He made himself useful by cleaning guns and helping saw planks to reinforce the floor of the carriage that would carry the gold. All the while, he watched as the coin was carried into the town house through the servants’ entrance. It had been arriving steadily from Montaigne’s various banks, in trunks of every description, cleverly disguised as deliveries from various shops. He counted ten, exactly as Elizabeth had said.
When the trunks had all arrived, the coach was brought in, the planks laid in place, and the gold loaded. Marcus suffered a moment of uneasiness when three servants were posted on guard. When he casually asked, one explained that the men would be taking turns guarding the coach until morning.
Damnation. He hadn’t thought Montaigne would find it necessary to post three guards in his own yard. Marcus went back to his tasks with a sinking feeling, but the foul weather played into his hand and solved what could have been a sticky setback. At eleven, he volunteered to take a turn at the watch, and one of the rain-soaked young footmen on duty was only too glad to go inside.
His confidence was fully restored at midnight, when the Fulbright & Weeks wagon arrived, exactly on schedule.
“What’s this, then?” one of the two men on guard with him asked, rising with a groan. “Another damned heavy delivery?”
The driver jumped to the ground. “From Fulbright an’ Weeks. Mr. Montaigne specially asked that it be brought ’round at midnight t’night.”
The guards helped untie the tarpaulin covering the bed of the wagon and lifted it, sluicing rain over the sides. Beneath it, Marcus could see ten sturdy-looking trunks of various descriptions, each padlocked, exactly as he had requested.
He met the driver’s gaze and nodded imperceptibly in approval.
From beneath her borrowed tricorne, Nell acknowledged him with a flicker of a smile. She wore a greatcoat up close about her face, keeping herself both dry and concealed at the same time. When Marcus had asked that the lead shot be delivered to his home in trunks, the discreet Mr. Weeks hadn’t blinked—nor had he so much as raised an eyebrow at renting the sturdy wagon for a few hours.
“Ten more of ’em,” the servant said with another groan. “Me arms are already achin’.”
“These must be the decoys,” Marcus said confidently. “We can put them right in the coach. No need to carry them inside.”
“Decoys?” the second guard looked at him in puzzlement.
“Yes,” Marcus confirmed. “The ones Mr. Montaigne will carry to the Fair tomorrow.”
“You mean these aren’t more…” The first man stopped himself suddenly, looking warily at the driver.
Marcus turned to Nell. “Pardon me, friend, but might my mates and I have a bit of privacy for a moment?”
“Long as yer quick about it,” she grumbled in a deep voice. “I’m goin’ to catch me death in this here rain.”
Shoulders hunched, she walked away a few yards and kept her back to them.
The first guard turned to Marcus with a look of surprise. “You mean these aren’t more gold?” he hissed.
Marcus looked at him as if he thought him addlepated. “Do you actually think Mr. Montaigne is stupid enough to carry the gold in that coach tomorrow, with that highwayman fellow about—what’s his name?”
“Blackerby Swift,” the second man supplied, crossing himself.
“Right. Swift. Well, to fool him, Mr. Montaigne’s loading that coach”—he pointed to the one they’d been guarding—“with decoys.”
The second man was catching on. “So even if Swift does rob it tomorrow, he won’t get anythin’ but these here!”
“Exactly.”
The first man wasn’t so easily convinced. “Then why the devil did we have to load it up and guard the bloody thing all night’?”
“What’s the point of having a decoy if you don’t make it look like the real thing?” Marcus pointed out. “Not everyone knows about this. I was supposed to take care of it personally, and I’ll probably catch hell for telling you about it, but you look like trustworthy fellows.”
The skeptical one called the driver back over. When Nell had rejoined them, he regarded her through narrowed eyes. “You sure you ain’t from one o’ them banks? And these trunks ain’t full of… the same stuff as the rest of them deliveries what came today?”
“I don’t know about any banks,” she replied irritably, an effective note of fatigue in her voice. “I told ye, I’m from Fulbright an’ Weeks.” She slapped the side of the wagon, where the name was emblazoned in colorful lettering. “I’m bloody cold and soaked through, and these here trunks are full of lead shot.”
