by Alyson Chase
“Gentlemen, one could almost think that His Grace doesn’t appreciate us.” Summerset brought a lilac pocket square to his nose and sniffed delicately.
“I would appreciate my friends more if we could actually get down to business.” Marcus reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the letter with the purple seal. “Sutton, can you take this to Liverpool? No messengers. He already knows the contents, but he should hold the original. Hand it to him directly.” Sutton nodded and slipped the missive inside his coat.
“What about us?” Rothchild asked.
“Nothing for now. I’ll notify you if needed.” Marcus fumbled in his pocket and drew out some coin, tossing it on the table.
“Or we could go with you to Newgate.” Summerset cocked his head. “I’ve always been curious to see inside the place. And if we’re going to conduct a prison break I’ll need to get a feel for the place beforehand. Get an idea for an appropriate disguise and all that.”
Rothchild snorted. “God, it always comes down to clothes for you, doesn’t it?”
Marcus stood, forestalling any further arguments. He pulled out her chair and helped Liz to her feet. “Whoever wants to come can come. But we’re leaving now.”
The other men pushed to their feet, chairs scraping against the floor. At the door, the Baron of Sutton turned right and climbed into a carriage waiting for him a half a block up the street. The carriage turned towards Parliament.
Marcus helped Liz up into his landau. When he moved to shut the door, a lime green sleeve popped through the opening, holding it ajar.
“Oh, we’ll ride with you if you don’t mind.” Summerset, Dunkeld, and Rothchild climbed into the conveyance, forcing Liz and Marcus to scoot to the other end of the bench seats. The carriage’s springs groaned in protest. “I, for one, would love the opportunity to become better acquainted with Miss Wilcox.”
“There’s no need for that,” Marcus growled. The four men soon were arguing with one another, as only close friends can, but Liz stopped listening. She watched London roll by from the window, no landmark remaining in her view long enough to let her feel centered.
Was there no need for his friends to get to know her because one didn’t become acquainted with a duke’s mistress? Her shoulders drooped. No matter. They would assist her and Marcus in freeing Mandy, and that was all that signified.
The prison loomed into view, and the carriage pulled to a stop in front of the gatehouse. Marcus helped her down and led her to the door, pounding his fist against it. Summerset sniffed delicately, the odors emanating from the prison muted but still impossible to ignore. Liz sympathized, but shook her head. Wait until he got inside. He hadn’t smelled anything yet.
The door swung open, and Mr. Mason filled the entrance. His pale face sagged in relief when he saw her. “Miss Wilcox, you got my message. I didn’t think you would in time.”
A pit opened in her stomach. “What message? I’ve just come to visit my sister.”
Mason’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Ahh. Well. I sent you a message to tell you the news. I thought you’d want to be with her, is all. It seemed only right that she not be alone for it.”
“Alone for what?” Her voice sounded high, even to her own ears. She reached out and grabbed the man’s arm. “What was the message?”
Marcus stepped forward, and put an arm around her waist to steady her. “I am the Duke of Montague. I’ve come to meet Miss Amanda Wilcox. Where is she?”
The guard gaped at him like a dying fish. “Yer Grace . . . well, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Miss Wilcox ain’t here no more.” He turned sad eyes on Liz and shook his head. “I’m sorry, miss, but she was sent off not more than an hour ago to Tyburn. She’s to be hanged today.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
If Marcus’s arm hadn’t been banded around her waist her knees would have hit the ground. Liz’s mind blanked, the sights and sounds of the world around her disappearing, a numbness creeping over her. She wanted to sink into it, block out every problem, be swallowed by the darkness.
Marcus’s voice cut through the haze. “Summerset, I need you to go to the Old Bailey, get a formal stay on the execution. Take Miss Wilcox home on your way.” He bustled her back towards his carriage.
The driver opened the door and Liz briefly thought of allowing Marcus to hand her in. It would be nice to go back to his town house, sit before a fire, and pretend none of this was actually happening.
Her shoulder blades drew together. Mandy was her sister, her responsibility. She dug her heels into the dirt. “No. I’m going to Tyburn. I must stop this.”
