Being the guest of the Countess of Claremont had its advantages. She had more servants than Chastity would have imagined for one lady and a cook. In a few days’ time, Chastity had gone from a beaten and starved captive, threatened with ruin, to a lady of leisure dining with a denizen of the ton.
But she had not forgotten the terror of her capture nor joy in the arms of her saviour.
The dinner they had that evening was one she would remember and not just for the food. Branched silver candlesticks graced the mahogany table set with sparkling crystal, some colored blue, and porcelain in a pattern she recognized as one by Spode, which her mother greatly admired. In the center of the table sat a squat vase full of white roses. Above the flowers hung a brilliant crystal chandelier with a multitude of candles.
The countess claimed the seat at the head of the table and directed Chastity to the chair on her right, which a footman pulled out for her. The food served them was sumptuous. It began with vegetable soup. “The vegetables are from Cook’s kitchen garden,” said the countess. “In the summer there are so many to choose from.”
“’Tis delicious,” remarked Chastity. “My mother has an extensive kitchen garden.”
“In Northampton?”
“Yes.”
“Do you miss your home?” the countess asked.
Chastity thought of what she might say that did not sound ungrateful. “Our home is not so grand as yours, Countess, but it is old and stately and has a beautiful setting. I do love the countryside and think of it often. But I must tell you I have enjoyed the visit with Aunt Agatha. We get on as the best of friends. She is always full of ideas for amusement and knows such interesting people. Through her, I met the king and Mrs. Fitzherbert, her neighbor, and so many others.”
“I am not surprised. I, too, find Agatha’s company delightful. In the last few years, she has become something of an eccentric but it seems to suit her.”
“I love how she dresses in bright colors,” said Chastity. “I designed a pair of shoes for her with yellow sunflowers on the toes to go with one of her gowns. She quite liked them.”
“You design shoes?” the countess inquired.
“’Tis a hobby I learned from my father. When we are not engaged in reading or some other pursuit, he and I design shoes, he most often men’s boots. He only makes a prototype for the shoemakers to use whereas I design for my friends and family.”
“What an industrious young woman you are, Miss Reynolds. I begin to see that your beauty is not the only thing about you that Sir Robert finds compelling.”
Chastity felt her cheeks flame and dropped her gaze to the crimped cod in oyster sauce, just being served. Desperate to change the subject, she raised her head and asked, “Have you ever been to the fish market on the beach at Brighton?
“I have observed it from the Marine Parade on one of my morning walks with Agatha, but we did not participate.”
“It was great fun. Sir Robert helped me select fish for Aunt Agatha’s cook.” She fought a laugh, remembering how much they had bought. When the countess furrowed her brow, Chastity said, “Between my friend, Rose Crockett, and Sir Robert’s uncle, Monsieur Donet, we purchased a veritable feast of fish.”
“You enjoyed yourself, then?”
“Oh, yes.” She smiled recalling that morning. Perhaps that was the beginning of her softening to the man she had once called The Rogue. But why did he want to marry her? She wasn’t beautiful like Rose or her sisters. She wasn’t high-born like many of the ladies he could wed. His thought to marry her seemed impulsive, rash even. He might reconsider. And, if he did, perhaps, if they could be nothing more, they could be friends. But she knew that would never satisfy her, not after she had known his kisses, his arms around her.
As the footman refreshed their Claret wine, the countess said, “I kept the dinner simple tonight, knowing neither of us would have a large appetite. I do hope you find it adequate.”
“More than adequate, my lady. In truth, this is a splendid repast.”
“For dessert, there will be Italian ices from Negri’s in Berkeley Square. A summer treat.”
“Truly? I love ices, all flavors.”
“Pistachio is my favorite,” said the countess with a smile, “but we have pineapple and jasmine, too.”
Chastity beamed her pleasure. It was easy to talk with the countess though she did wonder if she wasn’t being interviewed. She half-expected the countess to raise her quizzing glass to consider her again more closely.
