1635: A Parcel of Rogues - eARC (35 page)

Chapter 39

“Right you are, Mrs. Cromwell,” Andrew said, “we’re on our way.”

“Word?” Darryl asked.

Julie thought Darryl looked more than a bit spooked. Wasn’t so surprising, at that. He and Harry Lefferts had always been up to stuff. Having to respond to other people being up to stuff probably wasn’t natural for him. Even the lunacy he and the other men had got up to around Norfolk had been their plans, their initiative. Vicky was holding on to his arm, looking like she was being all girly and nervous, but Julie knew Vicky Short a whole lot better than that by now. She exchanged a significant look with the other girl.

Darryl was actually having to be brave for the first time in his life, rather than just reckless.
Do him good,
she thought. Thinking about Darryl’s troubles kept her mind off the horrible little burning ball of worry that was under her heart, white hot and melting down through her insides like a red-hot musket ball through warm butter.
Alexi
.

“Same plan you had, except we ken who the householder is now,” Andrew said. “A Doctor Scott. Your father’s acquainted, Colonel, and your supposition about yon wall’s aye richt. They’re readying the servant girls and wee Alexi to come over to us.”

“And here’s me with plenty of rope. Let’s hope it’s enough,” Darryl put in. “Say, Colonel Mackay, ain’t you supposed to be in jail?”

Julie noticed that his voice was clear and firm, so maybe she was being oversensitive about how spooked he was. “He made bail,” she said, “nearly official.” Which was, after a fashion, true. The jailers were fined if their prisoner didn’t show at court, and Julie entirely meant to drag him there Monday come hell or high water. The bribe was almost like paying a bondsman, and she’d be her husband’s own personal bounty hunter. Fortunately, they’d gotten friendly enough with the guards that it hadn’t been that hard to sell. And maybe there was a certain amount of
don’t-fuck-with-me
flashing out of her eyes right now.

“I fancy that’s the house,” Hamilton said, nodding toward a three-story town house that looked well kept, but old even for Edinburgh. He was idly screwing a big spearhead onto his walking stick, a fancy-looking thing with points and blades all over, like the Yeoman Warders had in the tourist photos back up-time. Here and now, it didn’t look like any kind of ceremonial thing. Man could probably shave with it.

“Aye, that’s the Scott house,” Alex said. He’d had no weapons with him, but Hamilton had lent him a vicious-looking eighteen-inch hook thing that Julie couldn’t quite recall the name of. Probably not as good as the saber that was back at his father’s house, but better than nothing. He was keeping it straight down by his leg. Not alarming the public or frightening any horses, but ready for use.

Julie checked her pistol was in its right place inside the coat she was wearing. Not her rifle, but it’d do until they got home and she could get to work. There were some fuckers going to
die
for putting Alexi at risk. Or, maybe not die, if things didn’t get out of hand. She wasn’t going to be entirely scrupulous about kneecaps, though.
Especially
not if they let her stop to think about it.

“Let’s go to work,” she said, striding off and not bothering to wait for the rest. She figured she’d have a head start on convincing whoever was in the house by being young and female. She’d stand behind none of the guys when it came to being dangerous, but she was well ahead of them when it came to looking unthreatening and nice. Not, it had to be said, a high bar to clear when it came to Stephen or Major Lennox, both of whom looked like they had Rottweilers in their family tree.

“With me, Vicky!” she called over her shoulder. If the situation called for cute and unthreatening, might as well double down. More than double; Vicky was smaller and politer, and more conventionally girly, and didn’t look like she’d spent her early teens training up for athletic competition. Wasn’t nobody going to make her back down, neither. But for just talking? Vicky was as unintimidating as a girl could get.

“You hear that?” Vicky said as she caught up.

Julie cocked her head. There were four guys stomping along behind her, and the ordinary street-noise of a busy town on a market day, but—
there
. “Crowd noise,” she said, coming up short. The guys stopped with a crash of boot heels behind her, apparently having fallen into the role of heavily armed goon backup on sheer reflex. She suppressed a snicker and stopped to listen again. “Gayle said Finnegan brought help.”

“There was a crowd too,” Vicky said, looking worried. “You think it’s gone ugly?”

“Hope not, but we better move,” Julie said. Vicky’s concern was valid. “You got your gun?”

“And my aid bag,” Vicky said. “Rita trained me the one, Darryl the other.”

