by Joan Smith
“Anything else in there?” Coffen asked.
“Not actually in the pocket. I’ll be carrying my walking stick with the sword that can be released in a trice. I do still need my walking stick. My ribs —" he explained, when he heard what sounded like a snort of amusement from Black. He wanted them to know in advance that he might not be able to participate as fully as he wished in the coming melee.
“Oh and one other wee item — a mere bagatelle really. I filled my snuffbox with pepper. Pretend I’m taking snuff, you see, and toss it in the enemy’s face.” He drew it out to show them. “It opens at the touch of this little button.” He pushed the button, a puff of powdered pepper came out, and Coffen fell into paroxysms of sneezing.
“If you think you’ll be taking snuff in the middle of a brawl —" was Black’s response. He just rolled his eyes at this fop’s notion of a good set to. Thank goodness Luten and Coffen would be there, for the Frenchies would make fast work of this dandified fool.
Prance stabled the carriage at Grays Inn and Black led them down the road to the “arbour” where Luten would be waiting. They each drew out a pistol, just in case. Prance already felt ripples of apprehension scuttle down his spine as he peered into the shadows, half expecting an attack at every step. But with the indomitable Black on one side and Coffen on the other, he managed to keep his fears to himself. Great stuff for his spy novel, traversing this spooky road, never knowing at what moment hot lead might enter his body.
“An eerie sort of place,” Coffen said. “I’m surprised there ain’t owls hooting.” As they reached the edge of the spinney, he said, “Do you think we can risk calling Luten’s name? It can’t be much past eleven o’clock. The Frenchies shouldn’t be here yet.”
“Let us just go quietly in and peer about,” Prance suggested. “No need to announce to the Frenchies that we’re here, if by some chance they came this early.”
The whole spinney wasn’t much over two acres in size. The branches, though just beginning to leaf, cast the area into nearly total darkness. The wind caused an eerie, whispering sigh above as they crept together into the darkness, peering about from tree to tree. A whinny alerted them to Smoker’s presence nearby. “That’s Smoker,” Coffen whispered. “Luten can’t be far away.”
“Perhaps you might just take a peek to make sure it is Luten’s mount,” Prance suggested. Coffen dove farther into the woods and came back “It’s him all right. A bay gelding, four white legs and a star on his forehead. No sign of Luten though.”
They walked on, softly calling Luten’s name. They were soon in a small clearing in the middle of the woods. “He’d not be here, in the open,” Black said.
As the words left his mouth, the three of them were set upon by a group of armed, masked men brandishing pistols. Prance insisted later there were at least a dozen of them. Coffen said eight. Black, who had actually counted them, said six.
Coffen was hit on the head from behind like Luten before he could take aim, but the blow glanced off his hat and he didn’t go down. As he aimed his pistol at the man hovering over him, an arm came out from behind and knocked it out of his hand. This didn’t stop him. He turned and landed his attacker a good blow to the nose with his right. One of the other Frenchies, seeing his friend’s plight, kicked Coffen in the stomach before he could draw the knife Reg had given him. Coffen was doubled over and gasping in pain, but he soon recovered and lit into the man again. He had to use his fists as he couldn’t find his pistol in the long grass.
The whole fracas took place in the small clearing. In the dark and amidst the confusion, it was hard to tell which was friend and which foe.
Black had also lost his pistol but he managed to get behind one of them and landed him a good knock on the head with the agates-in-a-handkerchief weapon. The man went down but wasn’t out. As he staggered up, Black wound up and knocked him down again with a stout blow to the chin, then turned to attack another who seemed to come at him from nowhere.
Prance did try to defend himself. He raised his pistol, but when he saw another pistol pointed at him, his arm trembled so he dropped his weapon and was left with only his sheathed sword to defend him. He pulled it from its sheath. The Frenchman was so intrigued he wasted two seconds just staring. This gave Prance time to cast aside the sheath, draw out his snuff box with his left hand and toss the pepper in the man’s face, then scamper to safety on the side line.
