by Cheryl Bolen
"He? Who? Southwood? I've not seen—"
"Southwood is belowstairs, ordering up my horses, dispatching a footman to Bow Street with a message from me. Nay, it is this"—he waved a sheet of parchment at her—"this blood-hungry bastard I want—need—so I can slit his accursed throat."
Beau took a step back, stunned by the savagery in Griffin’s voice as he thrust the pamphlet toward her. She whipped her hands behind her back, suddenly more frightened than she had ever been in her life.
"Griffin, what in God's name is amiss?"
"He murdered my brother! Murdered him, damn it. And carved his initial in Will's chest."
Beau stared into his pain-racked features, wishing she could do something, anything to ease his anguish. "Sit, love," she said, attempting to soothe him. "Molly, bring some brandy."
"I don't want any accursed brandy. I want to know where the devil this monster dwells. This sick, twisted animal you call your friend."
Beau reeled as if he had slapped her, panic rising in her veins. "Blast it, Griff, you're making no sense. How would I know—"
"Where Gentleman Jack Ramsey makes his home?" The words were a brutal sneer, laced with such loathing, such rage, Beau's hands began to tremble.
"J-Jack..." Beau stammered, Molly's cry of denial seeming to whirl at her through some nightmarish mist. "Don't be absurd! Even if your brother was murdered, Jack would never—"
"Never have cut someone down upon the highroads? Never have slashed them, left scars on their faces to feed his cursed arrogance?"
"The ton bucks beg him to do it!" Beau cried. "It is some—some sort of game with them to prove their courage to the aristocratic witches they court. Jack—he would never kill—never be so mad as to carve anything upon a corpse! For the love of God, Griff, he was my protector from the time I was a child. I know him as well as I know my own soul. And I vow to you on our love, upon my very life, that Jack Ramsey did not kill your brother!"
"And the others? I suppose he had nothing to do with their deaths either."
"Wh-what others?" Molly's voice was sick, quavering. "Oh, my lord Stone, please..."
"The women—young girls butchered by his hand. Look you here. This friend—this man whom you know as well as your own soul—look at the atrocities he stands accused of."
Rage, anguish, confusion warred within Beau as Griffin's fist closed in the fall of her hair. He jabbed the piece of parchment toward her yet again, his knotted fingers making certain that she could not wrench away but would have to look upon the sheet in his grasp.
Her horrified gaze fixed upon the smeared image, a crude mockery of the merry Jack Ramsey who had taught her to ride the highroads, the Jack who had taken her to country fairs, who had taught her to ride, to shoot. An evil satyr stared out lasciviously from the page, his hooded eyes dark with evil, his smile a cruel leer. There was so much raw physical similarity that Beau did not even have to lower her gaze to read the inscription below it. Yet with a near-crazed fascination she scanned downward, claws seaming to tear at her stomach as she read the accusations levied against her mentor.
There were accounts of the murdered women from Blowsy Nell's. Each was listed in gut-wrenching detail. Countless other atrocities were laid at Jack's feet. Betrayer, the pamphleteer had labeled him—an animal whom the common folk had adored as a hero, and who had suddenly turned mad, crazed, so brutal that a traitor's death would be too easy a passing for him into the gates of hell.
Beau felt the blood drain from her face, the room suddenly seeming to wheel off its axis. She pressed one hand to her stomach, afraid she would be sick.
"No," she whispered as she read the pamphleteer's exhortation that the murdering dog be run down like an animal. "Jack... Jack would never..."
"Beau." Molly's sob tore at her, and she glanced down into the girl's stricken face. "My God, they... they'll rend him to pieces if they find him."
"They won't have the chance," Griffin cut in. "It is my sword—my hand that will send that murdering bastard to the devil that spawned him. And you, Isabeau—you will take me to find him."
"No." Beau raised her eyes to Griffin's, feeling as though her heart were being cut from her breast. "Griffin, I cannot."
"Tell me, girl, where is he? In that thieves' lair you used to call home? Or some other corner of hell?"
Panic filled her throat as she saw murder glinting in those eyes that had once shone with love. Desperate, she faced him, sick terror making her lie. "Nell's is far too vulgar a place for a man like Ramsey. He—he has a dozen lairs where you will never find him."
