Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3)

by Baird Wells

  The gallows were really a coffin without the sides, he thought. Stout wooden beams formed supports and a frame at its top. The structure extended in a long triangle from the wall of Newgate gaol, twelve feet up, and its paneled scaffolding could be brought out or put away at notice. Ropes and mechanisms formed its guts, an empty belly inside waiting to devour convicts above. At its base were six stairs, all that stood between Paulina Paton and a fate better than she deserved.

  “Goddammit all,” muttered Ethan jamming him with an elbow, pointing to the street at the platform's far end.

  Chas Paton, pale and utterly lit, judging by bleary eyes and slack limbs, hung back between two shouting, scrubby-haired women. Spencer was about to tell Ethan that if Chas wanted the satisfaction of seeing Paulina's end, he deserved it. Then he caught what Ethan had been trying to point out: Chas's hand stuffed deep inside his coat front.

  Ethan rushed out first, being the one with any sort of credentials, as a crown agent. Spencer certainly did not envy him that tonight. Ethan's top hat raised and lowered at the lunge of each constable, obliging him to bark, “Whitehall, Whitehall,” over the seething crowd so that the guards let them pass in order to reach Chas.

  Chas spotted them too late. He turned to run, but Ethan's long legs swept his feet from under him and Spencer took a firm grasp on Chas’s coat. A few offended spectators shoved Chas as he fell into them, and Spencer used that momentum, hurling him face first into the prison's rough stone wall.

  His boots scuffed wet grit atop the pavement. He growled, grunted, and then stilled, panting beneath a point of Spencer's elbow in his back.

  “What is in your coat, Paton?” demanded Spencer.

  “Go to hell!”

  Ethan clucked his tongue, leaning left then right around Chas, shoving an arm between his torso and the wall.

  Ethan held hands aloft to display his prizes, and Spencer let Chas go with a whistle. “I can fathom a man carrying one, but what reason could you possibly have for a pair of dogs, Paton?”

  Chas snatched at the pistols, but Ethan raised them higher, stepping back and slipping them inside his own coat. From behind them the minister's warbling voice raised above the crowd, reaching the middle of the Lord's Prayer. Chas covered his face and sobbed. “I can make this up to Alix. Paulina is my doing. A man has an obligation to make things right.”

  “A man does not present himself at the Old Bailey with a brace of pistols as though it's a Newcastle mining camp.” This from Ethan, who crossed his arms, bearing all the emotion of marble.

  “And the second pistol, Chas. What was the purpose?” asked Spencer, though he already knew.

  “I failed!” He leaned in, beating fists against his chest. Spencer winced as Chas's rum and garlic breath fanned his face. “I couldn't protect the business, or my sister,” he cried. “Not even myself!”

  Now he was crying in earnest, a braying miserable sound waving in and out in time with his drunken swaying. Ethan tipped him a nod, and Spencer hung his arm around Chas's neck. “You will thank me for this, eventually.”

  He held Chas fast in the vice of his elbow, pressing at two throbbing points on his neck until eyes rolled back and he fell limp to the gutter. Leaning down, he rested fingers at Chas's throat and, feeling the steady beat, nodded. Together they hefted him up against a wall, out of the foot traffic. “There. We’ve spared him further embarrassment.” He leaned back, sizing up Chas’s unconscious heap. “Or, at least the awareness of it.”

  Spencer glanced behind them. “And we’ve spared him the memory of what’s to come.”

  The hangman had draped all three of his prizes with their ropes. Adams and the other convict were anonymous twins now, heads buried inside fraying and dirty linen hoods. The hangman had stopped before Paulina, the minister taking the same position behind her. There was an exchange between the three, Paulina's lips repeating the same desperate phrase, eyes wide and searching the crowd beyond her executioner. Spencer could not hear her voice over the din, but he could read her lips plainly: I was obedient.

  And there it was, three words to form the root of all the evil she had committed. There was no penitence or contrition, but blind obedience to her father. It had spurred her on and salved her conscience all at once, until now when it found her abandoned.