The guard still didn’t look convinced.
Marcus addressed Nell. “Open one up and show him, would you?”
“Look, mates,” she said, reaching into her pocket and handing Marcus the key. “All I know is I’m supposed to deliver these here at midnight, and pick up some others, and take ’em with me. Can ye get ’em unloaded?”
Marcus leaned into the wagon and opened the closest trunk, revealing that it was indeed full of lead shot.
The skeptical guard still wasn’t convinced. He frowned at the driver. “What are ye supposed to pick up?”
His friend nudged him in the ribs. “Don’t ye get it, Harry? Cor, yer slow. The real stuff must be going to the fairgrounds tonight.”
Marcus nodded in response to the guard’s look of surprise.
“I don’t know,” Harry said, shaking his head vigorously. “I think we maybe better ask Mr. Montaigne about this.”
“Fine,” Marcus agreed, already turning toward the town house. “I’ll go get him out of bed and tell him one of his servants thinks his plan is foolish. I’m sure he won’t mind if you question him about it. Your name’s Harry, right?”
“No, wait,” the man called after him. Looking uncertain, he rounded on the driver. “Is that what yer supposed to do? Take the real stuff to the fairgrounds?”
“Look, mate.” Nell yawned. “When me boss tells me to deliver somethin’ and says he’ll pay me extra for comin’ at this time of night, I don’t ask questions. I do what he tells me. And what he told me was, deliver these at midnight, pick up whatever they give me, and deliver that wherever they tell me to take it.”
“Well…” Harry grumbled, “a’right then.” He turned and punched Marcus on the shoulder, none too gently. “But you better be right about all this, mate. Because as soon as Mr. Montaigne gets up in the mornin’, I’m goin’ to go see him. And if he wants to know who said this was a’right, I’m going to send him lookin’ for you.”
Marcus managed to quell an urge to return the man’s blow. It wouldn’t do to create a noisy scene this close to the house and the rest of Montaigne’s guards. He realized, however, that he couldn’t take the chance that these two might talk to anyone in the morning.
He responded to the threat with a smile and a slight shrug. “Do that. I’ll go and see him with you.”
His confident attitude seemed to placate Harry, who finally gave in. “A’right, Richard, give me a hand here,” he muttered.
The three of them started lifting the trunks out of the wagon and depositing them in the yard. In a matter of minutes, they transferred the gold from Montaigne’s coach to the Fulbright & Weeks wagon, and put the lead shot in the coach. Marcus tossed the key in after it.
When they were done, Marcus handed Nell a slip of paper. “Do you read, friend?”
“I might not be no Oxford don, but me mum taught me t’ read.”
“Excellent.” Marcus spoke loudly enough for his fellows to hear over the rain. “Here are the directions to the fairgrounds. Do this well and there will be a generous sum sent to you and your employer, from Mr. Montaigne himself.”
He couldn’t help but smile at that last part, because it was true, in a way.
Nell bent her head to study the paper and muttered under her breath. “Long as Bess is safe and we get our half for the Trust, guv. That’s all I care ’bout.” She lowered her voice even furth
er. “I have to get this wagon back quick. Georgi’s got the poor driver sippin’ tea in yer parlor.”
Marcus handed over a generous tip. “There you go, my good man,” he said loudly, then slapped her on the back and added in a quick whisper. “Pull around the corner and wait a bit. I’ve two more packages for you to deliver.”
Nodding as if she understood the delivery directions, Nell pocketed the paper and the tip. She grumbled a few loud comments about finding an easier way to make a living and bid a terse goodnight to the guards before lifting herself back into her seat. Snapping the reins, she clucked to the team. The wagon pulled away, disappearing into the alley.
Marcus felt a rush of satisfaction as he watched it go. The difficult part was over.
Tomorrow, all he had to do was savor his vengeance.