"But you must know where the murdering bastard is," Griffin snarled. "Damn it, Beau, have you heard anything I've said? Have you heard what this beast has done? To my brother—my brother—the only goddamned person in my life who ever loved... loved me until you. Or do you love me, Isabeau? Do you love me at all?"
"Of course I do! Blast it, I'd give my life this instant if it would spare you this! But not Jack's life, Griffin. No matter how much I love you, I cannot cast the life of a friend—a beloved friend who trusts me—upon your sword."
A raw animal-like sound tore from Griffin's throat as his hands clamped about her arms with desperation. "Beau. For the love of God, Beau, help me."
Tears welled in his tortured blue eyes, dampening the sharp-carved cheekbones. The mouth that had brought her such pleasure twisted in agony. It filled her with helplessness, hopelessness.
"Griff... I cannot do it. Please... please trust me... believe…”
Griffin swore as he hurled her away from him, grinding the heel of his hand against his eyes. "Believe... believe in what? Love? Loyalty? I should have known that you would shield him. But it will make no odds Isabeau. I'll drag the murdering bastard out. And I vow to you I'll kill him."
He wheeled, stalking from the room, and the chamber was suddenly engulfed in echoing, terrifying silence. Beau stared at the pamphlet she had dropped when Griff had grabbed her, her pulse leaping with alarm.
"B-Beau... what... what are we going to do?" Molly sobbed.
"Warn Jack," Beau whispered.
Warn Jack, she thought, and lose Griffin for all time.
Chapter 19
Beau drove her heels into Macbeth's sweat-sheened barrel, urging the stallion toward the distant silhouette of the inn. Their breakneck pace had nearly hurled Molly from behind Beau a dozen times during their crazed flight, but she'd hung on with amazing tenacity, a remarkable aura of strength and resolve emanating from her in the hours since they had raced away from the congested streets of London and off into the countryside beyond.
Beau had pilfered a pair of breeches from Griffin's deserted bedchamber, and the fabric bagged around her waist, dampened with sweat and with the moisture that hung heavy in the night air. The comforting weight of a brace of loaded pistols pressed against her thighs. Griffin's full white shirt tortured her with the scent of him, the size of him, as if, wrapped in that flowing garment, she were lost in his embrace. Griff’s face, so beloved, so betrayed, seemed to torment her from the night sky. His pain and his pleading lashed her with guilt and regret and the most soul-numbing sorrow she had ever known.
She crushed down the grief welling inside her, crushed the hopelessness as she reined the laboring stallion down into the hollow that cupped about Nell's like a giant's hand.
Before she could bolt from the horse's back Molly was sliding off from behind her, tumbling to the ground a mere whisper from Macbeth's huge, slashing hooves. Beau scrambled down even as her friend was staggering back to her feet, a scrawny hostler rushing forth to take the stallion's reins.
"Moll! Beau!" the youth cried, "such a stirring! Did you hear? Hear about Jack?"
"Please, God, he has not been taken," Molly cried, her face ashen.
"Nay. But never fear. The murderin' bastard'll be found! And when he is, that handsome face he be so proud of'll be savaged so bad even the whores will run from him in terror."
"You witling wretch!" Beau grabbed
the hostler by the shirt, knocking him off his feet. "You know bloody well Jack would never—could never have done the things that blasted pamphlet claims! It was Jack who found you on the road, Aaron MacGregor, Jack who cozened Nell into giving you this situation! Damn it, he should have left you to starve!"
"Maybe so, but we all know why he didna let you starve, don't we, Isabeau?" MacGregor stumbled to his feet, sputtering curses. "The twain o' you be so infernal thick, mayhap ye share his twisted passions."
Beau balled up her fist and slammed into the boy's chest. With a thud he careened into the side of an abandoned keg. "Next time... next time I won't dirty my hands on you," she grated. "A pistol ball will do the work for me."
She wheeled, running toward the doorway, the breathless Molly at her side. "Beau," Molly said in a desperate whisper. "Oh, God, Beau, if even the people here at Nell's have turned against Jack, it is worse than we suspected. I was certain he'd be here, be safe. But now—where... where could he be hiding?"
