Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03]

by Something Wicked

  “No,” said Bryght, still staring at Elf as if she’d grown horns. “I left her at Candleford. Travel wearies her these days.”

  “Elf,” said Rothgar, “you should rest.”

  “I’m going with Bryght.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” said Elf, “this is my adventure, and I want to see it to the end. Have Tressia ready for me.” She then swept up to her room calling for someone to clean up debris, and a maid, any maid, to help her into her habit.

  Rage carried her up the stairs, but in her room, exhaustion and misery sank her limp into a chair. Oh God, oh God, it had all gone too fast for her to keep up.

  And what of the future? It was one thing to face her brothers so boldly—even if she had been shaking inside. It was another to face the whole world. What if Fort carried out his threat to spread the story of their wickedness? She’d never be able to show her face in public, and even if her brothers didn’t kill him, they’d want to.

  Every day.

  Surely, on calm reflection, he wouldn’t do it.

  She just hoped he didn’t spread the word before he had time for calm reflection!

  She looked at her bed, so smooth and inviting, tempted to slip between the sheets and into sleep, to let others take care of everything. But that was the coward’s way out. She intended to see this through to the end.

  Even before the maid came, she had stripped to her shift, and stood ready to don corset, petticoat, and her finest gray riding habit with the silver-braided jacket.

  Since nothing quick could be done with her powdered hair, she just crowned it with the habit’s gray tricorne hat, jaunty plume flowing behind. In the mirror, with boots and whip, she looked the image of a proper lady. But pale. She hastily added some rouge to cheeks and lips.

  Lud. Now she looked like a doxy.

  Ah, plague take it. Telling herself she didn’t care what anyone thought, she swept downstairs.

  “The tides are right,” said Bryght, still looking at her strangely. “We’re taking the boat. Roberts says your prison was in Wapping, down in the port. He thinks Alderman Parson’s Stairs should be close enough.”

  “Very well,” said Elf. “Let’s be off.”

  They rode down to the river, the servants jogging alongside, and found Rothgar’s barge awaiting them, eight sturdy liveried boatmen already at their benches. Once everyone was settled in the covered portion, the boat shot off into the river traffic, speeding downriver on the tides toward the Port of London.

  The curtains all around the covered area were rolled up, giving a view of the lively activity on the river. Commanded to make all speed, the boatmen rammed their vessel through narrow gaps, exchanging searing abuse with others of their sort.

  Elf didn’t know whether to giggle or swoon. This certainly wasn’t the grand manner of travel the barge was accustomed to, but she suspected the boatmen were enjoying every moment.

  Glancing at her brother, she saw his lips turn up in a smile of pure enjoyment. He caught her look and they shared a smile both of excitement and camaraderie. Suddenly, he held out his hand and she placed hers in it, tears threatening, especially when he gave her hand a friendly squeeze.

  She really did have the best brothers in the world, though she suspected her twin was storing up a long and pointed lecture for her.

  Then she looked ahead to see the almost solid barrier of London Bridge hurtling toward them. Most of the houses that had lined it since medieval times had recently been torn down, but the bridge itself was untouched. The nineteen broad stone arches were supported on wide rock starlings with only narrow passages beneath each.

  “We aren’t going to shoot the bridge, are we?”

  “You wanted adventure,” said Bryght. “Hold on!”

  His eyes might be shining with anticipation, but Elf saw all the servants turn pale, and a few start to say their last prayers. People regularly drowned trying to shoot London Bridge, and the wise disembarked from their boats and crossed the barrier on foot, leaving their watermen to take their chances as professionals should.

  Their speed seemed horrendous, and the gap they were aiming for impossibly narrow. With the oars, it was impossible. Surely they must crash into the stone starling—

  She screamed and hunched down, even as oars fended them off and into the maelstrom. But by then the water’s roar deafened her even to her own voice.

  Into the dark roar.

  Boat jars against stone.

  Tossing wildly.

  Bryght seizing her.

  Clinging together as the boat spins . . .

