Midnight Raider

by Thacker, Shelly

  Elizabeth glanced away, fighting to hide a smile. Well done, Marcus. Somehow, he had not only escaped with the gold, but landed Montaigne in Fleet. The news brought her a sense of satisfaction that calmed her. She might not find true justice, but Charles Montaigne had. She could cling to that.

  It also gave her hope.

  Bringing a prosecution against someone could be a lengthy and expensive process. With Montaigne in gaol, perhaps his French thief-taker wouldn’t be willing to go to the trouble.

  She raised her chin. “What evidence does this Mr. Rochambeau claim against me?”

  “Please, madam,” the magistrate said with heavy sarcasm. “You were taken near the site of the St. Bartholomew’s robbery, carrying a pistol and mask, and wearing these”—he looked her up and down with an expression of distaste—“these unseemly, masculine clothes. He also has witnesses to your criminal activities.”

  “Witnesses?” Elizabeth stared at him, stunned. “What witnesses?”

  The magistrate was obviously at the end of his patience. “You are charged with a felony, Mrs. Thornhill. You are not allowed to see the evidence against you before trial. I have examined these witnesses myself, and they seem most credible.” He snatched up his plume and stabbed it into the inkwell. “Now, what say you to the charges?”

  Elizabeth hesitated, wondering what witnesses the Frenchman had found to use against her. If he could prove his case—and the magistrate seemed confident that he could—it would mean a death sentence.

  She had only one hope. If the justices and jury knew the truth, knew why she had done what she had done, they might be merciful. Together with the fact that she was a woman, it might be enough to get her transported to the colonies or imprisoned rather than sent to the gallows.

  In the end, the truth was all she had left.

  “Sir, before I enter my plea,” she said slowly, “I should like the circumstances of my actions to be known. I do not wish to be sentenced on the basis of rumors and exaggerations.”

  “You are entitled to make a confession, if that is what you wish.”

  She wrapped her arms around her knees, hoping she was doing the right thing. “I should like it conveyed to the newspapers as well. Would that be possible?”

  “Certainly, madam.”

  Elizabeth hadn’t expected any argument on that point. She knew the papers would pay handsomely for the gaol confession of a famous highwayman—especially when that highwayman was a woman.

  If she were to die, at least the truth would be recorded for all to know.

  Unrolling a fresh sheet of parchment, the magistrate looked at her expectantly, pen poised.

  Elizabeth took a deep breath. “I owed seven shillings to Charles Montaigne of Cavendish Square,” she began. “I went to see him one afternoon last November…”

  For an hour, she talked, and the magistrate wrote it all down: the death of her drunken husband in a gin shop, the debts she had inherited from him, her imprisonment by Montaigne, the loss of her newborn son… and finally the way she had turned to highway robbery, not only out of vengeance, but to benefit London’s poor women and children.

  She told it all simply, without embellishment, but left out any mention of Georgiana and Nell and Marcus. She claimed to have acted entirely alone.

  When she finally fell silent, the magistrate’s expression had changed… softened. He had to clear his throat, twice, before he could speak, and even then, his voice had taken on a much gentler tone.

  “Madam, I still need your plea.”

  Elizabeth let out a slow, shaky breath, feeling as if all the weight of Newgate were pressing down on her. “I have told you, sir. I committed the robberies, I admit, but I never killed or injured any of Montaigne’s men. Nor do I know anything about the theft at the Fair.”

  He pursed his lips and studied the paper before him. “Shall I enter ‘guilty’ on the robberies, then, and ‘not guilty’ on the other charges?”

  Elizabeth swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes. I suppose that will have to do.”

  The magistrate noted the various pleas with quick sweeps of his pen, then rose to leave. “I shall convey your story to the newspapers posthaste.” He paused at the door, tucking the plume and inkwell into his frock coat. “I wish you luck, madam,” he said quietly. “I fear you shall need a great deal of it.”

