by Holly West
Coleman sighed. “Sir Edmund wanted to discuss a legal matter that had come to his attention.”
“That would be the accusations brought against you in a deposition by Titus Oates?”
Coleman looked surprised. “How do you know about that?”
“Never mind. What did he tell you?” I asked.
“He said Oates had named me as a suspect in a Jesuit plot to murder the king.”
“Have you met Titus Oates?”
Coleman spat on the floor, as though Oates’s very name left a bad taste in his mouth. “I’ve never seen him in my life.”
“Did you know about the plot before Sir Edmund told you?”
“There’s no plot, at least none I’m privy to.”
“What about the secret meeting of Jesuits?”
“It was no secret,” he said, exasperated. “Even the king knew about it—it’s held every year. There were no plots or intrigues discussed, only policy and plans and such. The Duke of York himself attended.”
“Yet Sir Edmund believed the deposition contained information serious enough to warn you about it. Why?”
Mrs. Richardson coughed conspicuously into a handkerchief, a subtle reminder of the ticking clock.
“Sir Edmund knows the anti-Catholic politics of England as well as anyone else. His only motive was to make certain I knew what was going on. I assured him I had done nothing wrong.”
“Your presence here would indicate otherwise,” I pointed out.
Coleman chuckled halfheartedly. “A correspondence with France was discovered in my papers and a warrant was issued for my arrest. I’m accused of treason. But the king himself sanctioned those letters, I swear it. I turned myself in as soon as I learned of the warrant so I could prove it. I assure you I was working for the benefit of His Majesty. I’ve made errors in judgment, perhaps, but one cannot doubt my loyalty to the king and the Duke of York.”
“Has the duke come to your aid?”
“Obviously not,” he said bitterly. “Do you think I’d be here if he had?”
For this I had no answer. I motioned to Mrs. Richardson, indicating my meeting with Coleman was finished. I counted out more coins and held them out to her. “This is for the woman with child in the condemned hold. See that her chains are removed and she’s given food and a clean bed.”
* * *
The Old Bailey was located across the street from Newgate Prison. It was the central criminal building in London and, like Newgate, the original structure had been destroyed in the fire. Rebuilt in the Italian style, it now stood three stories tall with an open courtroom on the ground floor. The absence of walls encouraged the flow of fresh air, and this helped to prevent prisoners with gaol fever from infecting others. Sam remained with Elijah and the carriage while I went in alone.
There was a trial in progress when I arrived. The judge sat on a bench at the far end of the courtroom and jurors sat in boxes on either side. The court officers and privileged visitors observed from a balcony above, while other spectators crowded into the yard. The effect was that of a theatre, and like London’s playhouses, trials attracted a mixed audience. Sam once told me he used to attend them in order to learn new thieving tricks.
I climbed the stairs and the luxurious smell of roast lamb wafted over me as I passed by the dining room reserved for the justices. At the other end of the hall, a portly man sat at a massive oak desk. I introduced myself and asked to speak to a clerk.
He peered over his spectacles with big, watery eyes. “What’s this regarding, m’lady?”
“I want to look at the case records involving a Westminster magistrate named Sir Edmund Godfrey.”
He raised a bushy eyebrow. “Are you aware of Sir Edmund’s recent disappearance?”
“I am. He is a good friend of my family.”
He pushed his glasses against the bridge of his nose. “Even so, given the delicacy of the matter, I can’t release them to you.”
“May I ask your name, sir?”
“I am Mr. Turpin.”
“The case records are public, are they not Mr. Turpin?”
“They are, but—”
“I cannot fault you for being unaware of it, but I’m a close associate of His Majesty. I assure you that the king will consider it a personal favor if you heed my request.” Well, it was near enough the truth.
He pushed his glasses against the bridge of his nose and considered my words. “You say your name is Lady Wilde?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Wait here, I’ll be just a moment.” He left me standing alone in the hallway, which still smelled of new construction: paint, glue, and freshly cut timber. It was richly paneled in dark wood with large windows flanked by portraits of judges and noblemen.