  Out into sunlight and wild water.

  Boat tipping, twirling.

  Oars digging.

  Boatmen shouting.

  Noise receding.

  Water calming.

  Laughter.

  Everyone—boatmen, servants, and nobles—burst into wild laughter at the sheer joy of being alive.

  Then the men settled to their oars, speeding them on down to Parson’s Stairs.

  Elf became aware that one side of her habit was drenched. “I have made one discovery,” she said, pulling the clinging material away from her arm. “Adventure and vanity do not go hand in hand.”

  “Ah,” said Bryght, removing his coat to wring out his sleeve, “but there is something so damnably attractive about a person living life to the full.”

  “Is there?”

  He smiled at her. “For someone of the same inclination. I have this strange suspicion that you are not, after all, like our sister Hilda. She seems content with a dull husband and bucolic placidity.”

  “You’ve been buried in the country for months.”

  “With Portia. Who is never dull.”

  They were slowing, heading toward the busy wharves that lined the river here, the boatmen cleverly avoiding sand banks and shoals. The stairs ahead must be Parson’s.

  “One way or another,” said Elf, “I doubt I’ll end up with a dull, bucolic husband like Hilda’s. Do you have your pistols with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I hope they didn’t get wet. Give me one, please.”

  “Why?”

  “I would just prefer to be armed.”

  With a sigh, he signed to a servant who clutched an oilcloth package. Unwrapped, it revealed a gleaming pistol case. Bryght opened it to take out two handsome guns.

  “Oh, Gemini!” Elf exclaimed. “I never returned Fort’s pistol. He doubtless will have me transported—”

  “You can explain that later.” Bryght handed her one gun. “It’s loaded and primed, so be careful. And don’t shoot anyone unnecessarily.”

  “I’m the gentle lady here, am I not?”

  “I think the reason we don’t give women guns is that they are dangerous enough without them.”

  “Ah, that reminds me of another complaint I have—”

  “I quiver. For now, let’s hope this Murray and the stone are here. If he’s taking ship, they might be trying to catch the last of the tide.”

  The boat had to wait a moment for a wherry to discharge its passengers, but then it nudged up against the stairs, and Bryght handed Elf out. The scene appeared completely normal.

  Not peaceful, no, in the middle of the bustling wharves, but with no sense of alarm.

  Alderman Parson’s Stairs were squeezed in between wharves loaded down with goods coming and going to the great sailing vessels out in the river. Jostling watermen abused one another with cheerful insults interspersed with social comments such as “How’s the missus?”

  Watching a crane handle a huge cask, Elf could easily have been distracted, but Bryght said, “Roberts, where’s this tavern?”

  “This way, milord.” Roberts led them away from the river and into a warren of streets that Elf thought familiar.

  All such streets probably looked the same, however, lined with narrow houses, doors and windows open to let in fresh air. Grubby children stopped to stare at the strange party passing among them. Aproned women
came to the doors, perhaps to protect their young, perhaps just out of curiosity.

  Elf expected some begging, but then she realized this was no slum. These people were quite prosperous in their way, their menfolk all working down at the thriving port.

  Then they turned a corner and found themselves in the small wasteland created by a fire. It was not deserted, for a few people rummaged through the already picked-over ruins. The ramshackle tavern stood to one side, walls still standing, and roof mostly intact, but windows completely gone. Clearly, even before disaster it had been a mean place.

  Elf couldn’t reconcile it with an interlude which had been, at times, positively romantic. Perhaps darkness was a blessing after all.

  Bryght ordered his party to spread out and surround the building, adding a command to Elf to stay with him. Even as they approached the ruin, Elf noted curious children and even a few adults hovering nearby. She prayed no shots were fired, that no more innocents were injured in this affair.

  Chapter 14

  The Marquess of Rothgar made no attempt to ornament himself before setting off for Windsor in the carriage. This was not an occasion for glitter. With God’s grace, Cyn would have alerted the king to danger. Now he must prevent damage to the family’s reputation.