  Producing a hood for his last victim, the thick fingered executioner struggled with Paulina's hair, trying to pull it down, then reaching for her cap. That unleashed a sharp tirade at the indignity, Paulina bobbing and ducking until Spencer was certain she'd put herself through the floor early.

  The minister fished out his own handkerchief, which ignited a new struggle as the two men attempted to cinch it around her head. Paulina's entire face flushed while she hurled profanity at their efforts. Finally, the hangman untied the sweaty, dirt streaked kerchief from around his tree-trunk neck. The bickering began in earnest, Paulina struggling to pull her face away from the hangman in front and the minister's entreaties behind, all at once. The last of her dignity shredded, and Spencer felt some divine retribution in the moment.

  Behind them, the crowd rose in pitch and seethed, unhappy with the delay. If they didn’t get this settled and proceed, more than the three up on the platform would need to be buried.

  Ethan shifted foot to foot, watching Paulina’s struggle, grim-faced. “Thank the lord we spared him.”

  Spencer nodded his silent agreement, feeling more sympathy for Chas than he’d thought possible.

  Perhaps faced with inevitability, Paulina stopped struggling so that the stained rag could be tied over her face. The minister stepped back and raised his hands across the three, his small voice reaching just to the crowd’s edge. “May God have mercy on thy souls.”

  Absolute silence fell over all assembled, and it was still enough that Spencer thought he caught a ship's bell out on the Thames.

  The hangman grunted out his count: One, two, three.

  Thump. The trap door slamming open was an offhand remark; a dull, short sound making plain that it had done the same a thousand times without scruple.

  Both men’s necks snapped, and both went limp. Paulina, being lighter, was not so lucky. Her shoulders rowed and her feet pumped staccato, a drowning woman struggling for air that wouldn’t come. Spencer’s stomach clenched; after all that Paulina done, he wanted justice but not suffering. He refused to close his eyes; he would see it through. After what felt like an eternity, Paulina spasmed and finally stilled and twisted limp in her noose.

  He had watched until it was finished and marked the moment when Paulina had paid her debt. He lowered his head, eyes closed, and exhaled.

  A roar swelled over him, the crowd undulating forward as one giant body, pressing them toward the scaffold. Men and women rushed the steps ahead of laggard sentries, and surgeon’s assistants eager for their next autopsy, next experiment. They could claim bodies ahead of the family, ahead of the mob, and that caused trouble.

  Spencer knew what would happen now; he'd seen plenty of the same violence in France. The crowd expected more than the show they’d received so far. The atrocities that would follow were grotesque: shorn hair and even limbs passed around as amusements, souvenirs. It reduced the living to not much better than the executed, in his opinion.

  Spencer drew his pistol, Ethan following suit with Chas's pair. One he aimed overhead, and they each trained a muzzle on the crowd while the constable's men cried for order.

  A few daring hands slapped at his barrel, and cries of 'traitor' rose up here and there. He was disgusted by the outburst, and his pistol was aimed for self-preservation. He had no interest being crushed by hoodlums in their rush to defile a dead murderess.

  With both pistols ahead now, Ethan opened a path through the crowd. Spencer grabbed a fistful of Chas's coat as they passed, dragging him along the scaffold until they reached the Bailey Gate.

  Magistrate Arindale, peering between the iron bars, shooed them in quickly. His eyes darted from Ethan to a limp Chas, looking urgent.<
br />
  A wide hand pressed Spencer’s shoulder in the dark passage, Arindale jostling him with a pat. “Well lad, it's done.”

  Spencer only nodded, no words left for this day.

  It was done.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Broadmoore - - October 5th, 1814

  Alix gained the yard at the foot of the pond just in time. The sun was brilliant overhead, but fall was fall and a sudden breeze worked itself inside the plush lining of her amber velvet pelisse. She would be just the right amount of frozen by the time she reached the gate.