He returned after several minutes carrying a thick leather binder. “Come with me, please.” He led me upstairs to a room on the third floor. “You may sit here,” he said, laying the binder on the long table. “Please, take care to keep the documents in order.”
A portrait of the king hung over the fireplace and Charles’s image gazed down at the table. I sat with my back to it and set upon reading.
The pages were dense with words, all of a somewhat legal nature that I struggled to understand. The first records were dated six months previous and the last dated just a few days before Sir Edmund’s disappearance. Most were unremarkable: incidents of breaking the peace, various thefts, damage to property, and the like.
One case caught my attention, however. In April 1678, just six months previous, the Earl of Pembroke killed a man named Nathaniel Cony in a tavern brawl. It was not the first time Pembroke had resorted to murder, but he’d always escaped trial due to his wealth and peerage. This time, the incident occurred in Westminster and Sir Edmund insisted justice should be done. Pembroke was convicted not of murder but of manslaughter. Though privilege of peer was granted and he was released, the court record claimed Pembroke had flown into a rage, cursing Sir Edmund and threatening revenge. He had to be physically restrained as he was taken from the courtroom.
When Mr. Turpin returned, I had just finished my perusal of the final page. “Is it possible to speak to the person who recorded the proceedings against the Earl of Pembroke in April?” I asked, showing him the documents.
He smiled. “Certainly, for it was I, m’lady.”
“The record states that Lord Pembroke reacted violently to Sir Edmund. Do you remember what happened?”
“It was quite incredible, my lady,” he said. “As Pembroke passed Sir Edmund’s table, he lunged, grabbed him by the collar and nearly pulled him across the table. A guard had to restrain him.”
“What did Sir Edmund do?”
“He was discomfited, of course, but unhurt. The judge asked him if he wanted to press charges against Pembroke and Sir Edmund refused. After the earl was removed, Sir Edmund didn’t seem bothered. I do believe he even made some joke about the incident.”
“He wasn’t frightened?”
Mr. Turpin shook his head. “Not that I could tell.”
“Did Pembroke threaten him beyond the physical assault?”
The clerk’s glasses had once again slipped to the tip of his nose and he pushed them back. “He said Sir Edmund had better watch himself—or some such thing—I don’t remember exactly.”
“And in your opinion did Sir Edmund treat Lord Pembroke fairly?”
“I think so. I’m no expert in the specifics of the law, Lady Wilde, but I’ve recorded many trials. Sir Edmund is known for his fairness. He’s not the sort to punish a man without good reason.”
Chapter Twelve
When I told Sam what I’d discovered about Pembroke, he frowned. “I’ve had the misfortune of meeting him,” he said. “You don’t want to tangle with him.”
I was indeed hesitant to confront a violent man like Pembroke, especially since, if he had followed through on his threat to Sir Edmund, he might’ve been the one who attacked me the night before. I still didn’t know if there was
a connection between my missing diary and Sir Edmund’s disappearance, but I felt I had no choice but to pursue every possibility.
Sam remained unconvinced when I told him my plan. “How the devil are you going to get him talking about Sir Edmund Godfrey? He might be dull-witted, but he’s not stupid enough to confess to a stranger.”
In truth I didn’t know how I’d manage it, but I had to try.
I painted my face in the vulgar manner of a prostitute, only stopping when my lips and cheeks were as red as summer strawberries and my skin covered with white ceruse. I covered my red curls with a pale blond wig and chose a well-worn dress cut so low, I risked exposing my bosom if I dared take too deep a breath. I emerged from my bedchamber to find Sam, disguised as a laborer, waiting in the drawing room.
He let out a low whistle. “It can’t be said you don’t make a damned fetching whore.”
Finding Pembroke wouldn’t be a problem. He held court each night at one of a few taverns in the city and even if we had to visit each one, we’d eventually locate him. We started with his favorite, the Red Lion in Whitechapel.
