An Extraordinary Lord

by Anna Harrington

  “The Home Office insisted, sir,” Captain Reed answered. “We don’t know how many rioters might already be in the streets. It’s for your own protection.”

  “I am a general!” Liggett seethed. “I don’t need to be shielded like some green lad.”

  “The Home Office insisted,” the captain repeated. Then he added in a low voice, breaking his officer’s demeanor to sound his own personal opinion, “You know how Whitehall is, run by a bunch of spineless men who have never set foot on a battlefield.” Reed glanced at the other guards and the men waiting at the carriage and confided, “The guards and I will escort you through the City, per our orders, but we can stop the carriage a few streets from the barricades so you can approach on foot if you’d rather.”

  “I’d look more commanding arriving on horseback,” Liggett grumbled. But walking was the best he’d have tonight apparently. Damn the Home Office! That would be the first thing he’d change under the new regime—put the militia back where it belonged, under the hands of the War Department.

  With an aggravated wave of his hand to signal that he was ready, he walked down to the carriage. The tiger held open the door and put down the step as if he were some debutante who needed help stepping into a coach. That added insult to injury. But he would find out who in Whitehall had decided to put him in a carriage, and heads would roll.

  He sat on the bench and ordered, “Drive.”

  The tiger shut the door. A few seconds later, the carriage started forward.

  Suddenly, the door was flung open, and a man swung inside the compartment. He landed on the bench across from Liggett with a light bounce and slammed the door shut after himself.

  He pulled a pistol from beneath his greatcoat and pointed it at Liggett’s chest.

  “Good evening, General.” The man smiled pleasantly. “We’ve not yet formally met. I’m Clayton Elliott.”

  Confused rage boiled inside Liggett. “What is the meaning of—”

  “Former major with the Grenadier Guards, First Regiment of Foot. Now Home Office undersecretary.” The man’s smile faded, its disappearance punctuating the easing down of the pistol’s hammer. “And the man responsible for ensuring minimal loss of property and life from tonight’s riot.” He laid the pistol down across his knee but kept his hand on it. “Which means I’m putting an end to your plans.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Liggett glanced out the window. The carriage was heading in the wrong direction. “Stop this nonsense and take me to the barricades!”

  He pounded his fist against the roof to signal to the driver to stop, but the coachman only flipped the ribbons and urged the team into a faster pace.

  Liggett leaned out the window and yelled, “Stop this carriage immediately!”

  “Apologies, General,” the Home Office undersecretary said calmly. “But the men are under my command and have orders to ignore you.”

  “I am a general. I have the authority to command the Horse Guards.” Liggett leaned out the window again and noted that two of the guards had left, leaving only Captain Reed following behind on his horse in a slow canter. “Stop this carriage, Captain. I order you!”

  But Reed ignored Liggett’s command and rode on.

  Shaking with fury, he sat back on the bench and clenched a fist at the man across from him. “Take me to the barricades. Now. I have orders from the Home Secretary himself to put down the riots.”

  “But I am taking you to the barricades,” the man said with exaggerated calmness. “And by the Horse Guard escort you specifically requested, to ensure your safe arrival in Tilbury.”

  “Tilbury?” Liggett sputtered. “That’s half a day’s ride in the other direction.”

  The undersecretary smiled. “Didn’t I mention? You’re going to the barricades via Botany Bay.”

  Liggett’s blood grew cold. “You’re kidnapping a general, impressing me—”

  “Kidnapping…facilitating overseas diplomatic travel…” The man shrugged. “There’s such a fine line between the two, don’t you agree?” His eyes glinted icily in the darkness. “By this time tomorrow, when you’re finally found tied up and gagged in the hold by the sailors I’ve paid to ignore you until then, the ship will be out to sea and on its way to the South Pacific.”

  “You’re mad! When the Home Secretary learns of this—”

  “Of course, they can’t keep you in Australia,” he mused. “The ship’s captain can bring you back immediately—round trip, in about six months. Give or take a month. Or three.”

  “I’ll ruin you for this!” Liggett threatened. “I will end your career and have you hanged.”

  “Can’t do that if you’re dead,” the undersecretary warned in a low and threatening voice. “You’ve working with Scepter.” The accusation was leveled with deadly certainty. “And we both know what Scepter does to people who fail it.”

  At that, Liggett’s blood turned completely to ice. If he wasn’t there to lead the soldiers and stop the riot, if he wasn’t there to be the symbol of strength and leadership that the country lacked, if he was no longer needed—

  Scepter would kill him.

  “So you might discover that you prefer life in Australia to returning to England.” The undersecretary leaned casually back against the squabs and kicked out his long legs, settling in for the drive to the docks at Tilbury. “Either way, General, I think it’s safe to say that your military career is over.”

  The steam from Veronica’s breath clouded the frigid predawn air. “Are we ready, then?”

  Filipe stood just at her shoulder and nodded, turning to face her so that each of them looked in the opposite direction down the street and no one could sneak up on them. They fell easily back into the old ways of battle that his father, Jabir, had taught them all those years ago in Portugal.

  “The men have their orders,” he answered quietly.