As they shared a glass of Madeira after dinner—a wine the countess told her she kept on hand at all times—the countess fixed her with a steady gaze. “What think you of Sir Robert’s offer of marriage?”
Chastity let out a breath. She should have known the question would present itself at some point. “I hardly know what to think of it, my lady. ’Twas not even a proper offer. I recall no bended knee, no avowal of love. He merely kissed me—quite against my will, I might add—and informed me he would marry me.”
“Oh, dear.” The countess brought her palm to her chest. “I see he has gone about this all wrong. You are a romantic and must have a proposal that wins your heart.”
“I never thought to wed,” said Chastity. “On my twenty-first birthday, I will come into a family legacy, an estate of my own.”
“And you foolishly believe that will be enough? No, my dear, it never shall. A life alone is not a life fully lived, not for a woman. You must wed for you will want children, a family. Oh, I daresay it will take an unusual man, but Agatha would be quite dismayed to think you had no desire for marriage. You must reconsider.”
Chastity did not want to displease her hostess, the gracious woman who would see her back to Brighton. “At your urging, Countess, I will think on it.”
Chapter 15
The next afternoon, after what seemed like a long journey, Lady Claremont’s carriage came to a stop in front of Aunt Agatha’s house. Now that they had arrived, Chastity was suddenly nervous. The bruises on her face had darkened, though the countess’ maid had given her something to hide the worst of it.
She looked out the window to see her great-aunt and Rose standing in front of the gate, each wearing an anxious expression. Did they wonder what indecencies she had suffered? Did they worry the ruse of her having visited with Lady Claremont would not be convincing? That she would, indeed, be ruined?
Chastity accepted the footman’s hand and stepped down from the carriage and into the arms of her great-aunt.
“Oh, thank God you are safe,” cried Aunt Agatha, giving her a tight hug. “We were so worried but Sir Robert assured us he would find you and I see he did.” Her great-aunt held her away, examining her like she might a broken doll. “Are you well?”
“She’s fine, Agatha,” said Lady Claremont, having descended from the carriage. “I trust you received my message?”
“Yes, thank you, Muriel.”
“Good, but we could both do with some tea.”
“Oh, yes, you are quite right. Cook has been baking all morning and we are prepared for tea in the parlor. It’s so good to have you both here. Of course, I have told my friends that Chastity was visiting with you.”
The two older women walked up the path to the front door, chatting like the old friends they were.
Chastity and Rose followed, Rose taking her arm. “You don’t have to speak of it if you don’t want to, Chas.”
“I don’t mind,” said Chastity, “now that it’s over.”
“Was it very dreadful?”
Chastity remembered the man Augie pawing her and his brutal fist, the dank room in the East End of London, her fear of the man who led her captors and her dread of his intentions. “Parts of it, yes.”
“We prayed for you every day.”
“I expect that may be the reason I ended up where I did.” At Rose’s inquiring gaze, she said, “I’ll tell you about it later.”
Once they were seated in the parlor with their tea, Crispin came to sit at Chastity
’s feet. She set aside her teacup and lifted him into her lap. His warm body was comforting, his purr like a welcome home.
“He missed you,” said Rose.
Aunt Agatha inquired, “What of Sir Robert and M’sieur Donet?”
Lady Claremont held her cup and saucer before her. “Sir Robert was the one who delivered Chastity to me, concerned for appearances once she was safe. I believe he and his uncle are pursuing the scoundrel who kidnapped Chastity. The dreadful man wasn’t to surface for several days so Sir Robert had to remain in London.”
“Two quid on the Spanish cock!” a man shouted from the rear of the tavern.
“Three on the black-breasted red!” came another cry. “He’ll cut yer Spaniard to ribbons!”
Boisterous male voices rose to a crescendo as the cockfight, attended by sailors, merchants, and even some London fops, got underway.
Robbie grimaced. There was one form of gambling in which he refused to indulge—cockfighting. He could not enjoy seeing the roosters rip each other apart, the match ending only when one was badly hurt or dead. But since Ings had chosen to meet his men here on a Sunday, and that was the day The Prospect sponsored such entertainment, Robbie was unsurprised to hear the sounds of men eagerly anticipating the blood sport.
