Midnight Raider

by Thacker, Shelly

  Elizabeth turned her horse, unable to watch any more. Her shoulders slumped, she let the animal walk wherever it would. She had failed—and because she had failed, the women and children who could have been helped by that money would suffer. She closed her eyes, fighting tears. Oh Lawks, if only Marcus hadn’t insisted on trying to take the coach alone…

  Her head came up suddenly and her heart missed a beat. Where was Marcus? An image flashed through her mind of him lying dead by the road, killed by a bullet from one of Montaigne’s fancy-dressed hirelings.

  The thought sent ice through her veins. She urged her mount forward, trying to push her way through the milling fairgoers. Her mind was so filled with worry about Marcus, she didn’t notice a man accosting her until he grabbed her horse’s reins.

  Elizabeth whirled in the saddle, trying to wrest free. The oath on her lips died as she recognized him.

  It was terrifyingly clear that he recognized her as well, as he flashed a victorious grin.

  “Bonjour, madame. Or should I say, bonjour, Monsieur Swift?” His hand shifted from the reins to her wrist. “No matter, non? For you are under arrest.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The gin vendors’ mood turned ugly very quickly.

  As soon as the first trunk was opened, the noisy crowd fell silent, then began muttering among themselves.

  Marcus, standing at the front of the crowd to enjoy the best possible view, thought this better than any of the other entertainments offered at the Fair.

  They ought to charge admission.

  Montaigne’s opening line alone would be worth the price.

  “What… w-what… what is this?” Montaigne stuttered, staring at the black contents of the box. He turned toward the man who had opened the lid. “What in the name of Lucifer is this?”

  The servant blinked at his master and answered honestly. “It looks like lead shot, sir.”

  “I know what the blasted stuff is!” Montaigne shoved the man aside. “What is it doing in my coach?”

  “There must have been some kind of mistake,” one of his other footmen said, pointing to another trunk. “Open that one.”

  A second trunk was opened.

  Then a third. And a fourth.

  As each lid fell back to reveal lead shot in place of shiny gold, Montaigne’s eye’s grew wider, his face redder, his voice higher.

  Finally the tenth one was unlocked, and Marcus truly wondered whether Montaigne’s head might not spin right off his shoulders. His screech was music to Marcus’s ears.

  “Where… is… my… gold?”

  The gin vendors, who had been silent up to now, started grumbling among themselves.

  “You mean our gold, don’t you?” one of them called out.

  Montaigne turned toward them, the florid color slowly draining from his face. The magnitude of his predicament was just now dawning. “There’s been a mistake.”

  “Certainly looks that way,” one vendor growled.

  “What were you planning?” A rough-looking sort accused. “For us to get all the way home before we found out we’d been duped?”

  “I’ve always been an honest business man,” Montaigne claimed indignantly.

  “Until now!”

  “We spent weeks making this gin for you and getting it here,” the first vendor complained. “We want to get paid.”

  “All of us got signed contracts.” Another man held up a document. “All fancy like, drawn up by your solicitor. Where’s our money?”

  Montaigne darted panicked looks from one of them to another. “I’ll give you my personal guarantee—”

  “You promised cash. I’m not handing it over for no promises!”

  “Y-you could sell it elsewhere.” Montaigne removed his hat to wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead. “We’ll merely postpone our business—”

  The rest of his proposal was drowned out by groans and angry shouts.

  “We can’t put so much gin on the market at once! The price will drop to near nothing!”

  Montaigne looked from the lead-filled boxes to the angry circle of men. “I have other assets,” he said quickly. “Land, houses—”

  “My wife and children can’t eat your land!”

  “All I’m asking is patience,” Montaigne begged. “Just give me two weeks. What difference could that possibly make to you? Two weeks—”

  “I say we go to the magistrate and let him fix it,” one man suggested.

  Now Montaigne started to panic. “You can’t be serious! I’m Charles Montaigne!”

  One of the vendors shook his fist. “There’s plenty of rich blokes like you what get in over their heads and try to cheat their way out. Maybe we best make an example of one.”