Beau ground her teeth in an effort to keep from screaming, Molly's fears exacerbating the panic surging through her. "Of course he's here," she hissed as she reached for the door latch. "Nell, witch that she is, loves Jack as much as we do. She would never hurl him to the wolves."
Beau saw a flicker of hope lighten Molly's troubled gaze, saw her draw a steadying breath. Then Beau flung the door open, stalking into the dimly lit room as though she had never left it.
But inside the dirt, the danger, the suffering was clearer than ever before.
The clusters of wenching, drinking revelers she had tipped her glass with had vanished, leaving in their place huddled groups talking angrily over their tankards of ale. The laughter and bawdy teasing had fled as well, tension seeming to coil about the room like a serpent, wrenching tighter, tighter, until it seemed to close off Isabeau's throat.
Molly gave a tiny whimper of what might be fright, but Beau gouged her with an elbow in warning, forcing herself to saunter into the chamber as if she had just ridden in from a successful night's raiding.
But as the forbidding gazes of everyone in the room turned toward Isabeau her breath caught, and she had to stop herself from clutching the engraved butt of Griffin's pistol.
Instead she thrust her chin upward with a jocular belligerence that scorned all those who were regarding her with a mixture of trepidation and surliness. She paced toward the fire, extending her fingers as if to warm her hands.
"There she be! Jack's sniveling brat," an unwashed oaf by the name of Silas bellowed above the sudden harsh whispers. "She'll know where to find the murderin'—"
The sound of a pistol hammer being leveled back cracked through the room like cannon fire as Isabeau turned, weapon in hand. But her voice was even. "Silas, Silas," she chided. "Didn't the bitch that bore you ever warn you about casting aspersions on other people's characters? It is a most disconcerting trait."
She examined the long barrel, brow puckered in bemusement. "And you—all of you"—she encompassed whole room in her subtle threat—"know quite well that I am, shall we say, somewhat lacking in patience. Now, if you wish to irritate me further with this idiocy, it is fine. They are your skins, after all, and it makes no odds to me whether or not I put a few holes in 'em."
She forced her lips into a feral grin, the grin that belonged not to Isabeau DeBurgh, but to the ruthless, daunting Devil's Flame. Her eyes were hard as she shrugged. "You will forgive me for interrupting your separate tirades, but as we are all friends here at Nell's, I thought it was only fair to warn you of my current temper."
Despite her casual stance and lazy gaze Beau was tense, ready, searching for anyone among the assemblage who dared to ignore her warning. But even the burly Silas had lapsed into a watchful silence, and Beau gently lowered the hammer of the pistol into place.
"Now," she said as if nothing had happened, "I'm famished. Where the blazes is... Nell!" She forced enthusiasm into her tones as the stocky woman waddled into the room carrying a tray laden with the choicest bits of food the establishment had to offer. "Faith, it is as if you read my very mind!" Beau said, sweeping over to take the tray. "Maybe I've underestimated your powers of sight all this time." She snatched up a crusty loaf of bread warm from the oven.
"It is not for..." Anger flared in the old woman's eyes, but Nell's lips clamped shut as though she feared she might betray something. Beau knew in that instant that her suspicions regarding Jack's whereabouts were correct.
"I've had a most rewarding run upon the highroads," Beau said, ignoring Nell's indignation, "and if I remember correctly, I owe you an accounting for next month's rent. If you would just come to my room..."
"You thieving hussy, I'll not—now give me back that tray."
Ignoring Nell's hiss of fury, Beau strode up the stairs. A wide-eyed Molly and a blustering Nell followed in her wake. When Beau reached her own small chamber she dumped the tray upon the scarred table, then slammed the door behind the other two women, all pretense of lazy arrogance and unaffected calm disappearing.
"Nell, where is he?" Beau demanded.
"He? I'd not be knowin' who you're blatherin' about," Nell said with a loftiness that incensed Beau.
"You know damn well it is Jack. Blast it, I have to help him. Talk to him. Somebody does! The lot of them below would like nothing more than to deal him a traitor's death themselves, scurvy bastards! And he cannot hide 'neath your bed curtains forever."
