The Spider's Touch

by Patricia Wynn

She was astonished to see Lord Lovett flush. She had thought him beyond desiring anyone’s good opinion but his own. He would not oblige her with further proof of his conscience, however, but made his expression neutral and gave a negligent shrug.

  “What may seem heartless to you was a matter of necessity to me. No one has been injured who could have been spared.”

  “But, why?” she said in anguish. “Why, when Sir Humphrey was your friend?”

  He gave a surprised laugh, which unsettled her as much as, apparently, her question had him. “You still do not know? And I thought you had discovered everything.”

  She shook her head, and said, through tightened lips, “A blood stain can tell me who committed a murder, but certainly not why.”

  He stared at her, his smile tinged with self-mockery. “Do you know? I do not believe that I shall tell you. Who knows but what—” He did not finish his question, but she could see that he was calculating some new risk in his head.

  She straightened her spine and stared him in the eye. “It does not matter why. I presume you did it to save your own skin, which makes you cowardly and despicable, no matter what the reason.”

  She could tell by the way he blinked that she had scored another hit. His lip curled derisively, but he was not proud to own the truth. Then, she remembered that he had murdered two of his friends and realized what a fool she had been to provoke such a dangerous man. She had much rather be silent and accommodating and with luck he would let her go once they were safely at the coast. If he left her earlier, he would be able to travel the rest of the way by horse, which would be much faster, if she could only persuade him to let her live.

  She put an end to their conversation by pretending to gaze out the window. She had only traveled in a post-chaise once before, and their speed relative to a private coach was remarkable. She had not given much thought to their destination, but she wondered about it now. While locked in Lord Lovett’s drawing room, afraid that he meant to kill her, she had heard him giving orders to his servants, so she understood that they were going to France.

  Now, looking at the passing scenery, she realized that she had traveled this way before. It was the route to Hawkhurst and Rotherham Abbey.

  Her heart gave a leap of hope. She could not think of this road without remembering a magical night only a few months ago when St. Mars had swept her up onto his saddle and changed her life. Then, before an instant could pass, she recalled that St. Mars would not be coming. If Lord Lovett’s servants had called for a constable, he might have been taken up and thrown into Newgate, where he would face trial for murder and treason. Even worse—he might still be lying on the floor where Lord Lovett had left him, bleeding to death.

  She wondered if Katy knew what he had done and if she would manage to tell Tom in time. Wouldn’t Tom, as attached as he was to his master, do something to save him?

  She couldn’t know how much initiative St. Mars’s servants would show. But it was so much more comforting to think of their helping him than to worry about how desperately injured he might be, that she turned all her thoughts in that direction.

  * * * *

  They had traveled in this uneasy silence for more than an hour, before Lord Lovett broke it. “What a remarkable creature you are, Mrs. Kean! Here, you have been abducted, and you have not once inquired what I intend to do with you.”

  “It makes no difference, for wherever you leave me, Isabella will send her husband or her brother to fetch me.”

  “Now, we both know that is false, when I left them with the particular impression that you and I were running away together. Your cousin Isabella will be jealous because you have stolen her lover. Your aunt will rant that you were always an ungrateful chit. Dudley Mayfield will not give tuppence what becomes of you, and his lordship will make some excuse so that he won’t have to call me out. Given that, I am surprised at your lack of interest in your fate.”

  “I suppose you will tell me when you are ready.”

  “Such compliance, though! When I was beginning to think you had lost your affection for me. It is most gratifying.”

  She turned to face him. “You can mock me all you like. But I have nothing of which to be ashamed, unless it was shameful to imagine that a person of your capacity was too intelligent to be a murderer.”

  “Touché!” If Hester had hoped to wound him, she had missed her mark. He seemed to be enjoying himself now. “That is much more like you. Has anyone ever told you how attractive indignation on the face of an intelligent woman can be?”

  An angry flush rose into her cheeks. “I have no wish to be credited with your sort of intelligence, my lord.”

  “But there was a time—not so very many days ago—when you did. You cannot pretend that you did not flatter yourself that you were the only person in your household who understood my wit. I had not known you above a week before I perceived that you despised your empty-headed cousin and her husband and her mother for their stupidity, and you were glad to have relief from their insipidity, which I provided. Now, confess it, Mrs. Kean.”

  His words were painfully true, and she regretted that she had valued his cleverness higher than Isabella’s goodwill. But Hester would not let him crush her with blame. She knew she would suffer enough remorse for her stupidity, but her failures were as nothing compared to his sins.

  “I was sorely mistaken in your character, sir. If I must confess something, let it be that I saw how you used my cousin, yet, I did not see any reason that you would have to use me.”

  “That is because you underrate your abilities. I feared them, you see, from the moment that you first started asking questions. I feared that you would you find me out. And you did, so you see that I was correct.”

  “That was why you pretended an interest in me. I am well aware of that, my lord.”

  “Certainly, that was my principal reason, but I have enjoyed our battle of wits, Mrs. Kean, so much, in fact, that I have a proposal to make to you.”

  She could not imagine what he was about to say, but his very expression was a dare.

  “I shall be taking you with me to France,” he said. “I have a notion that you will do exceedingly well at a French court.”