  Broadmoore was a burden on John, but it was magnificent, framed by the rust and crimson leaves clinging to its ancient oaks. She had come to appreciate that on her daily walks. Laurel had cautioned her against the exertion, but Doctor Ashby was in Scotland, too far away to agree with her friend, and Alix couldn’t bear to sit inside every day. She had been surprised to discover that her time outside was the only time she felt well. Just over a week of long walks, light meals, and Bennet’s company had left her renewed.

  Turning up the drive, she noticed a sturdy black carriage in front of the house. At first, she mistook it for John's, and felt exhausted on his behalf that he was called away so often. She was nearly at the top of the pond now, and she squinted, realizing her mistake. The embossed arms on its door were all wrong; a rampant argent lion stood silver against a black and white shield. The carriage’s wheels were narrower, finely crafted and more expensive than what John and Laurel could afford.

  Her heart stopped, skipped, and Alix began to run. Through the gate and across the drive, nearly spilling herself on the steps. She sped into the hall and halfway up the steps before she reined herself in, panting and struggling with where she should look first.

  “Alexandra.”

  Alix froze, closed her eyes and enjoyed the small thrill which ran up her back at his voice. She turned slowly and made herself wait until she ached, before laying eyes on.

  He stood inside the front door, looking up at her unblinking.

  Spencer had changed along with the season. His bronze skin had faded to a bare olive. His chestnut hair, clipped short, barely peeked from beneath his polished beaver hat. A neat cravat, tailored great coat, heavy boots, and thick kid gloves transformed him into a polished London gentleman. Her breath caught just as it had on seeing him at Haywood, and suddenly the empty space between then and now collapsed.

  Spencer lifted his hat and bowed. Three gallant strides brought him to the foot of the stairs, and there he stopped. His face said what his words did not; he was waiting for permission, an invitation. She grasped the banister against her swimming head and started down. On the last stair, when they were nearly eye to eye, she held. His body heat drew her in; a wave of cedar and bergamot tipped her over the top, memories flooding back. For a moment Alix forced her breath to come slowly.

  Spencer peeled a glove from one stout hand. He ran bare knuckles across hers, achingly slow before fitting their fingers together. His hazel eyes met hers.

  Alix appreciated that she should not have thrown herself from the step with such force when his knees buckled. Thank goodness for his athletic grace. His lips pressed to hers with a hesitant pressure, desire held in check. Her arms around his neck elicited a groan which could have been pleasure or pain. Perhaps a bit of both; it certainly was for her.

  There was something visceral about the small border of bare neck between his hairline and collar. She pressed it with her fingers and felt a part of herself revive.

  Spencer pulled away first, a matter of a few inches which left a physical ache around her heart. Eyes closed, he was still, holding on to her with a stiff grip while the rise and fall of his chest calmed. Then he reached inside his greatcoat and produced two similar-sized letters. They were written on fine paper, she noticed as he held them out, not cheap foolscap. “My second and third most valuable possessions,” he whispered. “I put all of my time in London to good use.”

  Alix claimed them with uncertain fingers and studied a bold but illegible signature on the first. “I felt you were there a lifetime,” she murmured.

  “I hope you'll forgive me, particularly when you've read these.”

  She pried open the first, crumbling off bits of its already broken red seal. The words were long and slanted, but more legible than the exterior. Alix skimmed its three brief lines:

  'In response to your letter of October one, Field Marshal the Duke of Wellington grants leave to wed and habitate. Maj. General Lord Spencer Reed and Miss Paton may choose a day of their own convenience. Felicitations to the pair on this most happy occasion.'

  Tears pricked her eyes, and she dared only a quick glance at Spencer's anxious gaze, afraid the dam would break. The second letter was much longer, and more important if one judged it solely on the number of finely scrolled capital letters. But she didn't have to read the entire body; its heading was enough:

  'Charles, by Divine Providence the Archbishop of Canterbury...', followed by both their names halfway down the page. A special marriage license.

  “Any day we choose,” he added, taking the papers back from her trembling fingers. “If you've not changed your mind.”

  Alix grabbed his face in both hands and brought her mouth to his. It was chaste, as kisses went, between a man and woman with so much ardent history.