  This was met with shouts of “Hear, hear!” The crowd started to close in. Montaigne’s well-armed servants and guards surged forward to protect their employer. A couple of the gin sellers drew weapons of their own.

  This was about to turn into a riot. Marcus drew his own gun and fired it into the air.

  The roar of the shot brought the two sides to a halt.

  “Listen, lads!” he addressed the guards and servants. “Think a bit before you get yourselves killed saving him.” He jerked a thumb in Montaigne’s direction. “Where’s the triple pay we were promised?”

  The financial truth dawned on each man’s face and they stood there, dumbfounded. More than one lowered his weapon. Montaigne went into a full panic.

  “No!” he cried. “No! Help me! I’ll pay you all. You have my word—”

  “Allow me to help you, sir,” Marcus offered, relishing the moment as he walked over to stand in front of Montaigne, then held out his empty pistol. “It’s more than ten years old, but maybe you could find some way to earn a living with it. I did.”

  Montaigne looked from the pistol to Marcus’s face with an expression of utter confusion.

  Then Marcus slowly ran a thumb over the scar that marred the right side of his jaw.

  Montaigne’s mouth opened in a look of shock. “You.”

  “I don’t believe I have much cash,” Marcus said silkily, reaching into his pocket. “But you’ve always been so generous to others when they’ve been in need of help. Let me see what I can offer…” He withdrew a handful of coins. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Seven shillings.”

  He counted them out, one by one, and contemptuously let them fall in the dirt at Montaigne’s feet.

  “All debts are paid now,” Marcus said in a low, tight voice. His gaze still locked with Montaigne’s, he stepped back into the crowd.

  The bastard looked ready to faint, but he never got the chance—because the distillers swarmed over him and grabbed him by the arms.

  “Fleet’s the place for them what can’t pay their debts, rich or poor!” one of them said above the noise.

  “No!” Montaigne shrieked as they started to carry him away. “Not the Fleet! Not that rabble! I sent some of them there!”

  It was the last thing Marcus heard from him before the crowd hustled him off to the magistrate. In a few days—after Montaigne had had the tar beaten out of him by his fellow inmates—Marcus would pay him a visit, with a reporter from the Times, and make him reveal the truth about how he had deceived and ruined Thomas Worthington.

  Today he had taken the first step to restoring his family’s honor.

  The servants and guards milled around, obviously uncertain what to do. One kicked at a nearby trunk, swearing.

  Marcus turned and walked away. He tossed his hat in the mud as he elbowed his way through the crowd that had gathered. He cast off the burgundy coat and gray waistcoat as well.

  He took a deep breath, feeling as if iron bands had just been unfastened from his chest. Montaigne’s business was in ruins. Before long, his lands and assets would be put up for sale—among them, the Worthington estates.

  And Marcus would be there, the highest bidder, using Montaigne’s own gold.

  A smile curved his mouth as he walked. He couldn
’t wait to share the news with Elizabeth. They had won. Not only won, but triumphed. The sun felt extraordinarily good on his shoulders. He would go home and collect the gold at once, then ride to the cottage.

  He imagined the look on her face when he dropped the gold at her feet, sacks and sacks of it for her charity. He could just picture her smile, her beautiful eyes shining with love as she melted into his embrace…

  A flash of light on his left drew Marcus out of his daydream. A jeweler’s booth sported an array of bright gems, some hanging from its awning so that they spun and glittered in the sunlight. Marcus walked over and surveyed the man’s wares.

  “Best quality at the Fair,” the merchant boomed. “You’ll not find better, sir.” Taking in Marcus’s lack of clothes with a shrewd eye, he added, “Or more reasonably priced.”

  A grin quirked at the corner of Marcus’s mouth. He looked over the collection of pins, bracelets, and other baubles, not seriously interested—until one piece caught his eye.

  It was a slim gold band, decorated with exquisitely engraved scrollwork. It was strong yet delicate, complex, uniquely beautiful, just like…

  Marcus’s heart was suddenly pounding hard in his chest. In that moment, he revised his daydream. He wouldn’t greet her by showering her with sacks full of gold.