  Hester felt as if the bottom had fallen out of her stomach. Her incredulity and her outrage were such that she could not immediately speak.

  He gave her one of his mocking grins. “I see that my proposal has taken you by surprise, but I advise you to consider it. The alternatives could not be very palatable. I’m afraid I cannot permit you to return to your cousins, for you would be sure to report my crimes to a magistrate, and I should prefer that no one know them for certain. Besides, you cannot really wish to live with those idiots. Then, of course, I could kill you, too, but I find the prospect rather distasteful. So, you see, it would be better for you to come with me to France. I was not jesting about your cleverness, and the French have always appreciated intelligent women.”

  “So much that they will maintain them at their expense?” Hester didn’t know why she bothered to reply. He had certainly gone quite mad, for his notion was preposterous.

  His grin turned into a genuine look of amusement, and there was a curious pleasure in his smile, when he said. “I find that your wits are a bit slower than usual this evening, my love, but perhaps the journey has tired you. It is I who shall maintain you, of course.”

  Her first thought was that he was offering her a bribe. An independence in exchange for her silence. Then, she understood the significance of his smile, and a shudder possessed her.

  Now, she did feel shame. That he would entertain for even a moment the possibility of her consent.

  “And I should simply forget the blood that is on your hands? Is that it?”

  “It would be wise for you to do so.”

  “You cannot truly believe that I would!”

  He shrugged, as if her refusal would be of no great matter. “I fail to see why not. It would be smarter, as I have said, and as we are agreed that
you are a sensible woman, I expect you to make the sensible choice. We have got along in the past, so it is reasonable to assume that we shall in future.”

  Hester cringed and turned her face to window to hide her distress at his notion of her. “May God grant me death before I ever become as reasonable as you, my lord.”

  He did not respond. And Hester refused to face him again, even if by doing so, she could prevent him from stabbing her in the back. She could not bear to be reminded of his wickedness—or of his flattering proposal, as he appeared to think it. It had made her feel as if she would never be clean again.

  She wrapped her arms about her body and leaned her forehead against the glass to get as far away from him as she could. The carriage bumped and lurched, even over the best part of the road, but she hardly noted the knocks. Despite the warmth of the July evening, she felt cold.

  * * * *

  Gideon woke to find two footmen standing over him. One was the same servant he had slipped by at the door. He could not be surprised, therefore, when he received little sympathy. And it was only when he had dragged himself up from the floor that he was able to persuade the other to bring him some wine for his head, and only then because of the quantity of blood he had spilled on their master’s carpet.

  He discovered that he had been unconscious for over an hour before anyone had checked the room, which meant that Lovett already had an hour’s start, at least.

  Gideon took his long wig off and felt for the split in his head. The bleeding had nearly stopped because swelling had shut it off. Lovett had struck him hard, and Gideon had his thick peruke to thank that he was still alive. His head hurt dreadfully, though, and when he stood, nausea almost overcame him.

  Moving into a chair, he asked the servant for a basin of water and told him that he would make it worth his while. He was bathing the blood from the back of his head, when a loud knocking came downstairs at the door.

  A moment later, he heard Tom’s voice raised in outrage. Gideon pushed himself to his feet with a groan and made his way to the head of the stairs.

  “Here I am, Tom,” he called, over the pain in his head. He picked his way down, and Tom looked at him in horror.

  “Lord, what’s happened to you, sir! Are you all right?”

  “He got away,” Gideon said, ignoring his question. “He took Mrs. Kean. They left an hour ago.”

  “There’s blood all down your coat!”

  “Yes, but you know how head wounds can bleed. He would have killed me if he could have, but my wig defied him. Have you brought Looby?”

  He had reached the open door by now and, peering out, saw that a boy was walking their horses in front of the house.

  “I came as quick as I could, sir. And when you wasn’t where Katy said you’d be, I waited, but after a while I got worried.”

  “That’s quite all right. I’m sure the sleep must have done me good. Is everything on my saddle?”

  “Yessir. But are you sure you can ride?”

  “I shall have to, I’m afraid. I can’t let him take Mrs. Kean. And we’ve got to find them as soon as we can—before he decides that he doesn’t need her anymore.”

  As concerned as he was for his master’s head, Tom did not think of protesting, when of all the friends who might have helped his master, only Mrs. Kean had.

  He gave St. Mars a leg up into his saddle and climbed into his own, before throwing the boy a coin.

  When St. Mars headed down to the horse ferry, Tom grew worried because the ferryman had seen his master so many times that he might see through his disguise. But every minute would count, and it would take much longer to go round by London Bridge.

  “They’re traveling by post-chaise,” St. Mars said. “I assume his lordship’s coach will follow them later. He will want to move fast.”

  “Then he’ll be sure to take the Dover road.”

  “If he doesn’t, we’ll find out soon enough. I’m afraid that you have to ask for news of them. I hate to say it, but I shall be doing well just to arrive.”

  Tom had not seen how white his master was beneath his paint, but as he turned, startled by St. Mars’s admission, he noted the thinness and pallor of his lips.

  “Are you sure you can do this, my lord? If you want me to, I’ll go after them.”