  He left, taking the lantern with him. As the door closed, Elizabeth listened to the heavy key being turned in the iron lock, felt the darkness close in around her, and prayed that the truth would be enough to save her life.

  ~ ~ ~

  She didn’t have to wait months for trial like less-famous felons. The indictment against her was drawn up quickly. The grand jury had apparently decided there was ample evidence to ensure a speedy verdict. Based on the scratches she’d made on the wall each time her one meal of the day was delivered, Elizabeth judged that only three days had gone by when the turnkeys came to deliver her to the Old Bailey, the famed criminal court next to Newgate.

  They didn’t allow her to clean up or even change clothes. She was forced to face the justices in the same shirt, frock coat and breeches she had worn to the Fair. She could only imagine how bedraggled and dirty she must look. She dared hope it might inspire sympathy.

  But she knew it was much more likely that she had never looked more like a criminal.

  The gaolers shackled her hand and foot and led her through the prison’s cramped passageways. Outside, the walk to the sessions house was only a few short yards—but a huge, noisy mob of people had gathered.

  Elizabeth recoiled, terrified, until she heard what they were shouting.

  “Let her go, ye craven-hearted gullions!”

  “Mercy fer the lady what helped helpless women and children!”

  “Yer one o’ us, Bess!”

  “She saved me and me little ones from gaol, she did. Freedom fer Lady Bess!”

  “Freedom fer Lady Bess!” The crowd took it up as a chant.

  As her eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, Elizabeth could see that people were reaching toward her, some waving newspapers. By the time she and the turnkeys reached the sessions house, it was the turnkeys who were terrified.

  Walking into the Old Bailey, Elizabeth felt renewed hope. Those Londoners outside believed her worthy of mercy. Maybe the justices would feel the same.

  Her guards hauled her through the building and into the cavernous courtroom. The second they stepped inside, Elizabeth’s hope flickered and went out.

  The galleries on both sides of the chamber overflowed with expensively-dressed spectators, who gaped and pointed as she was dragged in. They gathered around every thick marble pillar and were seated in rows right up to the soaring ceiling. The size of the room and the richness of the people in it made her feel small and pitiful by comparison.

  On the right, in the jury box, twelve white-wigged, dour-looking men stared at her with expressions that varied from disapproval to outright malice.

  Across from them on the left side of the room sat Monsieur Rochambeau, looking triumphant, and a man she took to be the attorney who would present the evidence against her.

  She wasn’t allowed to have an attorney argue for her. The magistrate had explained that, since she was accused of a felony, she would have to speak on her own behalf. The turnkeys handed her over to the bailiffs, who led her into the box where the accused must stand: a long, high counter cut off from the rest of the courtroom by a low wooden wall. Her chains clanked and rattled over the hum of conversation in the room.

  On the opposite side of the court, across a distance so wide Elizabeth thought she would have to shout to be heard, the justices sat at their bench, six of them, so high above her she felt smaller still. They wore flowing scarlet robes lined in ermine, full-bottomed wigs in the old-fashioned style, and somber expressions that filled her with dread.

  It wasn’t the sympathetic people outside who would decide her fate, but these stone-faced aristocrats.

  The chatter in th
e room lowered to hushed whispers as she was left alone in the box, still wearing her shackles. The chief justice called for silence in a booming voice, then began a lengthy oration, advising all present of the virtues of authority and obedience, the fitness of the social order, and the goodness of King George.

  As he began to expound on the charges against her, Elizabeth found herself searching the faces in the galleries, looking for even a hint of mercy—and finding none. A few faces were turned her way, eyebrows lifted in curiosity, lips twisted with disdain. Some even peered at her through opera glasses.

  The rest of the powdered, rouged, and patched nobles were listening raptly to the justice, like a gathering of the faithful soaking up a speech on fire and brimstone.

  Only when Elizabeth turned to the gallery on her left did she find a trace of anything other than reproach and condemnation, in just one person.

  A man in the middle of the third row was watching her. He was dressed as a fop, complete with outlandish cosmetics and a colorful hat and wig. His expression was oddly gentle, concerned. He was—

  Marcus.