  Even with six of his best horses in the shafts, it took more than an hour to arrive at the king’s country palace, its ancient walls rising majestically over a mass of buildings added to and adapted by centuries of monarchs.

  Almost anyone had to progress through a number of chambers to reach the king. Rothgar, however, progressed with remarkable speed. He was bowed through the paneled guard chamber, where the guards did not seem to be on special alert. Then a footman escorted him through the presence chamber and audience chamber, past a number of hopefuls lounging about admiring Verrio’s magnificent ceiling, and the empty carved throne.

  A couple of men tried to speak to him, but he indicated that his business could not wait. He recognized the envy in their eyes but had little sympathy for such petitioners. Most of them merely wanted a sinecure from the king to finance their expensive pleasures.

  At the great gilded doors of the King’s Drawing Room, the guards stood back to let him pass.

  George, fresh-faced and bulbous-eyed, was pacing the room when Rothgar was announced. He turned to him fretfully. “Lord Rothgar!” he exclaimed. “Such goings-on!”

  Rothgar, noting an absence of both mechanical device and brother, made a profound bow to the King and to the heavily pregnant queen who sat nearby, clutching a puppy. Then he bestowed lesser ones on Lord Bute and Charles Grenville, who were also present.

  “You are well come indeed,” said Grenville with assumed warmth. “We thought you out of the country, my lord, and feared for your reputation.”

  “God sent contrary winds, and thus I am here to set all right. The mechanical device?”

  “Was delivered. But Lord Cynric arrived in time.”

  “He manhandled me!” George spluttered.

  “I apologize on his behalf, Your Majesty, but I’m sure it was necessary.”

  “Well, I’m not! And if the device is so dangerous, how can that be when it is a gift from you, my lord? Eh? Can you make sense of this story, eh? Can you? Grenville says a relative of Lord Bute was involved, but Lord Bute denies any knowledge of it. The device came from your house, my lord, but you are ignorant of it. Lord Walgrave is involved, but acting on my First Secretary’s orders, and innocent. And no one saw fit to tell me anything. I am displeased. Most displeased!”

  The king dabbed at his sweaty forehead with a gilded, monogrammed silk handkerchief.

  “Very understandable, Your Majesty,” said Rothgar, forcefully projecting calm. “I assure you, had I known anything of this matter, I would have informed you in full immediately. Lord Walgrave, however, perhaps you can excuse. He is young and took the advice of older men.”

  “I am somewhat surprised to hear you defend him, Rothgar,” said Grenville, no longer smiling. “You are no friend to that family.”

  “I try not to let my bias sway me, Grenville, and of course, our families are now joined. Walgrave’s purpose, I am told, was merely to assist in rooting out the base of this plot to harm His Majesty.”

  “And as soon as we find Michael Murray,” said Bute, “we will have him! I am distressed, distressed beyond imagining, that I have harbored such a viper in my bosom.”

  “As close as that, were you?” queried Rothgar mildly.

  The earl flushed. “ ’Tis an expression, my lord.”

  “Ah, I see.” Rothgar turned back to the king. “I have sent some men to a location where we might find Murray, Your Majesty. At the same time, I sent a message to Mr. Grenville’s office suggesting that he dispatch soldiers there, and also search ships sailing down the Thames. I had no idea he thought it more important to be here.”

  Grenville flushed. “I left capable men in charge, Your Majesty. In fact, I left Lord Walgrave to assist them, since he was, most understandably, anxious to set all aright. I came here, feeling His Majesty had to be informed as soon as possible.”

  “Which it seems he is not.” Rothgar turned to the king. “With your permission, Your Majesty, perhaps we may all sit and I will tell the tale as best I can. I’m sure Lord Bute and Mr. Grenville will add their mite.”

  “I know nothing,” declared Bute fretfully. “Nothing.” But when the king waved permission, he sat with the others, clearly trying to decide just where the threat to his position lay in all this.