  “No. I can’t send you after a man like Lovett alone. He’s been trained with weapons and will be quick to use them.”

  They had reached the horse ferry now, and said no more. The ferryman did not look twice at the gentleman in the bright scarlet coat and long chestnut wig, not even at the blood still on his coat. He should have recognized Tom, at least. But except for directing a narrow squint at Tom’s horse, as if wondering where he might have seen it before, he took no more notice of Tom than of St. Mars.

  St. Mars spoke very little, but what he did was said in a nasal voice, with expressions Tom had never heard him use before. Fretting with impatience, but in the usual length of time, they reached the opposite bank, where they led the horses up the ramp and turned their backs on Westminster.

  As soon as they left the inns and market gardens of Lambeth behind, St. Mars stopped his horse on the edge of St. George Field. He removed his peruke, vest, and coat, and, leaving only his white shirt and yellow breeches, made a bundle of his garments and stuffed them in his pack with his ruby-heeled shoes.

  “It’s good that our friend the ferryman has such poor eyesight,” St. Mars said, as he pulled on the tall boots that Tom handed him from out of his own bag.

  “Ay, my lord. I was sure that he would know you.”

  “Apparently, I make quite a different figure in those clothes. It was you I was worried about, but as you have not been charged, you can always say that you have entered someone else’s service.”

  St. Mars had managed to relieve his face of some its patches, and a handkerchief wiped off most of the paint. He seemed relieved to be free of these and his heavy clothes, which Tom could understand now that he had felt the weight of a wig only half that length. But he did not like the look of his master’s colourless lips or the dark, swollen patch on the crown of his head.

  “My lord, why don’t you wait for me at the house. If he’s making for the coast, he could take any one of a dozen roads. You could rest until I find their trail.”

  St. Mars hesitated—which told Tom more than anything could how much his head must be bothering him. But he declined. “If I’m not much mistaken, we’ll hear of them soon enough. It’s still light, so the turnpikes will be open. Someone will have seen them.”

  “But how do you know that he won’t head into Sussex like his Grace of Ormonde?”

  “I don’t. But if we don’t find them on either of the first two routes, then we shall have to split up to find them. I will not let him take Mrs. Kean.”

  A deadly purpose was in his voice.

  Tom would rather have seen him agree to rest, but he could not argue with his feelings. Or with his logic, for the roads in Sussex were a notorious maze. Anyone would have to have a particular reason to choose one of them, even over the deep, narrow roads of Kent.

  With no further discussion, they turned their horses towards Deptford to the junction of the two turnpiked roads.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Cease then, nor ORDER Imperfection name:

  Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.

  Know they own point: This kind, this due degree

  Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee.

  Submit.—In this, or any other sphere,

  Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear:

  Safe in the hand of one disposing Power,

  Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.

  All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee;

  All Chance, Direction, which thou canst not see;

  All Discord, Harmony not understood;

  All partial Evil, universal Good:

  And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason’s spite,

  One truth is clear, WHATEV
ER IS, IS RIGHT.

  I. x.

  The post chaise had not been seen on the road to Rochester, which meant that he was probably not taking her to Dover or Deal.

  When Tom had asked if a post chaise and six, driven by two postillions and carrying a lady and gentleman, had been noticed passing through the turnpike on the road to Deptford, it had taken the better part of a half-hour to establish that someone had. The keeper at the gate had only recently stepped away, and his youngest son had taken over the duty of collecting tolls. While St. Mars had waited, growing restless, for there was nothing to be done until they had either confirmed or ruled out the Kent Road, Tom had been forced to ride back towards London to look for the man.

  He had found him in the Bull Inn, close by the one-mile stone, after inquiring at every likely establishment on the way. It had taken every ounce of Tom’s restraint not to box the man’s ears, and he had roundly cursed him for leaving his post before dark. But knowing how anxious his master would be, he stopped himself far short of a proper satisfaction to carry the welcome news that Lord Lovett’s chaise had been seen.

  Gideon had used the time to bathe his head in the local trough, and the cool water had revived him. He had also sat with his face cradled in his hands to rest. The jarring movement of his horse had seemed intolerable already, and if he did not want to flag, he knew he was going to have to moderate his gait.

  Tom’s news acted like a tonic, however, and they quickly paid their tolls before pressing onto Deptford, where the turnpiked highway split. They tried the Dover Road first, because it was the more frequently used, since it passed through flatter country on its way to the coast and ended closer to France.

  But no one they asked on the highway to Chalk had seen a vehicle of the kind they described since much too early in the day for it to be Lord Lovett’s, so they retraced their steps again to Deptford and started down the familiar road to Bromley.

  Here, despite its familiarity, they had to be most careful, for both were very well known on this road. Tom had to choose places that had never been honoured with Lord Hawkhurst’s patronage, while Gideon waited astride Looby with the brim of his hat pulled low. He did not even dare to show his face to the children, playing chase in the dust in front of the inn where Tom had stopped to inquire, for, before he was arrested, their parents might have pointed out the Viscount St. Mars to them. And with a price of £300 on his head, Gideon made no doubt that they would be quick to know him again.