Swept Away

by Marsha Canham

  “No!” Anna screamed. “No! Go quickly! Save yourself! Do what you must do, I will be all right!”

  The Beefeaters were beside the desk, racing for the opposite door, their pikes raised with deadly intent. Rupert Ramsey was right behind them, shouting and waving his gun. The other two guards were scrambling to their feet, pushing the outraged and still squealing Lucille Althorpe out of the way.

  Emory’s dark eyes held Anna’s for a final helpless moment, then he turned and bolted through the door, slamming it shut just as the Beefeaters drove home the points of their pikes, chipping off chunks of the wood and gilt.

  Anna had begun to limp painfully after them but was quickly overtaken by her brother, who curled an iron hand around her upper arm.

  “Not so fast, young woman!”

  “For pity’s sake, Anthony, let me go!”

  “Anna? Anna is that...dear God, is that you?”

  “Anthony, I beg you! Let me go!”

  Stunned to discover it was his sister dressed in a tinselled mask and wearing little more than a veil, he actually started to loosen his grip. Indeed, she might have been able to twist the rest of the way free had not another ominous figure dressed all in black loomed up beside her and taken a firm hold on her other arm.

  She whirled around, fully intending to lash out with the gold letter opener she had picked up off the regent’s desk, but at the last possible moment she recognized the severely cold eyes and squared jaw of Winston Perry, Marquis of Barrimore. Her arm fell limply to her side, concealing the weapon in the folds of her skirt as he reached up and summarily removed the jewelled vizard.

  His expression, if it was possible, grew even harder and colder when he confirmed who it was he had unmasked.

  “Please,” she cried. “Please, you must let me go after him.”

  Barrimore glared. Beneath the mask, her face and throat had been coated with a layer of theatrical oil laced with silver dust so that it sparkled with a million tiny pinpoints of light. There were tears welling in her eyes and a steady stream of soft pleas on her lips, but he only tightened his grip and pressed his mouth into a grim line. “I’m afraid I cannot do that, Miss Fairchilde.”

  Wessex strode up beside them. “Indeed, madam, you are in nearly as much trouble as the elusive Mr. Althorpe and you may be sure all the tears in the world will not spare you a moment’s sympathy.”

  Anna was not even aware her tears had begun to spill down her cheeks, nor did she hear the questions her brother started hissing in her ear. She was barely able to grasp the fact that between them, Anthony and Barrimore were all but carrying her as they followed Ramsey and the guardsmen through the outer anteroom and into the octagonal vestibule. She was dimly aware of the startled faces that turned to stare but her fears, her concerns were all for Emory. Carleton House would be a small fortress tonight with a hundred guards in attendance outside to discourage uninvited guests and a hundred more inside to insure the regent’s priceless possessions did not stray into an oversized pocket. An unarmed man dressed in green leggings would not have an easy time of eluding capture.

  At the vestibule, they were directed by a cluster of excited, gawking guests down a narrow servant’s access concealed behind a swath of curtains. Anthony was forced to release her arm and hang back as the width only allowed for two people to descend at once, and at the bottom of the stairs, he hurried two paces ahead to lead the way down a short corridor toward what could only be--judging by the smell and the three sprawled servants they passed along the way--the kitchens.

  As large as would be expected in a house that regularly entertained guests by the scores, the kitchen was teeming with servants, cooks, maids--all of whom were rushing frantically to finalize the preparations for dinner. It was impossible to pass through them, although they could readily see where Emory and the pursuing Beefeaters had done so. Trays lay splattered on the floor; a servant stood nearby wailing, her frock covered in leek soup.

  “This way,” Barrimore said, pulling Anna along the wall toward yet another door. Anthony held it open while they passed through and the first thing that hit them was a gust of cool wind from outside. A short flight of stone steps took them up to a rear drive where deliveries were made. Beyond that were the buildings that contained the stables, carriage house, and laundry.

