The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 5

by MacMurrough, Sorcha

  But the torrential rain outside and blistering flashes of lightning, the stink of sulphur in the air, the constant cacophony over head, was enough to render even the most sanguine of temperaments agitated. Let alone that dream...

  Another huge crash overhead made him start and clutch his leather briefcase even more tightly to his chest. He wondered again at the nagging feeling in his gut which had persisted all evening. Which had driven him to come speak to his witness Gribbins once more before the opening of the trial tomorrow.

  He had no doubt of the outcome. There would be few surprises. The case was as cut and dried as any he had ever seen. Here would be yet another thief for the gallows, or transportation if the judge was disposed to take his youth into account. God knew Botany Bay needed enough good men to help build up Australia.

  The trouble was they kept getting all the bad ones. Well, not all, he amended, thinking of his own very able assistant Philip Marshall, who had served ten years in the penal colony and come back with his humanity intact. Barely.

  Philip had been helping his friends and the unfortunate ever since, apart from one sad period when he had done nothing but rake about getting revenge upon the women of every family who had ruined his father.

  The women had been willing, if foolish. However, as soon as Philip had met his wife Jasmine, he had settled down and become a model husband and father. He had studied law at university under his tutelage, and Alistair counted Philip amongst the best men of his acquaintance, despite all he had been through.

  It was Philip’s willingness to get more involved with their clients, try to understand the circumstances, not just the facts, that had brought him here tonight.

  Philip had said it was not enough to punish someone for stealing a loaf of bread or an expensive trinket. One had to understand why they stole.

  Many of the better class of people got away with theft on a far grander scale, yet never spent a day in prison. The whole system of so-called justice was corrupt and unequal, Philip argued to all who would listen. It was never going to change unless Radicals like he and Alistair and their friends the Rakehells strove to make a difference.

  His colleague’s passionate words echoed in his head as he headed for the interview room. Yet despite his altruistic mission, Alistair hoped he would not have to wait too long for his client to be fetched from his cell. It was late, and he was tired. He wanted to go over everything one more time before the trial, he had neglected to eat supper…

  He took a lantern and entered. He set it upon a hook up high in the room, which was about ten feet by twenty and contained three solid desks at which the prisoners and their legal representatives could sit.

  Alistair looked around and scowled. The lantern, even open fully, did not give much light. But he was fairly sure he could find the contradictions he had highlighted in the deposition without too much difficulty despite the midnight-like gloom which had descended upon the interview room.

  He moved toward the centre desk to make himself more comfortable and opened his case, intending to spread the papers out, trying all the while not to think about the voluptuous woman in his dream he had so enjoyed making love to.

  It was all false, a mere fantasy, nothing to dwell upon. He shouldn't let it take up any more of his time than the buzzing of a flea. He was just had a severe dose of the horn from a lack of female companionship for so long, that was all. A cold bath and exercise, with a bit of pocket billiards if he was feeling really desperate for relief, and he would be ready for court in the morning.

  He ran his fingers through his damp hair, which was an unusual silver colour. He had hated it as a young man, for it had made him look years older than he really was. But he was certain it had also helped him to scale the heights of his chosen profession. He had gained accolade after accolade as a comparative youth, whilst his contemporaries had languished in the same sphere year after year.

  Now here he was, one of England’s youngest and most accomplished barristers. And if rumour was to be believed, he would soon be the youngest judge on the King’s Bench circuit.

  Alistair was about to allow himself a small self-satisfied smile, when he started and dropped his leather case. A flash of lightning beaming down through the high barred windows had illuminated the scarred wood, and the glistening, rusty streaks upon it. Not rust. Not streaks. The fingers of a bloody handprint…

  Alistair propelled himself forward to look over the desktop, and gaped at the prone body stuffed partly under the desk. Shoving the right-hand side table away, he cleared a wider space so he could examine the man more thoroughly. A finger to his wrist told him the man was still alive, but barely. He hauled the young man’s considerable frame out from under the battered walnut lectern, and turned him onto his back. He saw a myriad of cuts and slashes all over his hands, wrist and arms, and a deep gash in his stomach. The blood stain had spread the width of his waistcoat, and about half way up his chest.

  He was a young man, blond, and so handsome it was hard not to stare at him. The ladies must adore him. Not to mention even some of the men, Alistair thought to himself, recalling all Philip had told him about the difficulties he had experienced as a male prostitute on the London streets. He had sold himself to women only to help his family get out of debtor’s prison, but it had been tough hanging on to his virtue for so many years in jail and the penal colony.

  Now, he ought not to be jumping to conclusions, Alistair warned himself as he dragged out his pocket handkerchief and used it and his palm to put pressure on the wound in an attempt to stanch the bleeding. He wondered which doctor was on duty at the prison that night. Not that any of them were worth a damn.