Marcus put one finger under her chin. “I’ll go to Tyburn. I will stop this if . . .”
“If it isn’t already too late.” She swallowed past the ache in her throat, but could do nothing to ease the knifing pain in her heart.
His jaw clenched. “If that’s the case I don’t want you there. But, trust me, I will do everything in my power to save your sister.”
“I do trust you.” She reached up and grabbed his hand between both of hers. “But I still need to go. She’s my sister. We are each the only family we have left in the world. I need to be there.”
Rothchild stepped forward, leading three horses by the reins. Where he’d acquired them Liz had no idea. “We need to leave.”
Marcus searched her face, his dark gray eyes flickering over every surface. Whatever he found made him sigh with frustration. Running a hand through his hair, he nodded. “Let’s go.” He lifted Liz to the saddle of one of the horses and leaped up behind her, taking the reins from his friend. “Summerset, make haste.” The man turned on his three-inch heels and jumped into the carriage, pounding the roof to urge the driver on.
Rothchild swung up onto his horse, dragged the head of his mount around, and tossed the reins of the third horse to Dunkeld. “You’ll most likely crush this poor mare with your size, but she was the best I could do on short notice.” Ignoring his friend’s scowl, he kicked his heels into his mount’s flanks, and was off down the street.
Marcus secured her body against his before urging their own horse into a gallop, Dunkeld pounding up behind them.
The ride through London was frantic. Dust from the horses’ hooves clogged her throat and burned her eyes. Angry shouts followed them as they darted in and out of traffic, scrambling through intersections. Liz’s breaths came in short bursts; whether from the exertion it took to remain on the hurtling animal or from the panic that was simmering in her blood she didn’t know. She couldn’t believe Westmore had been able to order Amanda hanged so quickly. They had to reach her sister in time. The other option was unthinkable.
The crowds became thicker, slowing their progress. When they turned a corner, Liz saw why. The gallows loomed into view and the London public was settling in for their afternoon’s diversion. Loaves of bread were broken and the pieces handed out among families. Delighted cackles of laughter battered her ears.
She searched for her sister’s form, hope blossoming when she realized the crowd still waited for their entertainment.
Marcus pulled their horse to a halt beside Rothchild. “Over there.” He pointed to the left of the gallows. “Three prisoners and some guards.”
Liz narrowed her eyes. Where . . . ? A bowed head, long strings of scraggly dark hair blocking the face, appeared between the shifting crowds and disappeared again. Mandy. She wiggled to get out of Marcus’s grasp and off the horse. She had to get to her sister.
He grunted and pulled her tight to his chest. “We need a plan.”
“I’ll go, persuade the guards to release Miss Wilcox. But I might need some time.” Rothchild swung his leg over the horse’s head and jumped to the ground. He looked back up at Marcus. “I’ll need you to delay the executions.”
Liz twisted and tried to slide under Marcus’s arms. “Why you?” She plucked at his fingers and hissed to Marcus, “Put me down.” She turned back to Rothchild. “Marcus and I will go.”
“No
offense, but I’m much more charming than Montague.” He winked up at her before weaving his way through the throngs, his horse trailing behind him.
Dunkeld dismounted. “I’ll go with him. In case charm fails.”
When she lost sight of them, she turned back to Marcus. “Why are we still on this horse? Let me down.”
“Shh. I need to think.” He scanned the crowd, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. He frowned at her. “I have an idea. I don’t like it, but it’s all I can come up with.” Lowering her down to the ground with one arm, he threw a leg over the horse’s head and jumped to his feet. He crowded her against the heaving flank of the horse. “I apologize for this.” With no further warning, he grabbed the neckline of her dress and ripped the shoulder seam apart.
She gaped at him, shocked. He tilted his head and studied her. “Your hair is sufficiently disordered from our ride. That should do.”
“Do for what?” She fingered the torn edge of the shoulder of her gown. She glanced back and forth between her torn dress and his face. His actions made no sense.