  Every square inch of empty space in between was taken up with carriages belonging to the guests. Shouts and neighing horses pointed out the most likely route Emory had taken with the guardsmen, who numbered more than a dozen now, and Colonel Ramsey chasing close behind. Anthony plunged into the sea of horseflesh and polished ebony, but Barrimore elected to remain under the flickering light of a coach lamp.

  “Please,” she cried. “You do not understand. They are trying to kill an innocent man.”

  “Most of the cells in Newgate are filled with innocent men, Miss Fairchilde,” he answered dryly. “And most of them die, swearing their innocence with their last breath.”

  “But Emory is innocent. I know he is.”

  “I am sure you do else you would not have been so completely blinded to your responsibilities to your family as well as your loyalties to your king.”

  “Emory Althorpe’s loyalties are as true as your own! All the time he has been in France he has been working for king and country, spying for our government. Why do you suppose he took such a dreadful risk to come here tonight?”

  “I cannot possibly fathom the answer to that, Miss Fairchilde.”

  “He came to see Lord Wessex!”

  The stony face remained icily indifferent.

  “Lord Wessex! Lord Wessex!”

  “I assure you my hearing is quite excellent, madam.”

  “Then why will you not listen to me! Emory Althorpe was hired by Lord Wessex--nay, blackmailed--into pretending to be a pirate and mercenary in order to spy on the French! He did his job so well, they came to him when they were formulating their plans to rescue Bonaparte off Elba. He sent a dispatch to Wessex--a dispatch Lord Wessex claims he did not get.” She went on, relaying as much as she could remember of the conversation in the Blue Velvet Room, then in utter desperation, she blurted everything she could remember of the past week, beginning with her walk on the beach that fateful morning when she had found Emory half drowned and unconscious. She went on to explain that he had awakened with no memory of what had happened to him, that he had kidnapped her off the street in Torquay, yes, but only in order to buy himself some time to find Lord Wessex. After nearly being killed by the Corsican assassin, she had come willingly with him to London because she believed he was telling the truth.

  “He has the proof locked in a strongbox on board his ship, and if he is prevented from fetching it, not only will he be unjustly convicted of treason, but Lord Wessex--if he is telling the truth--will never know the identity of the real traitor in his cabinet, the man who must have intercepted the original messages and replied with forged dispatches of his own. Moreover, they will not be able to stop this new plan to help Napoleon escape, if, indeed, it has not taken place already.”

  Out of breath, her defiance rapidly losing way to defeat, Anna did not notice the sharp look Barrimore cast her way. “What do you mean? What new plan?”

  She wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks, smearing the tears and silvered oil, not hearing Barrimore’s question until he asked it a second time.

  “I do not know the details, sir; neither does Emory, but he believes there may be a clue somewhere in the papers on board his ship. The assassin--Cipriani--was demanding that Emory return a letter he stole. I don’t know. Perhaps there is something in it, something that reveals the plan or identifies the spy. I do know he was prepared to go to great lengths to insure Emory did not leave Torquay alive. He would even have killed me, had Emory not overpowered him and shot off his hands. Why would he do so unless he was afraid Emory would discover their plan in time to stop them? Why would Lord Wessex swear he neither received nor sent any dispatches unless he truly did not see them,
and if so, then there must be a traitor in the war cabinet who must be equally desperate to capture or kill Emory Althorpe. Who would have had access to the dispatches? Who would have known the proper codes?”

  Barrimore was not sharing her enthusiasm for solving the mystery. He was, however, still staring at her in mild astonishment. “Did you say...he shot off the assassin’s hands?”

  She nodded, and, having nothing to wipe her nose with, used the cuff of her sleeve. “Only one of them. I shot off the other.”

  “You shot--! No, no never mind. I do not think I want to hear it.”

  “His name was Cipriani. Franceschi Cipriani. He had another name...Le Couteau, I think Emory said. The Knife.”

  “Yes, I have heard of him.”

  “You have?”

  “His name is among those listed as Bonaparte’s close advisors.”

