, but I told ’im I thought there was nothin’ to that spy thing. I’ll ’ang Morris up by ’is fingernails until I get the truth outta him.”
“Later,” Octavia said. “We’ve other concerns first.”
“Aye,” Ben agreed. “Nick’ll be needin’ funds for easement an’ such like. Then we’d best look fer a lawyer.”
“A lawyer?” Octavia exclaimed. “A lawyer isn’t going to save him from the hangman, Ben. He was caught in the act. We have to get him out of there.”
“Aye,” Ben said again, but his voice was low and dispirited.