“For this.” He darted his hand out and grabbed the back collar of a young man walking past. “Ruffian!” he shouted, throwing the stunned man to the ground before picking him up and tossing him back down again. “Guards! I need a constable immediately!” He continued bellowing until two men in uniform pressed through the crowd. Their angry visages cleared when they caught sight of Marcus. There was no mistaking the expensive tailoring of his clothes or the fine quality of the material. A man of means stood before them, and they knew it.
“Sir—” one of the guards began.
“That’s ‘Your Grace’ to you.” Marcus raised one imperious eyebrow.
Both guards swallowed, and the young man in Marcus’s grasp let out a frightened “eep!” An old woman missing her front teeth muttered, “A duke!”
Marcus nodded to her and the guards. “I am Marcus Aurelius Beaufort Hawkridge, the eighth Duke of Montague and Marquis of Harrington, Earl of Berring, and Baron Hawkridge of Stoven. And this boy here”—he gave the young man a shake, the lad’s faded cap flying from his head—“assaulted this woman.”
Liz’s stomach rolled around like eels in a bucket. She stood on her tiptoes, could just see the top of her sister’s head. Rothchild talked to the remaining guard, faces close together, one hand resting on his shoulder. The guard gave a definitive “no” shake to his head.
She understood Marcus’s plan now. They needed this distraction to give the earl time to secure Mandy’s release. But what would happen to this frightened young man whom Marcus shook around like a rug on cleaning day? He couldn’t go to prison to save her sister.
The taller guard tugged on the bottom hem of his coat. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke his voice became stilted, the accent forced. “I am sorry, miss, for your misfortune.” He peeked at Marcus from the side of his eye, and laced his fingers in the buttons of his waistcoat. He cleared his throat again. “Can you i-den-ti-fy this man as the one who has performed the assault? Upon yourself.” He smiled, looking pleased with himself.
His fellow guard stared at him, slack faced. “Why are you talk—” Tall Guard elbowed his friend in the ribs, his question ending in a wheeze.
Liz looked at the man hanging from his collar in the duke’s hand. His slight shoulders were rounded with acceptance. She stepped close to Marcus. A soft smile passed with lightning speed across his face, so fast she thought she might have imagined it, before he became the grim duke again.
Her chest swelled. She was one of the few people privileged enough to have seen behind his mask, to know his warmer expressions. He nodded minutely, trying to reassure her. She took a deep breath. “I didn’t see who attacked me. Whoever it was came from behind.”
“Well, we have the duke’s word for it,” Tall Guard said. “That’s all the proof we need.”
“But . . .” The innocent man gave up on his protest. Liz recognized the bleak look in his eyes. Life had already taught him that fairness played no part in it. He was powerless and knew it.
She looked over at Mandy. Hands still tied in front of her, linked behind two other bound prisoners by a length of rope. Liz bounced up and down on her toes. She understood all about feeling powerless. “Marcus,” she whispered.
Glancing over her head, he must have seen what she had. They needed more time.
“I want the two of you fine men to personally deliver this ruffian to the magistrate.” Marcus pushed his victim into the arms of Tall Guard. “We can’t risk him getting away.”
The other guard scratched his cheek. “We can’t leave right now. After the executions, we’ll take him in.”
“Do you know who I am?” Marcus’s voice was so deadly, a shiver crawled down Liz’s spine. And she knew it was all an act. “I want this man taken in now, and you would dare to defy me? I’m thirteenth in line to the crown, personal friends with the Prince Regent. I can have more than just your jobs if you refuse my request.”
Neither man spoke. Tall Guard swallowed. Eyes wide, they stared at Marcus like he was Moses himself come down the mountain to smite them. A cart slowly rattled past, large barrels stacked high, the horse straining at its leathers. The creak of shifting wood roused Tall Guard from his stupor.
“Right.” He cleared his throat, tugged at the waist of his coat with one hand, and gripped the lad at the back of his neck with the other. “Right. This sort don’t deserve to wait for the slow hand of justice. I know what you’re saying.”
Marcus narrowed his eyes. “You do?”
The man nodded grimly. “Martin, take this scalawag to join the others. Assault is a cap’tal crime, and the man must pay.”