  “I am sure it would be if he was helping to plan another escape.”

  Barrimore glanced out across the sea of carriages, his cold eyes tracking the dozens of lanterns that were swarming in and around the rose gardens. “And you say Althorpe has incriminating documents on board his ship?”

  She nodded. “The Intrepid. She sits in Gravesend with her crew locked in the hold under arrest.”

  “Then we may assume this is where your Mr. Althorpe will go if he is lucky enough to elude capture tonight,” Barrimore said thoughtfully. “It is certainly where I would go in his position, and with all due haste before Wessex arrives at the same conclusion and sends a regiment of dragoons in his wake.”

  He expelled a gust of breath and, after a moment, took up Annaleah’s arm again and led her around the outside of the vast courtyard until they came to the front row of coaches. Without saying a word, he chose one with a brace of stout horses in harness and unlatched the door.

  “Get in.”

  Anna hesitated. It was not the berline, and by the crest on the door, did not even belong to Barrimore. “What are you doing? Where are we going?”

  “I am attempting to spirit you away, Miss Fairchilde, unless of course you prefer to remain here and see firsthand the inside of a prison cell?”

  Anna felt a wave of faintness wash through her. “Does that mean you believe me? You believe Emory’s innocence?”

  “It means I am a fool,” he said quietly. “And I firmly believe I will regret my rashness before this night is through. Now please, get on board before someone thinks to order the outer gates closed. You there!” He snapped his fingers and called to a group of liveried groomsmen lounging nearby. “The lady is ill. She must be taken home at once and my coach is nowhere to be seen. I am willing to pay ten guineas for the inconvenience, and provide a letter to the owner explaining the emergency.”

  The driver separated himself from the group and came forward. “I’d be happy to drive you wherever you wish to go, my lord.”

  Barrimore held out a ten pound note, which instantly vanished to an inside pocket on the driver’s coat, then assisted Annaleah into the coach.

  “Where to, my lord?”

  “Gravesend,” he said in a voice only the driver could hear. “And if you get us there in record time, my good man, there will be another ten guineas in it for your trouble--another twenty if you can provide me with a pistol and shot.”

  The man squinted one eye and touched the brim of his hat. “Aye, milord. As it happens, I have both pistol and musket on board. To guard against night riders, of course. Not to mention,” he added with a broad wink, “the odd angry husband or two.”.

  CHAPTER 22

  Several more guineas were spent during the perilous ride to Gravesend. Exhausted and foam-flecked horses were changed for fresh teams at two posting houses, a hooded cloak for Annaleah was purchased off a landlord at another. Up to then she sat huddled under a lap robe in the corner of the coach, the occasional beam of moonlight shimmering across her face. She was cold, frightened, confused. She had no idea what Barrimore’s intentions might be. She did not know if she had convinced him of Emory’s innocence, or if she had foolishly betrayed the man she loved to the man she had humiliated.

  “I am sorry,” she said at one point, breaking the tense silence that had enveloped the coach since leaving London. “My actions have been reckless and irresponsible, and...and I know I cannot possibly hope to earn your forgiveness. I can also understand how your hatred for me might influence your characterization of Mr. Althorpe, but in truth--and I would swear it to you here and now before God--I did not deliberately embark on a course to either hurt or embarrass you.”

  “Miss Fairchilde--”

  “No, please. Let me finish. Truthfully enough, I was resistant to the notion of...of pursuing a more intimate relationship--and please forgive me again if I speak out of turn, but my family was quite convinced you were on the verge of offering a proposal--and I did seek to discourage you from putting me in the position of having to refuse you...” she paused to ease some of the dryness in her throat, “but I certainly did not walk out on the cliffs that day with any deliberate intent of insulting you. The embrace you saw just...happened. The rashness of my actions startled Mr. Althorpe as much as they must have startled you.”

  Following the blurted confession she heard the shifting of wool against wool as he moved an arm. “From what I have learned of Mr. Althorpe, he is a good deal more than a little rash himself.”