Coffen, who was struggling with his assailant not three feet away, fell into a fit of sneezing that rendered him hors de combat. The Frenchie was making quick work of him. Black soon overcame his attacker and rushed to Coffen’s assistance, just as Prance rejoined the battle. He raised his sword and slashed out at Coffen’s attacker. The Frenchie ducked, causing the sword to strike Black’s wrist and knock the pistol he had snatched up from his hand.
The Frenchies swiftly took advantage of this unexpected opportunity. Coffen and Black were wrestled to the ground, two men attacking each of them, leaving only Prance and his sword and sore ribs to defend them and himself. A pistol pointed at his heart left him no recourse but to drop the sword. Before they knew what was happening, they were all tied to trees by the victors, who were chattering in French, congratulating themselves and laughing at the “maudits anglais.”
Prance sighed to see the Frenchie pick up his sword, stick it back in its sheath and laugh. “C’est bon, ca," he said, waving it about and making playful lunges at them, before putting it back in its case and walking off with it. At least they didn’t get his snuffbox, that he could see on the ground. One of them did step on it, but perhaps it wasn’t entirely destroyed.
The Frenchies bound neither their eyes nor their mouths before they left, but the conquered were so embarrassed they hesitated to shout for Luten. The tallest of the men, who seemed to be their leader, just pointed to the weapons on the ground and the others gathered them up.
Prance’s sword in a cane, their pistols and even Black’s loaded handkerchief were all taken as spoils of war. Only Prance spoke enough French to interpret their plan of taking Luten’s horse with them. The Frenchies left, the ringleader mounted proudly on Smoker while the others hurried after him. They disappeared into the spinney.
“At least they didn’t get Luten,” Prance said, when they were alone.
“Of course they did,” Coffen snorted. “He’d have come to help us if he could. He wouldn’t have let them walk off with Smoker if he was able to stand. He’s wrapped around a tree like the rest of us, if they haven’t killed him. How the devil are we to get out of these ropes?”
“Ah, I see they didn’t hesitate to bring ropes with them,” Prance said, to remind them he had planned to do so.
They were all twisting their wrists, trying to wiggle free. Blood dripped down Black’s hand from the slash on the wrist.
Black said, “Call and see if you can rouse Luten.”
They called and called, but got no answer.
“My ribs are killing me,” Prance said. “This is just the worst possible position for them. I shall send for Doctor Knighton the moment we get home.”
“Did you spot Morgrave at all?” Black asked. “I thought the fellow that kicked you was about his size, Pattle, the one riding Smoker.” It was the first time he had omitted to come him Mr. Pattle. The battle seemed to have put them all on an even social footing.
“He was the right size all right. And I notice he didn’t open his mouth like the others, that were spouting French. Afraid we’d spot his accent.”
“Lack of an accent,” Prance said.
“That’s what I mean. We’d know he wasn’t a Frenchman.”
“Then we know Luten didn’t get him,” Black said in resignation. “This was a poor night’s work, lads. I’m ashamed to show my face to Luten. They were ready and waiting for us, the scoundrels.”
“We’ll know enough to come even earlier next time,” Coffen said.
“That’s the spirit, Mr. Pattle,” said Black. The battle over, they were back o
n their usual footing.
Prance could only marvel at men who appeared to relish this sort of thing. But he made careful note of it for his spy novel. The spirit of camaraderie, the hope that refused to die, the disregard for personal safety, the determination to go on.
For himself, he wanted only to get home and let Villier minister to his aches and pains. He wondered, not for the first time, if it were possible that his old dancing master were, in truth, his papa. Antonio had got on so uncommonly well with Mama.
Chapter Eighteen
If she hadn’t been sitting on the driver’s seat with Tommy Tucker, she wouldn’t have heard it. In fact, she was half convinced she was imagining it. With Luten on her mind, she thought she heard someone calling his name in the distance. Or was it just her hope and anxiety turning an echo carried on the wind into his name?