I entered the tavern alone and took a seat near the door. I motioned to the barmaid, a timid Scottish lass who barely met my eye as she took my request for a pot of ale. She must’ve been new to the city—most London barmaids were as unabashed as the whores themselves.
Sam entered a few moments later, and without looking at me, he sat down at a table near the fireplace where he could survey the entire room. Only then did he turn his head in my direction, a quick look to determine my whereabouts.
Before long, however, Sam caught my eye and cocked his head toward the door. The Earl of Pembroke sauntered into the tavern as though he were the king himself. He was tall and blond and arrogant, not unhandsome, but his features held an unappealing coarseness. When he noticed me, he let his eyes travel from my face to my breasts, then back again. I forced myself to hold his gaze and felt a chill. Something in his demeanor reminded me strongly of my dead husband. Like Sir Ian, Pembroke exuded cruelty.
Several of the tavern’s patrons celebrated his arrival with gregarious shouts. He chose a table near me where three other men were already seated. He called for the barmaid over and as she took their drink requests he molested her backside, laughing loudly when she flinched.
When the barmaid brought my ale, it sloshed all over the table and as she wiped it up I saw tears in her eyes.
I gave her a kind smile. “There, now, sweetheart, there’s no need to be crying over a bit of spilt ale.”
She looked up at me gratefully and I gave her a farthing for her trouble. She took a deep, fortifying breath and left to deliver the drinks to Pembroke’s table, where they took the opportunity to pester her some more.
Only when he had his drink in hand did Pembroke finally approach my table. “What have we here?” he said. “I don’t recall seeing you before, which is a shame. I promise to make up for the lost time if you’ll permit me to join you.”
“Certainly you may sit, sir,” I said, adding an unnatural twang to my voice. “My name is Mrs. Lucy Tottenham.”
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Tottenham.” He took up my hand and kissed it. “I’m Lord Pembroke.”
I lowered my eyes. “Of course I know who you are, m’lord. You honor me with your presence.”
Pembroke did not argue with that sentiment as he took his seat. “I hope you’ve not been bothered tonight. This isn’t the sort of place a woman should venture to alone.”
Clearly it wasn’t, with the likes of Pembroke about. “I know it, m’lord,” I said. “”Twas not my choice. I’m waiting for a gentleman who’s now very late.”
“He must be a fool if he’d dare to keep so fine a person as yourself waiting. Who is it?” he asked. “Perhaps I know him.”
I shook my head but sensed an opportunity. “Discretion does not allow me to reveal his name.”
Pembroke laughed sardonically. “But of course, Mrs. Tottenham, you’re the very picture of modesty. I only thought I could shed some light on why your companion has been detained. I’m familiar with many who frequent this tavern, you see.”
I lowered my voice and leaned in close, giving him a full view of my ample décolletage. “It’s Sir Edmund Godfrey I wait for.”
“Sir Edmund Godfrey?” He laughed again. “You’ll have a very long wait if he’s your man.”
“What d’ye mean, m’lord?” My heart raced with the hope Pembroke would say something to incriminate himself.
“Have you not heard the news?” he said. “Sir Edmund Godfrey’s been missing for several days now.”
“That’s impossible! I spoke to him just yesterday when we made arrangements to meet.”
“I don’t wish to doubt the word of a lady—but of course, you’re no lady, are you? Sir Edmund disappeared on Saturday, and I very much doubt we’ll ever hear from him again.”
My heart pounded. Did this mean Pembroke was the cause of Sir Edmund’s disappearance or was he just repeating gossip? I set my head to one side. “You seem quite certain I’ll not see Sir Edmund again. Does this mean you’re privy to his whereabouts?”
He smiled dangerously. “I’ve not a clue where he is, though I must admit the prospect of his demise pleases me greatly. Now, since we can say with some certainty your cunny will dry out before Sir Edmund arrives, let me avail myself of your services so as to prevent such a tragic occurrence.”
I turned away from him. “I prefer to remain here, if it’s all the same to you, m’lord.”