Not wishing to announce themselves before it was time, Robbie and Jack had disguised their appearances. Tiller had borrowed clothing from the crew of the Tradewind, Robbie’s schooner that, by happenstance, was moored in the Pool of London waiting to be unloaded. To these clothes, they added wigs and sloppy hats and a few days’ extra stubble to mask their normally clean jaws.
He had asked Tiller to inquire if any of the crew, who would otherwise be enjoying their shore leave, could be persuaded to join them at the tavern. Their fists might come in handy should the capture of Ings and his men turn into a brawl.
Over dinner the night before, Tiller had come to tell him all was in order.
Robbie asked, “How many volunteered?” He didn’t expect even the four he’d requested. When in port, his crew always had family to visit and a list of entertainments to pursue.
“They were right happy to oblige, Cap’n. So many raised their hands, I had me pick of the crew. I chose the brawniest, like ye said.”
He shot his valet an amused look. “Their response leaves me to wonder if it’s for love of their captain whose face they’ve not seen for some time, or if it’s because they love a good fight.”
“Both, I ’spect.” said Tiller, grinning. “The first mate’s doin’ a fine job as cap’n but they likes the one they had. And then there was the cockfight, it bein’ Sunday.”
“They may soon have their captain back,” he said. He hoped Chastity Reynolds would delay his plans to return to sea. She might accompany him as some captain’s wives did. As soon as he returned to Brighton, his first priority would be to convince her to accept his suit.
“Have you alerted the proprietor to our purpose?” he asked Tiller.
“Aye, Cap’n. He understands ’tis the Crown’s business ye’re about and that ye’ll pay for any damage.”
As they entered The Prospect, Robbie scanned the men at the tables between the windows and the bar, spotting his gunner and bosun. They briefly raised their chins telling him he had been recognized. He hoped Ings could not so easily find him among the crowd.
“Shall we venture toward the ring?” he said to Jack in a low whisper.
“I was hoping you’d ask. I can’t say I’ve ever attended a cockfight. They have them in Calais but I’ve yet to witness one.”
They headed toward the back of the long tavern to a large area cordoned off for the birds where the cocks were posturing before each other. Surrounding them a crowd of men stared intensely in anticipation.
“It’s not very different than a fight among pirates,” said Robbie. “Only instead of knives, the gamecocks use their spurs, sometimes enhanced with metal. Not to my taste.”
Gathered around the ring, Robbie counted twenty-five men, all focused intently on the squawking birds, now furiously going at each other.
A few men glanced up at the newcomers, then back to the birds. Two were members of Robbie’s crew, the sailmaker and the carpenter. The others might be dockworkers or sailors from other ships, save for one whose dark eyes reminded him of Chastity’s description of Ings. The man briefly considered Robbie and Jack before returning his attention to the fighting cocks. His expression spoke of disinterest in the fight whereas every other man seemed fixated on the outcome. Both the man’s hair and eyes were very dark. His face sported a mustache, a narrow goatee and chin whiskers framing his jaw, unusual for London gentry. Was the facial hair his own? His clothing was black, the cut of his coat speaking of fine tailoring. Robbie couldn’t see his boots from where he stood but he suspected they, too, were black.
The short cockfight ended when one bird was pinned to the dirt, bleeding. Robbie wanted to leave. Instead, he fixed his steady gaze on the crowd.
“Well, what do you think of it?” he asked Jack.
“I see your point. Répugnant. Once was enough for me.”
The man in black rose, as did one other man, passing Robbie and Jack on their way into the bar area. It was clear they were looking for someone and were disappointed not to find him. Robbie supposed his disguise worked better than he’d anticipated.
With a nod at his uncle, Robbie followed, all the while staring at the boots of the man in black. He and his companion claimed a small table, their backs to the paned glass windows lining the wall facing the Thames. As the man slid into his chair, Robbie caught sight of the stylized “R” on the shaft.