  He would simply offer her this one circle of burnished beauty.

  A ring like this meant promises and trust and sharing, not just for one day or a few weeks but forever. For a lifetime. He imagined her accepting it, with that same look of love on her face… accepting a future with him, as Lady Darkridge. The image dazzled him.

  “How much?” he asked hoarsely, picking it up.

  “You’ve fine taste, sir. That’s one of my best.” The jeweler scratched his gray-stubbled chin and pursed his lips. “Forty pounds.”

  Marcus didn’t haggle. He paid full price.

  Feeling ridiculously pleased with himself, he had just thanked the man and pocketed the ring, when he noticed that the crowd behind him seemed to be growing louder. Turning, he saw they were all moving in the same direction. More than that, many were running. Some were shouting.

  What the devil? Was there a fire?

  He moved into the flow of people and stopped a boy who was darting through the throng. “What is it lad? Where’s everyone going?”

  “Haven’t ye heard, mister?” he asked breathlessly, his face aglow with excitement. “They’ve captured Blackerby Swift, they have! And it’s a woman!”

  The boy ran off but Marcus remained rooted where he was. Heart, breath, feeling, thought all stopped.

  The mob of people parted around him and moved past.

  Then suddenly he was running with them as fast as he could.

  Chapter 25

  Newgate.

  The name alone was enough to strike dread into even the boldest criminals. They called it “a tomb for the living,” this dark, hulking fortress that had been Elizabeth’s home since yesterday.

  The magistrate had ordered her placed in one of the most secure cells, deep within the prison, with a stone floor and thick walls, and a heavy wooden door. He’d also ordered the turnkeys to fasten metal cuffs around her ankles and chain her to an iron ring in the middle of the floor.

  There would be no escape, no rescue.

  She’d spent that first night huddled in the darkness alone, trying not to give in to tears. Everything that she and Nell and Georgiana and Marcus had risked so much to accomplish had been for nothing: Montaigne was still happily counting his riches, she was back in gaol, and Marcus… .

  The worst, most heartrending part of it was that she didn’t know what had become of Marcus. The thought of him lying wounded or dead somewhere left her desolate.

  In the morning, the gaoler opened her cell and allowed a stream of curious Londoners to have a look at the lady highwayman, for threepence a head.

  Then an artist came in and sat beside her to sketch an ink portrait, cheerfully informing her that he would make a tidy sum selling broadsheets at her execution.

  After the last of the visitors departed, the gaoler returned. “Good afternoon to ye, me lady,” he taunted.

  Opening her door, he stepped inside, carrying a small wooden bench and a lantern. Elizabeth squinted in the sudden brightness. He placed the items against the wall and went out. A moment later, the magistrate came in. The door swung shut behind him.

  “I am here to take the required deposition,” the man informed her, smoothing a hand over his white wig as he sat on the bench. He placed an inkwell beside him, then took a roll of parchment and a feathered quill from pockets in his frock coat.

  He unrolled the paper and dipped the pen. “Name?” he demanded.

  Elizabeth looked at him silently, taking shallow gulps of the fetid air. She wasn’t going to make this easy for them. They might have her in a corner, but she wouldn’t surrender life so long as there was breath in her body.

  If she had any hope at all, it lay in dragging out the legal proceedings as long as possible.

  “Listen to me, missy.” The magistrate leaned forward, shaking the feathered end of his pen at her. “You don’t want to make this difficult for yourself. You’ll regret it, I promise you that.”

  Elizabeth trembled but remained stubbornly silent.

  Frowning, the magistrate tapped a finger on the parchment. “The indictment must list the name of the accused. If you refuse to answer my questions, I shall fetch the turnkeys and they’ll take you for a visit to the press-yard. A few minutes under the weights should get it out of you quick enough.”

  Elizabeth flinched at his threat. She looked down at the chains they had bound her with. Futility and defeat flooded her. It was over. Torture would make mincemeat of her defiance. How could she possibly fight them?