  He wracked his brain to recall whether his friend Blake was in town. Or, his colleague Dr. Gold. Or Dr. Herriot, over at the free clinic for women in Bethnal Green. There was always medical staff on call there.

  That would be his best option, he decided. He was sure he would never get three messengers out on a foul night like this. Even getting one was going to be difficult considering the governor of the prison was going to most likely insist that the young man simply be put in the infirmary and treated there.

  Alistair didn’t know why that thought bothered him so much. He didn’t even know the lad. There was just something about the way he looked, so helpless and hopeless, which struck a chord deeply within him. He had been hacked to pieces, had fought like a wild man to save himself....

  Or someone else? he thought with a shudder. For as his eyes adjusted to the dim light and he looked around, a prickle of fear creeping up his back once more, he saw the sole of a shoe peeping out from under the left-hand desk.

  The ripple of unease which had stiffened his shoulder blades now ran down his spine, convulsing him in a paroxysm of horror. He could understand this happening down in the cells, where violence was rife. But up here in the relatively respectable interview rooms? What on earth was the prison security coming to these days?

  Alistair rammed his handkerchief down on the gaping wound and planted the young man’s hand firmly over it. The lad groaned, but his hand remained in position. His lashes fluttered open for a brief second, revealing remarkably clear and brilliant aquamarine eyes which fairly glowed even in the dark of the dingy chamber.

  "Hold on. I’ll get help in a minute. I need to see him."

  "I tried to help him. Bloke shot him almost before I even knew he had a gun. I grabbed him but it was too late. It went off. Then he tried to finish him off with the knife." He swallowed convulsively. "Is he, is he gone?"

  Alistair felt for a pulse at the wrist but there was nothing. He could already feel the body chilling under his hands in the dank room.

  "I can’t feel anything. I’m sorry."

  He tugged the body out from under the desk and rolled it over. His stomach began to writhe like an angry snake. The slit in the man’s throat seemed to gape at him mockingly, bloodily.

  The bullet wound in his chest would probably have killed him anyway. It had blown apart s
everal ribs and nearly severed the arm just above the elbow. Still, it was a damned waste. If only he had got there ten minutes sooner...

  Alistair was about to call for help when the door burst open. The guard he had sent to bring his client up from the cells came stumbling in, panting and wild-eyed.

  "He’s not down there, Mr. Grant! Gribbens must have escaped. We’ll sound the alarm now," he gasped.

  "No need, Mr. Bradford," Alistair said, feeling unutterably weary and disgusted. "I’ve already found him, I'm afraid."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bradford the prison guard gaped at the dead body and began to wretch and back away in fear.

  "He can’t hurt you now," Alistair said impatiently. "This lad here needs a doctor straight away. Pull yourself together and get me some help," he demanded, drawing paper, ink and pen out of his briefcase. He wrote a quick note to Dr. Herriot, folded it and penned the address on the outside.

  "Either you or one of the others take my carriage and bring this to the Bethnal Green clinic. Wait for someone to come back with you."

  "No sir, I can’t—"

  "Please, my client’s just been murdered. This man tried to save his life. I need some answers. And everyone is going to want to know how the hell this could have happened right here inside the prison visiting room. So if you want me to put in a good word about how helpful and professional you’ve been in a time of crisis, Bradford, go now and don’t spare the horses."

  "Yes, sir, I mean, no sir. I mean, yes, I’ll go and I’ll bring someone back."

  "Alert the prison doctor here too, will you? On your way out."

  He nodded and bowed. "Sir."

  He scuttled off like a demented beetle, leaving Alistair alone again once more with the young man.

  When he turned his attention back to him, the lad was fumbling at the front of his trousers.

  Alistair stared. For a moment he wondered what on earth the youth was doing at a time like this.

  Then he saw him extending two fingers under the waistband, and inward. Into a secret pocket.

  He brought out a small miniature, beautifully executed, of a wide-eyed young woman of perhaps eighteen or nineteen.

  Alistair gave a start of recognition—it was the woman from his dream! He stared at the young man, and now he too looked familiar. A great deal whiter now, almost like a spectre rather than the desperate-looking man who had stood on stage, and on the beach before he had been dragged away, but he was sure it was the same man....

  "You need to take this to her," he rasped. "Tell her what’s happened. Tell her to leave London. It’s not safe. They think I know something. I don’t, I swear, not about this, not all of it, but—"

  "Tell me where she is."

  "In the stews at Southwark. Safest place for her. The Three Bells. Leave me for the doctor to tend to. If they find her..."

  "I can’t just leave you like this," Alistair argued.

  "You have to. If they discover I’m still alive, that you’re nursing me, you’re a dead man too. I need her to be safe."