“Here’s hoping you don’t need either,” Julie said, and thumped on the door with the heel of her hand.

“
Here’s hoping someone’s in,” Vicky retorted, shuffling back to stand at Julie’s elbow.
Loyal retainer position,
Julie thought, amused a little in spite of herself, as the distant sounds of someone coming to the door began to make themselves heard. Apart from Darryl, the five with her were all down-timers and understood about appearances and how someone could be made to look like they were in charge. They were following her lead naturally, like a dance they all knew even if they’d never done it together. It was a bit like a senior officer having his staff and aides with him: he was important enough to need staff, therefore the fact that he had staff made him look important. Damn fool thinking, but useful here-and-now. Bavarian Fire Drill, Tom Stone called it, although Thuringian Fire Drill was a better name for it with
this
cast of characters. And, what was more, having the retinue kind of made her
feel
important, too. She stood up straighter, and went for a haughty lift of the chin. Watching Mrs. Simpson in action was paying off.

The door opened, and a shortish, round-looking guy in a dark green suit peered around it. She sized him up. No obvious professional dress nor the sort-of-academic gown doctors and lawyers wore. The clothes were good, but not obviously expensive, and well-worn. Since doctors earned good money, even compared with their twentieth-century equivalents, this guy was a servant. Senior, though. Not a big enough house to need a butler, but definitely the top manservant. Secretary, possibly?

“Yes?” the man said, quavering a bit. Not surprising. Imposing-looking woman with four goons and a maidservant. Man had been blown clear out of his comfort zone the moment the door opened.

“We need to get to your back yard,” Julie said. “There’s trouble at the Mackay house and we’re to rescue the women and children. We’re going to bring them over the back wall. Inform your master.” She just had to hope she’d got that part right.

“Ah—” It was all Julie could do not to burst out laughing. Entirely out of the ordinary, but a woman being so blunt about trouble coming to his master’s door? Especially since it was a woman talking about rescuing the women. Man was bound to be confused. If only she had a camera right now! Miz Mailey would be purely overjoyed at the story that led up to that expression on the poor guy’s face.
Feminism, meet seventeenth-century manservant. I’m sure you’ll get on famously.

“And,” she added, “by way of introduction, I am Baroness Bornholm. Please, we’re in a hurry.” She added her best haughty glare. No idea if it was the right mannerism, but she could probably get away with it. Foreign peerage, if someone called her on it.

A long and awkward pause. “If you’d do me the honor of coming in my lady, I’ll summon the doctor—” He stepped back and held the door to one side having gabbled all that out in a rush. “First room to the left, if you would, the doctor is with a patient at the moment. If I might inquire, where is Bornholm?” He didn’t sound Scots, now she listened to him. Maybe he was thinking it was a bit of Scotland he’d never heard of?

“Sweden,” Julie said, striding in as briskly as she spoke.
There, that ought to cover it if I’ve got it wrong. Rude foreigner, that’s me.
Also, worried-as-hell mother. Which covered it even more efficiently. Couldn’t push too hard, though, or they’d get no help. Just plain forcing the matter would probably work, but it’d take longer.
More haste, less speed.
This was for Alexi.

A moment and they were all in a simply furnished drawing-room. “I think he might have fallen back on procedure a bit, there,” Julie ventured, when the little guy had bustled off.

“Fussy wee Englishman,” Alex agreed, grinning, although the smile wasn’t reaching his eyes, quite. “No’ sure how tae take the grand Swedish baroness.”

“Hush, you,” Julie said, “I was
improvising.”

“Jazz, nobility style,” Darryl cracked, his smile a little less forced. Now things had moved into active shenanigans, he seemed a lot cooler, which was to the good.

“Y’did richt,” Major Lennox said. “Heinzerling had a plan much like it, in Rome. Forbye I was pretending to be a Polish nobleman. Ye made a better fist than I did, my lady. Genuine article, o’ course. Bound t’help.” He was grinning like a loon. Clearly happy for someone else to be doing the improvising. Outside of combat, where Alex assured her the man was purely an artist, Major Lennox was the last guy you’d expect to be comfortable getting all free-and-easy. He was not, to borrow Darryl’s joke, a jazz kind of guy. Lots of brass and marching in a steady two-four time.