  “Elizabeth,” she said at last, still looking at the floor. “Elizabeth Thornhill.”

  “Miss or Mrs.?” the magistrate asked briskly, scribbling.

  Elizabeth took a deep breath. “I am a widow.”

  “Mrs., then,” he muttered to himself. “Residence?”

  Elizabeth felt a twinge of alarm. She prayed that Georgiana and Nell had moved to a place of safety. Since neither the turnkeys nor the magistrate had mentioned them, she hoped that they hadn’t been brought in for questioning.

  In any case, she wasn’t going to supply one whit of evidence that might be used against her friends. They could be accused as accessories to her crimes—and face hanging with her. If it was the last thing she did, she had to protect them.

  “Northampton,” she said finally, her voice shaking.

  The man wrote it down, then set his pen aside and started reading the indictment in a formal tone.

  “Mrs. Elizabeth Thornhill of Northampton, you are charged with crimes of the most heinous nature. It is alleged: that on numerous occasions you did feloniously and unlawfully commit acts of highway robbery. That you most specifically attacked the coaches of one Charles Montaigne of Cavendish Square, stealing sums amounting to several hundred pounds. That you did place such funds in the London Bank under the assumed name of the London Women and Children’s Trust, which funds have been seized by His Majesty—”

  “No!” Elizabeth cried, raising her head. “They can’t do that!”

  The magistrate scowled at her. “They most certainly can, madam. Stolen goods are forfeit to the Crown.”

  Heartbroken, Elizabeth drew her legs up to her chest and pressed her forehead to her knees. It was all too much to bear. There had only been a little left in the account, but to think of the women and children who were now left with nowhere to turn…

  “To continue,” the magistrate said irritably. “… That in carrying out such robberies, you did cause injury or death to be inflicted upon several of Mr. Montaigne’s coachmen—”

  “That’s not true,” Elizabeth protested dully. “I never hurt any of them—”

  “You are not to dispute the charges at the present, madam, you are to hear them.”
Clearing his throat, he found his place again. “… And on Sunday last, at St. Bartholomew’s Fair, did steal from the aforementioned Charles Montaigne several thousand pounds in gold and cause it to be spirited away—”

  “What did you say?” Elizabeth gasped, raising her head. “What—”

  “Madam!” the magistrate snapped. “I will not be interrupted again. Now, then… St. Bartholomew’s—no, I said that already. Ah, yes… and cause it to be spirited away and replaced with lead shot. The punishment for highway robbery is death. The punishment for causing serious bodily injury to another during commission of a crime is death. The punishment for murder is death. What say you?”

  Elizabeth wasn’t listening. She was staring at the man in shock, stunned breathless at the news that Montaigne’s gold had been stolen.

  Marcus hadn’t been wounded or killed! He had succeeded! He had gotten away with every last shilling!

  That was what he had meant about “working around” the guards: he had exchanged the gold somehow. A wave of elation swept through her—only to be cut short by the realization of what it meant for her.

  Marcus had escaped with the gold.

  And she was being charged with the robbery.

  The magistrate cleared his throat impatiently. “What say you, madam?”

  “Wh-what do you mean?” Elizabeth knew she had committed enough raids to hang several times over, but if she were found guilty of such a spectacular theft, she could bid farewell to any hope of mercy. The justices would be ruthless in their punishment, to discourage anyone else from ever attempting a crime so outrageous.

  “You must enter a plea, Mrs. Thornhill. Guilty, or not guilty?”

  “I-I…” She couldn’t think of what to say. A guilty plea would be a direct ticket to Tyburn. Should she claim innocence? She would have to prove it, and how could she possibly do that? She tried to stall, to think. “I should like to know who brings these charges against me.”

  Looking aggravated, the magistrate glanced at the paper. “A Mr. Jean-Pascal Rochambeau, in the name of Mr. Montaigne.”

  “Why not Mr. Montaigne himself?”

  “He is apparently involved in a dispute with some business associates, and is currently in Fleet Prison for debt.”