  Around them, the City’s narrow streets were alive in the darkness, filled with hundreds of people milling about on the cobblestones and along the brick building fronts. All of them were solemn and quiet, yet an excited anticipation pulsed through them. She could feel it buzzing like electricity, all the way down into her bones.

  “But will it work?” Filipe muttered beneath his own clouded breath.

  “It will.” It had to work. Tonight would be their only chance. Her last chance. She wouldn’t let Merritt down.

  “It had better. I’ve called in every favor I had to make this happen,” he half mumbled to himself. He added, looking away, “Then I paid twice as many men just to make certain we’d have enough show up.”

  Guilt pricked at her belly. “You shouldn’t have done that. That money could have been given to people who—”

  “It wasn’t the Court of Miracle’s money,” he corrected, his gaze swinging back to hers for only a moment before sweeping on down the dark street. “It was my own.”

  Her heart tugged with gratitude even as she chastised, “You really shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Fight fire with fire, I always say.” He shrugged a shoulder and tugged at his gloves. “Or in this case, paid rioters with paid rioters.”

  She arched a brow. “You’ve never said that.”

  “Perhaps I should have,” he said dryly. “Because that’s what we’re doing.”

  Exactly that. They’d created their own personal riot. One they could control.

  The plan was lunacy…gather together enough people that the crowd could take on a critical mass of its own, send them into the square to join Scepter’s waiting mob, then send their people in a different direction than Scepter wanted them to go. They would direct the riot north, hopefully taking Scepter’s people with them, to move them away from the soldiers before letting it fizzle out completely beneath its own lack of momentum and with the help of the night watch. But this plan was also their only option.

  S
he prayed it would work.

  “We’re as ready as we can be.” Her hand strayed to the hilt of her sword. “Now we simply wait for the signal. You’ll rush to the front to guide them, I’ll bring up the rear, and we’ll meet back at the Court of Miracles at dawn.”

  “No,” he said gravely. “We won’t.”

  “Of course we—”

  “No.” He paused to take a deep breath. “This is goodbye, querida irmã.” His eyes softened on her with affection. “I know you’re leaving the life you had before, just as I know it has nothing to do with the pardon they’ve promised you.”

  Her throat tightened. There was no point in denying it. “You’re right. I’m not going back to that life.” No matter what happened tonight, she had already moved on. “But this isn’t goodbye for us. You’re still the King of Saffron Hill, still presiding over the Court of Miracles. I know where to find you when I want to say hello.” Her voice cracked. “Or when I need you.”

  “You don’t need me anymore. You have your barrister to protect you now.” When she began to correct him, he stopped her by taking her shoulders in his hands. “You think I can’t see what’s between you? You think I didn’t notice the way he looks at you, the way you look at him?” He leaned in to place a kiss to her forehead, and she was certain he felt the way she trembled at the pain of parting. “You have a new life ahead of you.”

  Her heart stuttered. Merritt had told her almost the exact same thing. But claiming that new life also meant surrendering so much—

  Her hand clutched at his jacket lapel. “I won’t give up my family.”

  “You have new family waiting for you.”

  He meant Merritt and the other men of the Armory, Merritt’s father, Claudia…but she would lose him. “You’re my brother, Filipe,” she choked out, not knowing how she was able to speak past the knot in her throat. “I won’t let go of you.”

  “Then it’s time that I let go of you. I won’t let you sacrifice yourself a second time for me. I couldn’t stop you before when you went to prison, but this time, I can.” He released her shoulders and put her hand away from him. “I’m leaving England. I’m turning the Court over to Ivy for her to run. My men have been told to look after her and all the people there, to help them the same way we’ve helped them.”

  A hollow ache burned in her chest. “Where will you go?”

  “Back home to Portugal where I belong.” He gave a faint, sad smile. “England was never my dream. It was my father’s. I came here to prove myself to his memory. But I’ve done enough to appease his spirit. It’s time now that I satisfy my own. And that you do the same.”

  She pulled in a deep breath of resolve, hating the thought even as she said, “Then I’ll come with you. We’ll return—”

  “No, querida. My future lies in Portugal.” His eyes glistened. “Yours lies here.”

  The bell of Temple Church pealed the hour, slowly striking six times. Each toll reverberated through the streets and jarred into her with as much force as Filipe’s words. Blinking hard to gather herself, she glanced in surprise toward the south through the night, as if she could see the bell tower through the impenetrable darkness.

  It was time for their riot.

  “Now!” Filipe signaled to the crowd milling around them with a wave of his arms. “Let’s go!”

  Excitement crackled on the cold night air and pulsated through the crowd as they followed his orders and moved off toward the square where Scepter’s mob had already formed. Men swung their clubs in the air as they marched, with strict orders to stay far away from the soldiers and destroy as little property as possible while still making it seem as if they were truly rioting. It would be an exercise in controlled chaos.

  Filipe turned and walked backward down the street, joining with the crowd to lead them north. “Adeus, querida irmã,” he called out to her. “Goodbye, my sister.”

  Then he was gone, disappearing amid the crowd as they headed into the maze of narrow, dark streets.