Liz clutched Marcus’s arm. “Your Grace, I can’t identify that boy as my assailant. Perhaps—”
“Don’t you worry, miss.” Martin grabbed the boy’s arm, his friend the other. Realizing what was about to happen, the young man began to struggle. “The duke here saw him do it. That’s good enough for us.”
“Jesus Christ,” Marcus muttered. Craning his head to look towards Amanda and his friends, he frowned. “While I applaud your initiative, gentlemen, this speedy of a judgment isn’t necessary. Taking him to the magistrate is all that I require.”
“It’s no problem, Yer Grace.” Tall Guard pushed his prisoner through a gap in the crowd. “Just you remember that Martin and Smuthers are eager to do your bidding. This lout won’t hurt no more women.”
Liz tugged on his sleeve. “Marcus! What are we going to do? We can’t let them—”
Marcus swore. “Of course we can’t. What the hell is wrong with this country? Executions without trials. Corrupt government officials.” Lips pressed tight, he turned in all directions, his head twisting left and right. “There.”
“What?” Liz rolled onto her toes to see what he was looking at. “Where?”
Putting his hands to her ribs, Marcus lifted her to the horse. “You’ll be safer up here.”
Uncaring of the proprieties, Liz sat astride, leaning forward to gather up the reins. “Safer for what? What are you going to do?”
“Make a distraction.” Marcus shook his head, his lips twisting wryly. “A distraction for my distraction.” He squeezed her calf. “When this crowd turns into a mob, you stay up there. Don’t lose your seat.”
“But . . .” It was too late. He was already walking away. Liz twisted. The guards were halfway back to the hangman’s platform. Back to her sister. Rothchild gesticulated to the lone guard. The man stood with burly arms crossed over his round chest. He shook his head, not looking impressed. With him standing half a head taller than everyone else, Dunkeld’s auburn hair was easy to pick out as he inched closer behind the guard.
She prayed under her breath. Whatever Marcus had planned, he’d better do it now. She found him in the crowd, talking to the driver of the cart that had passed. The man nodded, took something the duke handed him. Striding to the back of the cart, Marcus lifted the latch. With a nod to the
driver, he stepped back.
And all hell broke loose.
With a vicious swipe of his crop, the driver struck his horse, and the animal reared, yanking at its harness, the cart lurched forward, and the barrels rolled out the back of the open cart.
A gunshot rang out, and if Liz hadn’t been focused on Marcus she never would have noticed the eruption of dust at his feet. He shoved his hand into his coat pocket, a glint of metal catching the sun. When he removed his hand, it was empty.
The crowd panicked. A man ran into her horse’s head, and the beast skittered sideways. A fleeing woman tripped, her prone form quickly swallowed by the mass of people running for their lives. Liz swallowed a deep breath when a young man reached down and pulled the woman back to her feet.
The driver screamed, like he was out of control, but Liz saw him tug on the left rein, steer the rampaging horse and cart into the center of the crowd. Head right for the prisoners.
One of the loose barrels cracked into the side of a building. Frothy brown liquid gushed from the hole that opened up. Another barrel rolled into a laborer, knocking him down. Rubbing his leg, he pushed to his feet, and hobbled as quickly as his injured leg would take him out of the square.
Chaos reigned. Half the crowd in a blind panic to run from the sound of a gunshot and the runaway horse and cart, the other half trying to make the most out of a new opportunity. People rushed to the barrels. Some tried rolling them away, an investment for a later time. Others cracked open their prize right then and there, cupped their hands in the liquid, and brought it to their mouths.
The crowd surged into Liz’s horse, knocked against her legs. Her horse tossed its head, stamped its right hoof, but remained stalwart against the throng.
A hand gripped her horse’s mane, and Marcus swung into the saddle behind her. “Let’s go.”
She nudged the horse forward, but it was slow going. The mob ran in wild directions, making it hard to navigate. The panicked crush of people was a frightening sight, all rational thought gone in their mindless instinct to flee. It took too long to weave the horse through the crowd, around the barrels of ale.