“Did you hear that, Tommy?” she asked. After a little conversation she had begun calling him Tommy. She already knew he had a wife, Miranda, from Cheapside, a baby daughter and a five year old son called Little Tom, who wanted to join the army.
“Sounded like an owl, mum, coming from that bit of a spinney yonder,” he replied, tossing his head to the left.
The sound came again. Surely it was someone calling the name Luten. According to family legend, the females of the Clare family had the power of second sight, and she occasionally felt she had a small bit of the power herself. If that wasn’t Luten’s name being called, then she was mad, because there it was again, louder and clearer this time. And anguished sounding. Quite definitely the word Luten, not an owl hooting.
“Stop the carriage, Tommy,” she said.
“That’s nought but a bit of wilderness, mum. Farther along there’s a road leading to where the Frenchies are living.”
“Stop here. I’m going into the spinney.”
“I don’t think you’d ought to, mum,” he said, but something in her tone made him stop the carriage. Before he could try further dissuasions, she had hopped down and was heading for the spinney. “Hie, wait up!” he called. “I’d best go with you.”
He took the precaution of retrieving an old fowling piece from under the seat and hopped down after her. It went against the pluck to leave his rig unattended, with a team of nags he hadn’t even finished paying for yet. What if someone walked off with them, here in the middle of nowhere? Lordie, it could be a trick! Miranda had often warned him about pretty, brazen women cheating him of their fare. Miss Clare didn’t seem the type, real ladylike she was.
Corinne, drawn by the repeated echoes of Luten’s name, ran on, with Tommy Tucker following close behind her. When she came to the clearing, she could see something attached to the surrounding trees, something that was too big and bulky to be moss or bark. It looked like animals. She blinked and as her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she could make out that it was men. She stared in confusion, wondering that they didn’t say something. They weren’t dead, because their heads and shoulders were moving.
Coffen, Prance and Black were all speechless with shock and embarrassment and relief. They just stared at her, then looked at each other, as if to confirm that they were seeing what they thought they were seeing, and not a shared illusion. They had taken special pains to escape her, but here she was, all windblown and angry as a wasp and looking as confused as they felt. They just stared at each other as if struck dumb.
After a moment Coffen said, “Heh heh, I see you found us, Corrie.”
“Coffen! Is that you? Where’s Luten?” She rushed forward and soon discerned the identity of the other two. “Reggie — and Black! What the devil is going on? Where’s Luten?”
“We lost him,” Coffen said, blushing in the darkness. “That is to say, we never found him.”
“Can you untie us, my pet?” Prance said in a voice weak with relief. Black just stared, wondering how he could even begin to apologize, but not as surprised as the others that she had come. He had been on excursions with her before and knew she didn’t give up easily.
“Of course. I’ll try — but what do you mean, you lost him? Wasn’t he with you?”
“He came on ahead of us,” Coffen said. “There’s a knife in my jacket pocket. Use it to cut the ropes.”
She fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the little knife he had got from Prance. Tommy Tucker decided that, whatever was going on, it wasn’t an attempt to steal his rig, put down his fowling piece and said, “Let me help you, mum,” and began working at Coffen’s ropes.
“Who’s your friend?” Prance asked, squinting through the shadows at Tucker.
“This is Tommy Tucker. What on earth happened to all of you, and where do you think Luten is?”
She stared from one to the other and noticed the sad, reluctant way they exchanged glances, refusing to look her in the eye. “He’s dead,” she said, and dropped the knife. Tommy picked it up and finished cutting them free
“No, no,” Prance assured her, while Coffen said, “No reason to think that. It’s just that we don’t know.”
She looked to what she considered the most trustworthy and sensible of the group. “Black, where is he?”
Black straightened his shoulders and turned into Lord Blackwell. “That is exactly what we have to find out, milady. He come here ahead of us on horseback. The lads that got us must have got him as well. They tied us to trees, stands to reason they did the same to him.”