Robbie boldly confronted the man. “Waiting for someone, Ings?”
The man looked up, startled. “Why, yes, but you are not—” He peered closely at Robbie and a flicker of recognition appeared in his dark eyes.
“You are a thief, a despoiler of innocents and a dastardly reprobate, Ings.” Withdrawing his pistol, Robbie aimed it at the man’s heart. “On behalf of the king, I charge you with assault and kidnapping. You are under arrest.” Robbie’s speech, finer than his apparel, must have confirmed his identity.
“Powell!” Ings spit out as he got to his feet.
The crowd at the bar went silent.
“You are a traitor to all good Englishmen!”
“Not so the view of His Majesty.”
Ings slipped his hand into the pocket of his overcoat.
“Take up that pistol at your peril,” said Robbie. “If you don’t hit me, you may hit one behind me, adding murder to the charges. Besides, half the men in the tavern are mine.”
Ings looked around and snarled, “So be it! Striking them will strike at you!”
Just then, Ings’ companion drew a knife from his waist and, reaching across the table, tried to stab Robbie. But Robbie was quick and knocked the blade from his hand with his pistol.
Jack grabbed the man by his jacket, holding a knife to his throat. “Give me a chance to draw blood and I will. My knife is thirsty.” Jack thrust him into the chair. “Sit!”
“I, too, have men with me,” said Ings. With a snake’s smile, he drew his pistol. “You may have this one,” he said, darting a glance at his companion, “but there are many others here.”
Robbie sensed men at his back, but he couldn’t turn to be certain if they were his. With dueling pistols ready to fire and Jack’s blade at the neck of Ings’ companion, his options were limited.
“Drop the pistol, Ings.”
“And why would I do that? Now that I have seen to the ruination of your lady love, your death is all I seek.”
Robbie laughed. “You err if you think you accomplished that. My lady has not been ruined. The place you took her is known to me and I to them. She remains untouched and safe.”
Shock appeared on Ings’ face. He froze, allowing Robbie time to strike the villain’s hand that held the pistol. The gun went off before dropping to the floor, but the shot failed to hit its mark.
> “Ye should have let me have the chit,” said Ings’ companion to his master.
“You must be Augie,” snarled Robbie. When the man did not deny it, Robbie moved his pistol to his left hand and, motioning Jack aside, planted his fist in the man’s face, content to hear his nose break. “That is for my lady you badly mistreated.”
Jack resumed his hold on the man named Augie and pressed his knife deeper into his throat.
Ings shouted, “Take them!”
Robbie glanced over his shoulder to see a mêlée had broken out and his men throwing punches. “We got this, Cap’n!” his carpenter shouted as he slammed his fist into a man’s gut, dropping him to the floor where he lay groaning.
The tavern erupted into a knockdown tussle, men shouting and fists flying.
“Robbie!” shouted Jack.
Robbie looked back to see Ings pulling a knife from his boot. Filled with disdain for the twisted miscreant, Robbie shot Ings in the shoulder.
Ings dropped his knife and staggered back, sinking into a chair.
“One down; one more to go.”
“Très bien,” said Jack as he smashed the hilt of the blade he’d been holding into the temple of Ings’ companion causing him to fall to his knees and slide beneath the table. “That makes two, mon ami.”
“I’ll take that rope, now!” Robbie shouted to the barkeeper.
A coil of rope flew through the air. He grabbed it and handed one length to Jack. “Tie him up; I’ll see to Ings.” When both men were trussed up, Robbie said, “We’ll hand them over to the Bow Street Runners. I imagine they will be pleased to arrest these who sympathized with the man who shot one of their own.”
The fight in the bar was over. Robbie’s men had prevailed with only minor scrapes and bruises. Robbie looked over the scene of bodies lying at various angles and groans emanating from those who weren’t out cold. “A round of drinks for the crew!” he shouted.
Rogue’s Holiday Page 22