Pembroke stood and opened his coat, making sure I saw the hilt of his sword. He held his hand out to me. “As a matter of fact, it’s not the same to me, and I shall have to insist you come upstairs with me, Mrs. Tottenham.”
I raised my hand to slap him but he caught it in his own. He bent down and whispered into my ear, “I must warn you I’m not a man to be trifled with.”
“How dare you, sir!” I cried, struggling against his grip. “I’ll not be used at this rate. Let go of me!”
Sam was already out of his chair and heading toward us. I broke away and tried to run, but Pembroke seized a clump of my hair. The wig slipped off and he stood still for a moment, confused, looking from me to the wig. I ran toward the door.
“Stop her!” he shouted when he’d gathered his senses. One of his companions blocked me and pushed me backward onto the floor. I kicked my legs at him, pleased when one foot made solid contact with his stomach and he faltered. Sam took up the fight and knocked him under the chin with an elbow, then smashed his nose with a swift blow of his fist.
“Get out!” Sam yelled.
I scrambled to my feet and ran out the door. Outside, I pressed my face up against the window.
The man who’d pushed me was still in a heap on the floor, but now two others were circling Sam. Pembroke, the coward, just stood off to the side and watched as Sam leaped onto a table and kicked one attacker hard in the face, then spun around to deal the other a skull-cracking blow with an iron candlestick I’d never even noticed he’d picked up. Both men fell the floor, twisting in agony.
Pembroke removed his sword from its scabbard and started toward Sam. Sam picked up a chair, raised it high and smashed it over Pembroke’s head. Pembroke’s knees buckled and he crumpled to the floor. Sam picked up his sword and held it at the ready as he backed out the door.
“Run!” he said, and the two of us made off as fast as we could down the cobbled stone street. When Sam judged us a safe distance away, he turned off into a darkened alley and we stopped, exhausted, trying to catch our breath.
Our meeting with Pembroke was a debacle, just as Sam had predicted. I didn’t know if Pembroke recognized me when my wig came off, but given the lack of information I’d obtained, it hadn’t been worth the risk, regardless. Sam scarcely spoke to me during the ride home; he was no doubt angry I’d convinced him that cornering Pembroke was a good idea in the first place. I couldn’t say that I blamed him.
C
hapter Thirteen
Thursday, 17 October 1678
I awoke the next morning with an aching head, probably the result of the tumble I’d taken the night before. Alice prepared me a drink of peppermint steeped in boiling water to ease the pounding in my temples, then left to pick up my new gown from Madame Laverne’s. Half an hour later, she returned with a large box filled with layers of green silk and it raised my spirits. As she fastened the dress behind me, I admired myself in the mirror, adjusting the bodice so it displayed the deep valley of my breasts. I decided that Lucian’s play was just the diversion I needed.
Sam and I traveled to the theatre by barge, and the surly waterman called out friendly insults and gossip to his colleagues on the river. The Thames glittered in the sunlight as our boat slipped through its waters, and soon the Dorset Garden Theatre appeared on the north bank near the Dorset Stairs in Whitefriars. Regarded as the most elegant playhouse in London, it outshone even the recently rebuilt Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. Our barge queued behind the other boats at the foot of the stairs, and several minutes went by before we could disembark, suggesting a large audience. This boded well for Lucian.
We arrived well before the three o’clock performance time but the pit was already crowded with fops, orange girls and whores. I stood near the entrance and surveyed the circular tiers of boxes above me. Lucian waited at the railing, observing the crowd. He caught sight of us and waved. I returned the gesture and asked Sam if he was joining me.
“I’d just as well stay down here in the pit and meet you after the performance.” He preferred the rough chaos of the pit to the slightly more refined boxes.
I climbed the stairs and when I found Lucian’s box, I pulled back the heavy velvet curtain and stepped inside.
“There you are, Isabel! You look as pretty as a fresh-plucked daisy.” He clasped my hands and kissed me hello.
“Flattery won’t get you a good review,” I said.