  That was how Laurel and John found them. Alix wasn’t sure how long they’d been like that before a feminine and masculine clearing of throats from near the drawing room door pulled them back into the moment. Alix startled, but Spencer made it clear with a hand at her nape that he would not be rushed.

  “Alix, Doctor Erroll has come in Doctor Ashby's stead. He's waiting upstairs to speak with you,” said Laurel, a suspicious pull at the corners of her mouth and eyes averted.

  Spencer's eyes snapped to hers. “Why, what is the matter?”

  Neither the doctor’s arrival nor her worry would douse this moment. “It's nothing now.” She smiled and brushed his cheek, touching him again just for the pleasure of it. “Absolutely nothing.”

  * * *

  It was something.

  Despite Alix’s assurances, he could not suppress the fear that had held his heart at the mention of the doctor. Spencer gripped his chair's smooth arm, stilling an urge to pace, shout, to shake something or someone.

  Instead, he got up, settled beside Alix on the bed, and took her cold fingers. She was still staring, shaking her head with a slow repetition as though she could shake off Doctor Erroll's words. “I still do not understand. It was a matter of weeks.”

  Erroll's thin lips pursed tighter. “Substance, not duration,” he snapped, smacking a white crock labeled 'Leeches' back into his leather valise. Spencer watched them go, convinced the breakdown in the doctor-patient relationship could be traced to Alix's refusing to allow their use. It was common practice, but he wouldn’t insist she bow to the whims of a man like Erroll.

  “You were administered all manner of substances. They react with food, with drink. Miasmas encourage their potency.” He snapped his bag shut, signaling an end to the discussion. “Miss Paton, you are a mature woman. It is likely this malignancy has been increasing for years. This alleged poisoning only helped matters along.”

  'Alleged' brought Spencer from the bed in one motion. He took Erroll's bony arm in one hand, throwing open the door with his other. Out went the man, out went the bag, and Spencer slammed the door behind him, drowning out his irate sputtering.

  Alix had turned on her side and was buried now beneath her quilts. For a moment he watched her, clenching his fists, entirely helpless. Then he lay down and pulled her against him, nuzzling into the sweet smell of her hair. He pressed a hand over her belly. “He doesn't know that it's cancer, Alexandra. He doesn't know his arse from a boot-jack.”

  “What do we do?” she cried softly. “We don't know either. That's the hardest part.”

  “I'll get a second opinion. Ashby or someone else. A third, if it comes to it.” He
squeezed her tighter. “A doctor who can do his damned job.”

  * * *

  A rumble of carriage wheels on the drive brought Spencer to the hall, where he paced until the Hastings' ancient twig of a butler appeared and opened the door.

  Bennet's account had influenced him, but Spencer acknowledged it had not been a detailed one. They had mostly barked and stomped over her experience, her skill, her sex. Not how young she was. How dangerously comely for a woman entrenched with eight hundred red-blooded, malefactor, foul-mouthed Englishmen.

  The moment that thought had passed, Spencer knew what had saved her.

  Everything about Kate Foster's appearance was sensible. She wore a plain, blue wool coat over a blue and white calico dress and smart white apron. There were no capelets or embroidery, no bare arms or teasing neckline. Even the brown grosgrain ribbon on her chipped straw bonnet shrugged off any attention, plainly announcing it was only there out of necessity. She was sensible, save for rebellious chestnut curls sweeping her cheeks and a perpetual lift to the left side of her mouth hinting at mischief.

  Spencer got the impression there was a good deal more than 'sensible' humming beneath the surface when he took her hand and shook it. She didn't curtsy and didn't duck her eyes from his. Skeptical as he was of her abilities, he already admired her frankness.

  “Lord Reed.” Her voice was rich, American, with a long New York drawl to her words that reminded him of Alix.

  “Miss Foster. A pleasure.” He was about to offer tea, bring her to Laurel and make the usual trying few minutes of small talk.

  Kate swept a hand at the staircase, taking command. “Let's go up.”