  Shock and exultation and fear all tumbled through Elizabeth at once. She turned away the next second, afraid one of the bailiffs might notice her interest.

  Oh, God, he was here! Even beneath the powder and rouge, there was no mistaking him. What did he think he was doing? Didn’t he realize how dangerous this was? Good Lord, he was sitting only a few feet above Rochambeau. If the Frenchman chanced to turn around and take a good look at the spectators, he could set the bailiffs on him in a minute.

  Marcus had just stolen several thousand pounds in gold, for heaven’s sake! He shouldn’t be in London at all! He should have taken the money and disappeared. That was the logical thing to do: slip out of the city and lie low until Montaigne’s assets were auctioned off. He certainly shouldn’t be anywhere near this sessions house.

  Despite all of that, here he was. What was he thinking?

  The justice was still droning on about her dreadful crimes. Careful to move only her eyes, Elizabeth glanced up at Marcus, and knew the answer.

  She very nearly did cry then. Her knees started to tremble. She saw the truth in his eyes, as clear and warming as the sun after a rainstorm.

  Love had brought him here. Love kept him by her side. Despite the risks to his freedom, his future, his life, he had come here to be with her when she needed him most.

  Elizabeth was so filled with regret and anguish, she had to close her eyes. There would be no second chance for them. Any future together was impossible now. He would never even hear from her lips how much she loved him.

  She raised her face toward him one last time, vowing that she didn’t dare look his way again. She put every ounce of her heart into her expression, trying desperately to convey her thoughts.

  I love you, Marcus, I love you, I love you. I’m so sorry that I didn’t say it before. I’m sorry that it’s all ending this way. But please, you must leave here. Save yourself. Take the gold and leave London. Please, whatever it is you’re planning, don’t do it.

  He made no signal that he understood what she was trying to tell him, only gazed at her with a fierce determination.

  Elizabeth tore her gaze from his and stared straight ahead. Oh Lawks, was the man intent on committing suicide? A tear rolled down her cheek and she reached up with her chained hands to awkwardly brush it away.

  She could only be grateful that Georgiana and Nell and Quinn had stayed away. Thank heavens they, at least, weren’t in danger.

  The justice was reading her confession now. Elizabeth was relieved to note that the magistrate had recorded it faithfully, word for word. She was also encouraged to see the very beginnings of sympathy and doubt in the eyes of the jurors.

  Several women in the galleries looked at her with empathy and reached for their handkerchiefs upon hearing about the loss of her baby.

  When the justice had finished, however, Rochambeau’s attorney rose to address the jury. He denounced her in scathing tones, holding up the mask and pistol found in her possession when she had been arrested. The jurors looked at one another, and at her, with furrowed brows and murmurs of uncertainty.

  The chief justice called for the first witness.

  ~ ~ ~

  Marcus clenched his fists in frustrated rage. Elizabeth looked so brave and so alone and vulnerable down there, iron shackles around her delicate wrists, her clothes in disarray, her hair in tangles.

  It was agony to watch this. He could see the optimism in her eyes. Despite everything she had been through, despite countless lessons to the contrary, she still possessed a deep, abiding belief that there was more good than evil in the world, that somehow things would turn out for the best.

  Marcus had no such faith in his fellow man, and no doubt as to the final verdict.

  Reason told him that it was lunacy to be here, that he couldn’t help her, but he wasn’t going to let her endure this alone.

  Through it all, she was magnificent, facing these self-righteous popinjays with a spirit that they couldn’t extinguish.

  A moment ago, when she had looked up at him, the love in her eyes had knocked the breath from him. Even the distance between them couldn’t lessen the impact of the message she shared with him alone.

  He didn’t need to offer her gold or promises or even the ring he still carried in his pocket. She loved him, without any of that.

  He had felt her emotions as strongly as if she were right beside him, whispering the words in his ear. And he sensed that she wanted him to save himself, to leave her to whatever fate the court would mete out.