He turned toward his companions with a smile. There was rope in the wagon. Pieces of the tarpaulin would do for blindfolds. He knew of a discreet little establishment down by the Thames where he could store a pair of inconvenient guards for a day or so with no questions asked.
When they were set free in a couple of days, they would be a bit worse for wear… but much wiser about trusting their fellow man.
He stepped between them and clapped each on the back. “Say, fellows, when our turn on watch is over,” he said affably, “what say we three go warm up with a bottle of rum?”
Chapter 24
After so many dismal days of rain, the morning of St. Bartholomew’s Fair dawned clear and unseasonably cool. In the hours before dawn, the town house in Cavendish Square was a mad rush of activity.
Montaigne, who had yet to put in an appearance, had ordered all his men, footmen and guards alike, to dress in his servants’ livery, so that anyone daring to attack his coach wouldn’t be able to tell from what quarter danger might come. Wearing the burgundy and gray coat and breeches fit nicely into Marcus’s plan, since it helped him avoid attracting attention.
He was also grateful for the flurry of activity, because no one had time to worry about the fact that Harry and Richard were missing. One or two servants wondered aloud why the two were shirking their duties. Marcus mentioned that they had gone off to warm up with a bottle of rum after guard duty last night, were likely sleeping it off somewhere, and would no doubt turn up later. The explanation seemed to mollify the few who asked.
Marcus felt confident that nothing would mar this day. An almost eerie calm had descended on him. The gold was safely stored at his town house—but not for a second had he considered slipping quietly away with the trunks last night. This was the moment he had waited for, hungered for, and he meant to savor every blessed minute.
Only one thing disturbed Marcus’s sangfroid: the sudden appearance of Monsieur Rochambeau. Marcus felt a jolt of shock as the Frenchman strode up to the carriage just as the horses were being harnessed. He had suspected the man to be a thief-taker, but hadn’t realized he worked for Montaigne.
Thank God, he thought with a profound sense of relief, that Elizabeth was safe at the cottage. Both Montaigne and his thief-taker would go empty-handed this day.
Still, he felt a distinct uneasiness as he watched Rochambeau checking over the carriage, the horses, the harness, the wheels. Obviously, there was concern that the coach would be waylaid by sabotage. Without regard for his expensive coat, the Frenchman even got down on his back to examine the brakes and axles.
When he opened the door to look inside, Marcus tensed in alarm.
Rochambeau only gave the trunks and the interior a cursory glance before turning away from the carriage, apparently satisfied that the vehicle was sound.
Marcus relaxed slowly. The Frenchman never thought to inspect the gold itself.
Before returning to the town house, Rochambeau asked that a mount be saddled so he could accompany them on the road. Marcus made a mental note to keep his distance. He trusted his disguise but didn’t want to answer any awkward questions.
It was seven before Montaigne himself came out. The men were saddling their mounts when Marcus caught the first glimpse of his nemesis. He wasn’t prepared for the searing rush of hatred that seized him.
As he stared at the pale, nervous old man, he didn’t feel pity or mercy. He felt murderous. His hand drifted to the pistol on his horse’s saddle—his father’s pistol. The grip was cold and solid and his fingers closed around it.
Suddenly he was fifteen again, sobbing over Thomas Worthington’s crumpled body… listening to his mother’s heart-breaking tears as they were escorted down the steps of Worthington Manor for the last time.
A score of rapid-fire heartbeats went by before he could force himself to let the pistol go.
For his mother, his father, for the future of his family, he had to take back all that had been stolen. Killing Montaigne outright would be too easy, too quick.
He watched his enemy’s every move. Montaigne’s face was pinched with worry as he snapped orders at his servants and pulled his driver aside to discuss their route in hushed tones. The expensive clothes and powder and rouge couldn’t hide the strain he was under. The past few days had obviously taken a toll on him. Good.
Before the day was out, Charles Montaigne would get his first taste of the ruin and suffering he had meted out to the Worthington family and so many others. His first taste of the horror and pain he had inflicted on Elizabeth.
More than a taste, Marcus thought with pleasure. A mouthful. A bellyful. Choke on it, you son of a bitch.