  The old tavern appeared deserted, but when Elf saw the trapdoor leading to the ramp, she knew someone had been there. It stood open, the lock forced in some way. Despite Bryght’s cautioning hand on her arm, she leaned forward to peep in. Even in daylight, the windowless room was gloomy, but she could see well enough to know that it was now completely empty apart from the old casks.

  The coffin had been removed.

  No special stone sat on the uneven floor.

  “It’s gone,” she whispered.

  “Indeed it is,” said a familiar voice, and Elf straightened to face Fort. He stood in the ruined doorway dressed in deepest black, and even with a battered face, he had regained all his aristocratic hauteur.

  Suppressing a host of distracting emotions, she asked, “Where is it?”

  Now she noticed the soldiers behind him, and altered by something in the atmosphere, she turned to see more appear from behind nearby objects, all eyeing the Malloren servants with suspicion.

  Some of the hovering mothers grabbed their curious children.

  “I have no idea,” said Fort, “having only just arrived myself.”

  “Well, nor have we, since we have only just arrived, too.”

  Elf saw that Fort’s attention was entirely on Bryght, and that if he’d been a dog, his hackles would be rising. She was sure her brother was reacting in exactly the same way. They were old enemies because of Portia. Goodness knows what folly they would get up to now if allowed.

  Turning her back on them, she marched over to one of the nearby scavengers, a toothless crone, dressed in ragged clothes.

  “If you please, ma’am, has anyone been here this morning to take anything out of that building?”

  The woman’s rheumy eyes shifted and she scuttled a few steps away, clutching her folded-up apron to her chest. “I ain’t taken anything I shouldn’t. ’Onest!”

  “Of course not,” said Elf with as reassuring a smile as she could manage. “No one wants to make trouble for you. It’s just that we expected to find something in that cellar. Just a large stone, actually. And it’s not there. Probably our friends were here ahead of us.”

  The woman’s eyes turned sharp. “Friends, eh? And redcoats ’unting ’em? I don’t want no trouble.”

  Elf heard footsteps behind her and knew they wouldn’t be Fort’s. “Bryght. Do you have a small coin?”

  He put a sixpence in her hand and she held it out to the woman. “Here. Take it. You don’t have to do any
thing for it. But if you do know anything, it would be a kindness to tell us.”

  The crone grabbed the coin, her eyes darting around. “Right, well, you seem an ’onest, sweet-natured lady, so I’ll tell ’ee. Some men came by with a cart a while ago. Broke open that door, they did. Funny it was really, ’cos ’esterday the door wasn’t locked at all, and the blinkin’ cellar was empty of all but a few old casks. Then they ’auled out a bloody great boulder! I couldn’t figure it at all,” she said, getting into the spirit of her story. “Gawd knows there’s enough rocks in the world if a body wants ’em. But this bob-wigged minister was leaping around, telling ’em not to scratch it. Never seen anything like it in all me born days.”

  Bob-wigged minister? But then Elf remembered Roberts saying the street monkeys had been hired by a Scots clergyman. Murray in disguise? “It does sound extraordinary,” she said as if only mildly curious. “What did they do with this stone?”

  “Put it in a box they brung up before.” She cackled. “A coffin, it was, and a right funny scene. The clergyman was as fretful as if they was handling a corpse. Kept saying as they should ’ave put the stone in the box before bringing it up. Which was true enough if he didn’t want it scratched. Stone, he kept calling it. Weren’t no stone. Were a bloody great boulder.”

  “So, this clergyman. He wasn’t here when the others started moving things?”

  “Nah, he turned up later.”

  “And I suppose they put the box on a cart and drove it away.”

  “That’s right!” said the woman, as if this were a work of deductive genius. “That’s just what they did, mistress.”

  Elf looked in the direction of the river. “As you have guessed, ma’am, the poor clergyman is not quite sane. He thinks this boulder is of great value and intends to ship it to France as a gift to the king there . . .”

  The woman cackled again. “Lord ’a mercy, I wish I could see that!”