  "My dear lad, I’m Alistair Grant the barrister and--"

  His bloodless lips twisted. "I know who you are," he rasped. "That’s the only reason I’m trusting you with her. Trusting you to keep her safe. I’m telling you, this goes far beyond Gribbens stealing and me being a bumboy for the toffs."

  "Beyond, to what?"

  But the young man plowed on, "If I die you need to go to see Logan Villiers. He ran me. But only go if I’m dead. And remember, it’s harder to kill a whisper than even a shouted calumny."

  Alistair shook his head, fearing he was still dreaming and his usual nightmare had just taken an even more fanciful and bizarre turn. "Ran you? I don’t under-"

  "There’s no time," the young Adonis insisted, gripping his bicep convulsively. "You need to get to Southwark. Don’t bring her back here, whatever you do. She needs a safe house. George will know what to do. I trust him, but I trust you even more. Everyone says you’re incorruptible. Tell her I love her, and to take care, and be happy."

  "You can tell her yourself. We'll get you medical help--"

  He shot him a withering look. "Go. Now. The doctor is coming. I can hear the fat old bugger wheeze. you have to go. Make sure no one follows you. And whatever you do, don’t come back here looking for answers."

  Alistair shook his head, confused, but tried to be reassuring. "Dr. Herriot or one of his colleagues from the Bethnal Green is going to be coming for you. Try to hang on until then. I’ll go see this woman you’re speaking of. Is she your wife, fiancee?"

  But the young man had already lapsed into unconsciousness, pressing the miniature into Alistair’s hand with the last ounce of his waning strength.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Alistair fingered the miniature indecisively for a few moments. Then he decided, what was the harm? After all, there was little he could do now that the doctor was here. And it wasn’t as if he had to worry about Gribbens’ case now.

  Alistair sighed. He had suspected a capital sentence would be the young man’s fate. Well, it certainly had been.

  Now eager to leave the noisome place behind, Alistair snatched up his briefcase, leaving the lantern for the doctor, who clicked his tongue and shook his head.

  "I’ve taken the liberty of sending for my own doctor for this man."

  "Why on earth would you want to do that for scum like him?" the portly man said with withering contempt.

  "Scum? The man’s been stabbed!" Alistair exclaimed impatiently.

  "Aye. But he murdered that man." The doctor pointed.

  Alistair shook his head. "Don’t be absurd. He was trying to defend him. He doesn’t have a pistol or knife, now does he? Even I can see all the wounds are defensive, not offensive. So you do your best for him, and I shall be back shortly. I need to inform his er, wife that he’s been injured."

  "Don’t waste your time. Best thing for the poor lass if he dies."

  The barrister felt his stomach churn. "What on earth are you saying, man?"

  "Just that the world will be rid of one more bloody convict."

  Alistair lost his temper then and slammed the odiferous man who wreaked of alcohol and snuff up against the wall. "You’re going to do the best you can to keep him alive, or I’m going to ensure that this sinecure is taken away from you. Prison doctor, my arse. Your not even fit to tend to dogs. So buck up your ideas now, or you'll be lucky to find a job cleaning boots! You know who I am. You know I can do it. So shut your gob and help him."

  "Yes, Mr. Grant," the portly man muttered with ill grace, bending over the prone form once more, and now trying to stop the bleeding himself.

  Alistair gathered his cloak about him and strode to the entrance. He wondered at the fury which shook him from head to toe, all because of a young man he had spoken scarcely two words to.

  A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention for a moment, but he didn’t worry about the two darkly-clad men. All he wanted was to leave through the central gate on his errand.

  They glided up toward the visitors’ room silently, and entered.

  Once outside, Alistair went around the corner and got into a cab. "I need you to find The Three Bells in Southwark," he said after they got under way.

  "Lord Almighty, a decent chap yourself wouldn’t want to go there!" the driver exclaimed.

  "Why not?" he asked in surprise.

  "It’s only one of the most notorious brothels in London."

  "My good man, I deal with criminals in the courts all the time," Alistair returned with aplomb.

  "Nothing like this, though."

  "In what way? Are the women all particularly rough, clapped up, or bestial?"

  "Not at all. Quite the opposite, so far as I know. But few people so much as dare even whisper about the place."

  Alistair raised his brows. "Yes, well, if it’s as notorious as you say, I wonder I’ve never heard of it. I don’t even recall it ever being raided."

  "That’s be
cause it’s so dangerous, just like I warned you. George Davenant, the pimp who oversees it, is a crime lord," the driver asserted in tones of awe. It was as if he had proclaimed him the Messiah, the chap sounded so impressed.

  Alistair allowed himself a small smile. "A crime lord? And yet I still haven’t had the pleasure? The Bow Street Runners really must be getting lax."

  "He’s so dangerous even they’re scared of him," the cabbie asserted in hushed tones before beginning to pick up speed.

  The successful barrister laughed in derision. "I hardly think so. You mustn’t believe everything you hear."