Someone handed Marcus a blunderbuss, and he mounted his horse. Four men, bristling with weapons, climbed into the coach. They maneuvered into the alley and then the street beyond. The servants and guards arranged themselves three deep on all sides. Montaigne, riding a fine bay, rode out ahead of the carriage while Rochambeau brought up the rear.
A coach was at its most vulnerable when it was moving slowly, so they set off at a gallop and sped straight through the London streets, avoiding the more roundabout routes that would have required going over bridges or twisting stretches of road. The thunder of hoofbeats drowned out all sound.
At the pace Montaigne set, they reached the fairgrounds in little more than half an hour. The clear weather had drawn even more Londoners than usual out of their homes to enjoy the festivities. St. Bartholomew’s attracted people from all classes, from common folk to gentry. Today it seemed anyone who had something to buy or sell had swarmed into the open fields just outside the west wall of the city.
The carriage slowed only slightly as it moved through the press of people. Its speed and the cadre of armed men cleared a wide path. They passed lines of booths exhibiting household goods, Irish lace, walking sticks, shoes, secondhand clothes. The noise was incredible: shrill fiddling, drums and bagpipes, the booming voices of actors in a costume drama, vendors arguing over a prime spot.
Loudest of all were the hawkers shouting the prices and merits of their strange and curious exhibits: threepence to see a pig which could do arithmetic, two for a puppet show, six to have one’s fortune told, a full shilling for a peek at a man purported to be only two feet tall.
Smells of every kind of food spiced the air—roast chicken, rabbit pies, sugared wine, gingerbread. Marcus took it all in, wanting to memorize every second of this day.
Montaigne’s guards, however, didn’t pause even to glance at any of the enticements. None relaxed so much as a muscle until they reached the area where the gin distillers had their booths.
Even then, as the coach pulled to a stop, they kept glancing around, as if they expected Blackerby Swift to leap at them from out of thin air. The vendors pressed forward, all eager to get their hands on the gold they had been promised.
Montaigne, looking infinitely relieved and pleased with himself, dismounted from his horse and stepped forward to open the door of his coach personally. Two of his footmen lifted one of the trunks out and set it on the ground.
The guards erupted in cheers and victory yells, clapping one another on the back, shooting their pistols in the
air. One would think they were a conquering army just returned home, grateful to have snatched life from the very jaws of death.
Marcus joined in the celebration, shouting right along with the rest, though for a completely different reason. None of the guards realized they had never been in danger for a moment.
Blackerby Swift was miles away, sitting on her shapely derriere and twiddling her thumbs. And probably cursing vividly at this very moment.
~ ~ ~
“Hellfire and damnation,” Elizabeth muttered under her breath, panting as she reined her horse to a stop just beyond the gin booths.
She took in the scene with a single glance: Montaigne’s jubilant guards, the crowd gathered around, and the coffer of gold that had just been taken from the coach.
She was too late! Marcus had obviously failed, since Montaigne was still in possession of the gold. Her heart sank. The men’s clothes she was wearing, the mask in her hand, the pistol in her belt were all useless.
If only she had been able to escape while it was daylight yesterday! In the darkness, it had taken her hours to stumble her way to a nearby farm. The occupants were eager to trade for the jewels, giving her clothes and a decent pistol—but the horse they’d given her wouldn’t have won a race even in its younger days. And the roads to London were in a terrible state after so much rain.
She had ridden straight to the fairgrounds, hoping to help Marcus capture the coach as it slowed to enter the crowds, but her efforts were all for naught.
The transaction was about to take place—and Montaigne would be wealthier and more powerful than ever. He would poison more people with his gin. And send more innocents to prison when they couldn’t pay their debts to him.
Defeat tasted bitter on her tongue. She watched the scene unfold before her as if through a fog. The men were unloading the rest of the trunks now… eight, nine, ten. They were all there. Montaigne had enough gold to buy a full year’s supply of gin.
The vendors started a chorus of “Open them! Open them!”
Midnight Raider Page 28