Nell's thin lips disappeared, loathing brimming in her eyes. "As if I'd betray my lad t'you! If he hadn't been a-chasin' after t'save your hide, he'd have been able to stop this madness afore it got afoot. He'd nearly mastered it, discovered... but then you had to blunder off, even though I warned you. And Jack—you drove him fair out o' his mind by first disappearin' and then cuttin' out his heart!"
"I love Jack! As a friend, Nell! A friend! As for giving him my heart—it is impossible, and I cannot help it. But I can aid him here—now. I can help him escape in a way you never could."
"The devil you say! You are nothing but another of his women, clinging to his breeches, though you've not even the decency to let 'im in yours! Go to the devil, Isabeau DeBurgh! I'll not—"
"It is Jack who will go to the devil if you don't take me to him. Is that what you want? Do you want him to be ripped to shreds by a blood-hungry mob? Do you want him to be dragged through the streets? Hurled into Newgate? Do you want his corpse to dangle, dipped in tar, above a bloody crossroads? The crowds who came to cheer my father, who loved him even at his death—they'll not be lauding Gentleman Jack Ramsey as he is taken to the gallows. They'll despise him, hate him, hurl their scorn and fury at him. That is, if they don't savage him beyond recognition even before he reaches the executioner."
"You evil witch! It is because of you—"
"Fine! Blame me, curse me to the devil if you wish! I do not care. But damn it, Nell, take me to Jack, let me help him! It is not just the people who are thirsting for his blood, not just Bow Street. A powerful nobleman is even now mounting a search. He believes that Jack murdered his brother. Nell, he's half crazed with grief and rage, and—"
"It is he. The man you betrayed my Jack for—"
"Thunderation, I could have had Jack halfway to the coast by now!" Beau cried, grabbing Nell's fleshy arms, shaking her. "Do you want him to die? Do you?"
The old woman's eyes clashed with Beau's, and within Nell's face she saw indecision and a very real fear. The room crackled with tension, then suddenly Nell sagged, defeat clouding her features.
"All right, all right, may you rot in hell. He—he's secreted away in the smugglers' den."
"Of course!" Beau kicked herself inwardly as she remembered the small secret chamber she and Molly had played hide-and-seek in years before. "It is a perfect place to hold him until we can arrange for his escape. Moll, you run below and keep watch over the witlings at the tables while I go and make arrangements with Jack. I'll be down as soon as possible."
Molly nodded, fleeing down the stair
s as Beau started to bolt toward the hidden room.
"Wait." Nell stopped her. "He'll blast you into eternity if you don't signal 'im thus. Three knocks upon the panel, then he'll slide it free."
"Right," Beau acknowledged.
"Wait."
Beau stopped again at the old woman's bidding, turning to fling her an impatient glare. "I loathe an' despise you, Isabeau DeBurgh," Nell said softly, "but if you can spare the lad for me, I'll thank you until the day I die."
"No one's going to die," Beau said, and she slipped out into the hallway, moving stealthily through the shadows toward Nell's own opulent rooms.
Once inside she rapped out the signal and waited for the panel to slide free. It seemed an eternity before she heard the sound of warped wood protesting as it was slid back.
Light from a single candle illuminated a face so haggard, so filled with hopelessness she could scarcely believe it was that of Jack Ramsey. The dark eyes that had made countless feminine hearts flutter looked like bruised circles. His cheeks were hollow, his skin the color of tallow. Even the impeccable linens that were his passion now lay against a smudged coat, the frills as limp and lifeless as his smile.
"Beau." There was no surprise in his voice, only a pervasive sadness that cut her to the quick. It was as if he had known that despite their quarrel she would help him.
Beau's eyes burned as she reached up one hand, smoothing a lock of dull, dark hair from Ramsey's brow. "Well, what have you to say for yourself, you bumbling idiot?" she said, the gruffness of her words softened by her own tremulous smile. "I'm gone but a month, and look what an accursed mess you've made."
Jack attempted to force a smile. He reached out to her, catching her in his arms as though he were drowning and she was his only hope of salvation. "Isabeau... sweet God, it is over... over. And there is nothing that I can do to right it."
"Bah! I've yet to see the muddle we could not solve between us. Even if we can't make things right for you here in England, we've only to get you to the coast and set you on a ship bound for France or the colonies. It is about time you gave up riding the High Toby anyway, aged and decrepit as you've become."