“Well, assuming the good doctor’s happy to help a bona fide baroness-in-distress, or at least a baroness in a hurry, are we all set? Major, can you radio in progress so far? Find out how things are.”

“Aye.” Lennox fished in his pocket for the handset, and stepped away to talk to Gayle.

There was awkward silence among the rest for a moment while they eavesdropped on Lennox’s side of the conversation, before he turned back. “Mrs. Cromwell says ye’ll ken what a Mexican standoff is?” he asked.

Julie and Darryl both snorted. “Sure,” she said. “Everybody’s armed, nobody’s making the first move. No idea why it’s called a Mexican standoff, I think it’s a movie thing, but that’s what it is.”

“We’ve time, then,” Alex observed. There was the hint of prayer in his tone.
Amen
.

“Still have to be quick,” Stephen said. “Situation like that can turn ugly, quick as you like.”

“What situation?” came a new voice, this one Scots-accented, but clearly cultured in tone. “Forgive my bluntness, but I understand you are in a hurry, and I have patients awaiting me.”

Dr. Scott was an oldish man, short and gray-bearded, in a dark-red suit with a white ruff and a black gown with a square-cornered cap on his head. About normal for a physician in this day and age, he was dressed as the senior academic he’d qualified as. Dr. Abrabanel wore a similar outfit when treating patients, confusing the hell out of up-timers until they got used to the lack of a white lab coat. This guy, though, looked like a medieval Obi-Wan Kenobi. There was, actually, quite the resemblance with Alec Guinness.

“Doctor,” Julie said, stepping forward and offering her hand, hoping to get some sort of command of the situation.
Before he tells me these aren’t the droids I’m looking for, at least.

She was briefly befuddled by him taking it and bowing low over it; up-timer handshakes had caught on fast in Germany, but this was old-fashioned even for down-time.
Old guy, right,
she thought.

“My lady Baroness,” he said, straightening from the bow, “how may I be of assistance?”

“I’m related, by marriage, to the Mackays, your neighbors to the rear. I received word that there is rioting in the street to the front of the house, and Baron Mackay wishes to rescue the women and children from his house. Over your garden wall, if we can?” Julie hoped like hell she was getting the balance right between noble entitlement and polite request. She didn’t want to get the guy’s back up by either offending him or making him suspect she was running some kind of con. Sure, she was a gen-you-wine baroness, but not in the way of being born to it, which
counted,
damn it.

“I have, of course, heard of my lady the baroness,” the doctor said, smiling pleasantly, which Julie took as a good sign. “And of your relation to the Mackays. And, indeed, of the unpleasantness that the Irish justice from England has brought to Edinburgh.”

Julie nodded. These people lived without television.
Of course
the gossip was going to go around. “Whatever that Irish
person
may be up to, he’s got no business raiding a house with girls and children,” she said, “one of whom is
my daughter.
Do you want my word we’ll not help fugitives escape?”

“Oh, far from it, my lady,” the doctor said, waving the thought aside. “While I’m no lawyer, even I can see the man’s not likely to get more than short shrift in a courtroom. Besides, here I am, overcome by the Swedish peerage and her large and warlike retainers…”

It was, come right to it, a good excuse. The fact that he was smiling at Vicky for the last bit about “warlike retainers” kind of took the sting out, too. The guys had noticed. There were snorts of laughter.

“You’re a gentleman, and that’s for sure,” Julie said, trying not to exhale in relief.

“Och, I do try, my lady, I do try.” The good doctor turned and shouted over his shoulder. “Spall! See the baroness and her people to the garden. And find them ladders!”

He turned back. “Forgive me if I return to my patients, my lady? I see you are well found for strong hands to help, but if you need more, Spall can turn out the rest of the servants.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Julie said, choking down the urge to hug the guy.

* * *

Five minutes later they had a ladder up against the eight-foot rear garden wall, and Darryl was at the top tying it down somehow. Since it was going to be used by women in skirts, that made a lot of sense. Over the other side there were, apparently, guys fixing something up for the much higher climb on that side. Spall and another of the doctor’s men was fetching another ladder, Darryl was going to use that one to give them a means to rappel down. It was a short drop, but it was bound to be easier to slide down a rope. Seventeenth-century fashion to the rescue again—Julie had gloves everywhere she went. Good strong ones, for when she had to ride. The guys all had big hefty gauntlets for the same purpose.