  Not a chance, my sweet lady, he vowed, not taking his gaze from her. He wouldn’t let the magistrates sacrifice her in the name of their so-called justice.

  No matter what he had to do.

  ~ ~ ~

  The first witness was one of Montaigne’s coach drivers. The attorney had him describe in vivid detail how Elizabeth had robbed him at gunpoint.

  When it was her turn to question him, she could hardly think of what to say. She struggled to come up with any detail that might persuade the court to be lenient.

  She tried to stand straight, with as much dignity as her shackles would allow. “I robbed your coach, sir, I admit. But did you ever see me cause harm or injury to any of your men?”

  The driver thought for a minute, “No, mum. Not that I can recall.”

  She smiled tremulously. “Thank you.”

  Five other coachmen were brought forward, and she asked the same question of each of them. Not one could say she had ever wounded or killed any of their men.

  Unfortunately, the last man was the one who had been driving on the night she was shot, the night Marcus had taken her to his home. He didn’t answer the question the way she had hoped.

  “No, mum,” he said. “You never shot no one, but your partner did. He killed two o’ my men.”

  The jury box and galleries broke out in a wave of noisy speculation. The chief justice demanded order and sternly addressed Elizabeth.

  “This witness raises an interesting point, Mrs. Thornhill,” he said. “You were seen in the company of another highwayman on at least two occasions. One might infer that you were acting on his orders.”

  Elizabeth felt a frisson of panic shiver up her back. Only by sheer force of will did she keep herself from looking at Marcus for strength. “No, my lord. I acted alone.”

  “Come, come, madam. It is difficult to believe that a member of the gentler sex could carry out such crimes under her own volition. If you were corrupted by a man, the court might be persuaded to be more understanding.” He spoke in an almost paternal tone. “More lenient.”

  “I swear to you, my lord. I followed no one’s orders but my own.”

  “Your answer may mean your life, madam. Consider carefully. All you need do is give us the man’s name.”

  She lowered her head. “Please believe me, my lord,” she said stubbornly. “I would save my life if I could, but I
do not know who this other highwayman was. He was certainly not my accomplice.”

  Charged silence held the chamber. “As you say, madam,” the justice said at last, turning to the bailiff. “Call the next witness.”

  The next witness, bless her, was Lady Selwyn, followed by the Ladies Vicary and Houblon. Each had voluntarily come forward to vouch for Elizabeth’s good character. She may have been driven to desperate acts, they testified, but she was a fine person, and deserved good Christian charity from the court.

  Elizabeth watched the jury listening, and felt hope well anew within her.

  Until Lady Kimble took the stand.

  The woman wagged a finger in Elizabeth’s direction. “I still don’t see how she could be Blackerby Swift when she was abducted by Blackerby Swift! In my coach!”

  The chief justice glowered at Elizabeth. “The question is raised once more, Mrs. Thornhill. While it is not part of the charges here before us, it is said that Blackerby Swift kidnapped Lady Barnes-Finchley last Wednesday afternoon just outside the city. Since you have freely admitted to being both persons, perhaps you could explain how that was made possible?”

  Elizabeth felt the color drain from her cheeks. “I-I cannot, my lord.”

  Rochambeau’s attorney leaped in. “My lords, it must have been her male accomplice.”

  “Yes!” Lady Kimble added shrilly. “They hatched some despicable plan between them to steal my coach!”

  The attorney turned toward Elizabeth. “Perhaps…” He paused dramatically, crossing his arms. “She is trying to protect her lover?”

  The galleries erupted in gasps. All the gossip about the abduction was exchanged anew in a flurry of speculation. The idea of a lady highwayman being kidnapped by her own lover was apparently too delicious. The justice had to stand and pound on the bench before they fell silent.

  When order was restored at last, he bestowed an impatient look on Elizabeth. “Mrs. Thornhill, I ask you for the last time—name the man who directed your crimes!”

  Elizabeth lost any semblance of calm. “I swear to you, my lord, that I acted alone!”