“There was a dozen of them, easily,” Prance said.
“Certainly a good-sized pack,” Coffen said.
“It was two of them to one of us, and they took us by surprise,” Black declared. “What we do now is each of us set off in a different direction and find where they’ve got Lord Luten tied to a tree.”
“But wouldn’t he call for help, as you others did?” she asked, wanting to believe him.
“They’d have gagged him to stop him from yelling to us when we came. We’ll go this way.” So saying Lord Blackwell put his hand under her arm and led her into the woods. Over his shoulder he said, “You others spread out and give a holler if you find him.”
They were happy to be told what to do and followed Black’s order. Tommy Tucker tagged along after Black and Corinne. “You forgot to pay me, mum,” he said.
“Oh dear. I didn’t bring my money! Black, could you —"
Without a word, Black dipped into his pocket and dropped the untold extravagance of a guinea into Tucker’s outstretched hand. “Good work, Tucker,” he said. Lord Blackwell could do no less.
Tommy gasped in amazement, handed Black the knife and darted back to his carriage before he should wake up from this dream. Carriage and team were intact, the horses having wandered to the side of the road to champ the grass. He took no more passengers that night, but drove straight home to tell Miranda, who accused him of drinking, until she saw the guinea.
Black’s luck held out. It was he and Corinne who found Luten, still gagged and bound hand and foot to the tree. But very definitely alive. He was squirming and wiggling in an effort to work himself free. Corinne was trembling so hard she just stood watching as Black cut him free. As soon as his hands were free he reached up and pulled binding from his eyes and the gag from his mouth.
“Corrie!” he said, and gulped. “How — “ She pitched herself into his arms, trying not to cry. He didn’t kiss her, but clasped her to him with arms like the proverbial iron bands until she could hardly breathe.
When he released her, she said, “I’m so angry with you! Why didn’t you at least tell me where you were going? I’ve been driving all over looking for you.”
“You found the others?”
“Yes, trussed up like cattle for the slaughter and tied to trees,” she said, having no idea whether cattle were trussed up to be slaughtered.
“Then they didn’t get Morgrave?”
“The devil with Morgrave.”
“He got away, milord,” Black said, no longer in the persona of Lord Blackwell. “A gang of Frenchies took us by surprise and overcame
us. We didn’t hear a thing till they were on us.”
“That’s exactly what happened to me. No one badly hurt, I take it?”
“Just roughed up a bit. They’re out looking for you. Best let them know we’ve found you.” He let out a bellow and in short order the tramp of running feet brought them to the spot.
“Luten, thank God you’re alive,” Coffen said. “They told you what happened?”
“Yes,” he said in a curt, angry voice. “And one of them rode off on Smoker. I could hear, but I couldn’t see. Did you see which one it was?”
“We saw it too. We figure it was Morgrave,” Coffen told him.
“I’ll get that bastard if it’s the last thing I do,” Luten growled.
“Where is your carriage, Prance?” Corinne said. “I saw you three leaving in it. We’ll go home and you can all lick your wounds.”
“Black’s wound will require more than a lick,” Prance said. “I’m afraid I accidentally slashed his wrist in the heat of battle.”
“Black! Why didn’t you tell me?” Corinne said, and immediately went to examine his wound. He had bound it up with his handkerchief, but he was happy to see the blood had soaked through, to elicit more concern. “I’ll take care of it as soon as we get home. Let us get out of this dreadful place.”
No one argued with that. The only delay was Coffen’s insistence that they stop at the clearing to look for clues. The only clue he found was Prance’s snuffbox. When he picked it up the lid fell off. The remaining traces of pepper sent him into another fit of sneezing.
“You’ve probably all caught your death of cold.” Corinne scolded. In fact she kept up a running complaint to Luten as they trudged down to the road to Grays Inn to get the carriage. As she didn’t try to free her hand from his iron grasp, and as her scolding was interspersed with questions as to how he felt, and had they hurt him, he felt no fear that she was truly disgusted with him.