  Veronica stood still, unable to move as grief coursed through her. This parting had been coming for a long while, but knowing that didn’t lessen the pain of her loss. She forced herself to drag in a deep, trembling breath.

  “Adeus, Filipe,” she whispered after him into the night.

  Pulling back her shoulders, she inhaled a deep breath and steeled herself for what she’d been charged to do tonight. Then she drew her sword and started after the mob, to bring up the rear and keep as many of the rioters moving north as possible.

  But half an hour later, part of the mob broke away. A group of two dozen or so men peeled away from the main group and cut down the city streets toward the west. Just as they’d been paid to do.

  “Wrong way!” She gestured with her sword toward the north, to round them back together and drive them after the rest of the mob. “Follow the others!”

  While several of them rejoined the main crowd, most of the breakaway group ignored her and charged on west toward Westminster…and toward the soldiers who were waiting at their barricades with guns ready to fire.

  Veronica watched with sickening frustration. There was nothing she could do to stop them. But she wouldn’t give up without a fight.

  Clutching her sword, she raced after them.

  Twenty-four

  The clip of their horses’ hooves echoed off the brick and stone buildings as Merritt, Pearce, and Marcus rode from the Armory toward Westminster. Around them, London was quiet and dark as if the whole world had paused to catch its breath in this last hour of night before the sun rose and the day jarred to life. But a low apprehension lingered over it, one that had Merritt’s muscles tense with alertness. His horse felt it, too, based upon the way its ears moved uneasily in a constant semicircle, flicking back and forth to catch all the sounds of the night.

  From their route west along the Strand, no traces of a riot were visible. London was quiet. Only the usual people prowled its streets, and none of them were the likes of men that Scepter would have paid to lead a mob. But Merritt knew the rioters were amassed and moving through the streets just as the three of them were, and all of them were heading in the same direction—toward the barricades.

  Marcus rode lead, dressed in his old general’s uniform, complete with officer’s sword and pistol, with Pearce following behind and Merritt bringing up the rear. The sight of his two friends stirred such memories that Merritt could almost believe they were once again in the middle of the wars, once again riding to engage the enemy. Almost. Because the familiar streets were a stark reminder that they were now fighting battles at home.

  So did the sight of uniformed English soldiers standing behind tall barricades that blocked the way at Charing Cross where Pall Mall, Whitehall, and the Strand converged. The exact place where Malmesbury’s mistress had told them the rioters were paid to go in their march toward Westminster.

  As soon as the soldiers came into view, Marcus kicked his heels into his horse’s sides and sent the large black gelding into a canter. He rode straight-spined and tall in the saddle, the perfect image of British command and confidence.

  “Attention!” Pearce called out. His old brigadier’s uniform was nearly as impressive as the general’s as he darted his horse ahead of Marcus to address the men. “At attention!”

  The soldiers shifted nervously and glanced among themselves for answers to what was happening. The officers were just as surprised as the foot guards.

  Pearce reined his horse into a tight circle in front of the barricade and shouted angrily at the soldiers, “Stand at attention! General Braddock has arrived to take command!”

  His shout sent up a ripple of excited murmurs through the group of soldiers, some of whom now craned their necks to see past the five-foot-tall barricade at the two men.

  Merritt half smiled to himself. No one cared about him in comparison, and he gratefully slipped unnoticed from hi
s horse in his plain black patrol clothes. Only his sword gave evidence that he was there for a fight.

  Marcus stopped his horse directly in front of the barricade, but there was no doubt now among the men about who he was. He ranked second only to Wellington in terms of notoriety and service to England, yet he reigned first in soldiers’ admiration and loyalty. They stared with awe, exactly as the men of the Armory had hoped.

  “I’m here to replace Major-General Liggett,” he announced. Instead of dismounting, he took full advantage of the striking figure he made on horseback and raked his gaze across the soldiers. “Where is your commanding colonel?”

  “Here, General!” one of the officers called out as he climbed onto the bottom step of the barricade and saluted. “Colonel Anderson at your command, sir.”

  Marcus gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. “You were expecting Liggett. There’s been a change in orders.” He dismounted and tossed the reins to a private who stood guard at the front side of the barricade. “I’m in command now. You’ll follow my orders.”

  “Yes, General,” the colonel snapped out in quick deference. Then he added, “We’re thrilled to have you among us, sir.”

  Marcus strode up to the barricade and climbed over it, then signaled for Pearce and Merritt to follow.

  The two men exchanged a knowing glance. There were no orders from the Home Office or War Department regarding a change in command, and not one of the three men still possessed his active commission. But the soldiers didn’t know that. And wouldn’t know that until after the riot was long over.

  “Always better to ask forgiveness than permission,” Merritt muttered beneath his breath to Pearce as they climbed over the barricade and landed on the other side.

  “You spent years studying the law,” Pearce quietly replied, “and that’s the lesson you learned?”

  Merritt crooked a brow. “Can you think of a better one?”

  Especially since that philosophy had brought them past the first obstacle in their plan—removing Liggett and putting a man they trusted in charge of the soldiers.