  “He never once acted without complete deference toward me and my aunt,” she said in a whisper. “He never once forced me to do anything I did not want to do. Indeed, even when he kidnapped me off the boardwalk in Torquay, part of me was happy enough to burst, for I never thought I would see him again. I never thought he would come back for me. I thought...” Her voice trailed off miserably and he finished the thought for her.

  “You thought you would be required to endure my company all the way back to town. And perhaps even after that.”

  “No. No, it was not so much that I would have to endure your company, my lord. It was knowing that I would rather be somewhere else.”

  There were thick banks of cloud overhead with few breaks to allow the moon to shine through. Barrimore had not lit the lamps inside the coach and she had to rely mainly on her senses to know if he moved or looked in her direction.

  He was looking at her now, she could feel it. He was studying her with as much, if not more dark condemnation as she had dreaded on the long journey from Torquay to London.

  “Do you love him?”

  The question came as a surprise, but she answered it without guile. “Yes. With all my heart.”

  “All of your heart,” he murmured. “I should think that would be a considerable amount, Miss Fairchilde. Something I myself can...scarcely imagine or quantify.” After another lengthy pause, he asked, “And is the sentiment returned? Has he declared his feelings with an equal lack of reserve?”

  “He...has said he cares for me, yes.”

  “Cares for you? Not exactly a resounding commitment from a man who has lived a good deal of his adult life on the whims of the wind and the sea. Do you anticipate he will be content to settle down and raise sheep when this is over?”

  Annaleah’s hands twisted together. “He has made no mention of future plans.”

  “Nor could he have told you much about his past if he has been suffering the effects of amnesia, although I would hazard to guess the kind of life he has led would be difficult to forget, regardless of the size of the blow to the head. His exploits are quite legend in certain circles.”

  “Yes, well, he remembers more and more each day.”

  “And shares each detail with you when he does? The charges of piracy and smuggling are not without foundation, you know. Avoiding a British court was one of his main incentives when he agreed to work for the foreign office.”

  The conversation had ended there, and for the rest of the way to Gravesend they travelled in silence. Annaleah’s eyes ached and were swollen from crying, her body was drained to the bone with exhaustion and for few miles, she
managed to doze to the churning rhythm of the wheels.

  It was the change in the sound that awoke her. They were slowing, rolling over the harder packed surfaces of a macadamised road sloping down toward a town. When she leaned forward to peer out the window, she could see the lights of the buildings clustered along the shoreline of the harbor. There were more sparkling further out on the water, lanterns hanging off the yards and reflecting off the decks of the small flotilla of merchant ships anchored off the port town of Gravesend.

  “You mentioned he was meeting someone here. Do you know where that meeting is supposed to take place?”

  “A tavern,” she said, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “The Bull’s Horns, or some such thing, I believe it was.”

  Barrimore’s low laugh startled her into turning around to face him.

  “Forgive my ill timed drollery, Miss Fairchilde, but you yourself would not make for a very good spy. In the span of two short hours, you have confided the gentleman’s whereabouts, his intentions, his likely destination. How the devil do you know I am not going to drive straight to the nearest garrison and dispatch a hundred soldiers to surround the tavern and arrest him, or send them aboard the Intrepid to lie in wait for him?”

  While Anna’s heart slowed to a sluggish thumping in her chest, she strained to see his face through the shadows. They had left Carleton House in too much of a hurry for him to retrieve his hat or gloves or cape, and it occurred to her that he had probably never travelled in a state of such undress before. His hair was disturbed out of its usual precise waves and curls, softening the high, wide line of his brow. His cravat was loosened, the lower buttons on his satin waistcoat undone.

  Thinking of his brow, of his face, made her remember the regent’s secretary. He had apologized for not recognizing ‘Lord Barrimore’ in costume, yet the real Lord Barrimore had attended the party in his usual impeccable tailoring and was not in costume at all.