Almost a Gentleman (11 page)

But I've been wise all my life
, David thought,
wise, sensible, prudent, and responsible
.

And he was sick of it. He wanted a little adventure. He wanted—
dear Lord, this was embarrassing
—to be a hero, as in medieval legend, or like his ancestors who'd stumbled around in clanking suits of armor. He wanted to show that even at forty, and even after having failed to stop the Enclosure Act, that he could act decisively. And if that meant taking on Stokes with his own fists, in front of young Mr. Marston's admiring and grateful eyes—well, so be it.

Absurd. Embarrassing. But there it was.

And there now, farther up the alley, was Stokes, calming a large, rawboned nag. He seemed to think that he'd hidden his bulk behind the absurd slouch hat he'd worn for the occasion. David leaned back in his carriage so he wouldn't be seen.

At a quarter to ten, a coachman brought a small closed carriage around in front of a well-tended brick house with newly-painted blue shutters. Five minutes later a gray-haired valet appeared at the front door, carrying a covered wicker basket and directing a footman to load a small trunk into the boot of the carriage.

And at ten exactly, Marston himself appeared at the door, buoyant and upright as ever, with a small volume in his hand.

He spoke to the valet, who pressed the wicker basket upon him—
luncheon
, David thought ruefully, suddenly remembering that he'd forgotten to ask his cook to pack some for himself. Marston stepped lightly into the carriage.

Odd
, David thought,
that he's not taking his manservant with him
. Wherever Marston was going, it wouldn't seem to matter so much that he'd be well dressed.

But there was no time for such speculation. Marston's carriage set off. Stokes waited a reasonable interval before following. And likewise the earl of Linseley.

David winced.
Ridiculous. We're like a gypsy caravan
.

Phoebe, normally sharp-eyed and alert, might have observed the same thing if she'd had a mind to. But several late nights in a row had taken their toll on her, especially last night's defiantly exuberant dancing and fierce, concentrated gambling. Buttery autumn sunlight poured deliciously through the carriage's windows. She'd soon be surrounded by the few people in the world whom she loved—excepting Mr. Simms, of course, who'd be off tomorrow on a long-awaited trout-fishing expedition with Mr. Andrewes. And warmed by the sunshine and by her affectionate thoughts, she fell happily to sleep—with her book, Miss Austen's
Persuasion
, lying unopened on the seat beside her—before the carriage had even reached the seedy outskirts of London.

A pleasant enough drive
, David thought impatiently,
but it's bothersome not to know how far one is going
—especially given the unsettled state of the weather. The sun still shone brightly enough, but he'd caught a few distant rumbles of thunder. And by early afternoon his stomach had taken to rumbling as well. Finally he'd had to stop at a small inn and buy some roasted capons for himself and his coachman, and some bread, cheese, and ale to keep in reserve.

They caught up with Marston's carriage somewhere outside of Rowen-on-Close.

"Let's drive up that hill," David told his coachman. "I want to see the countryside."

Dickerson, the coachman, nodded with just a hint of skepticism in his eye. He thinks I've suddenly gone daft, David thought, like some bloody rhymester touring the Lake District. Well, perhaps I have.

The view of the countryside, however, was just what he wanted. He could see Marston's carriage, parked outside of a rambling stone house. The coachman carried the young man's trunk up the path. He's stopping here, David told himself, at least for the night. He watched while Marston leaped from the carriage, overtook the coachman, and fairly bounded through the garden and into the house.
There's someone he cares for here
, David thought, as a wave of envy flooded through him and threatened to flush out every bit of common sense he still possessed.
Someone he cares for deeply
.

But right then there were other things to worry about besides Mr. Marston's affections. For the storm had changed its mind and was blowing toward them after all.

"Should we turn back to that inn a few leagues back, my lord?" Dickerson asked after it had become clear that his master was not going to make that eminently reasonable suggestion himself. "There will be lightning, I think, and the horses…"

And if Marston took it upon himself to disappear during the night while nobody was watching? It was unlikely, David thought, but possible. After all, what had Baron what's-his-name said in the pub?
Seems to disappear into thin air
. Or just to disappear when his enemies were napping?

David could see Stokes down the hill as well, shivering, by the look of him, in a stand of trees.

No, I won't leave while he's down there.

But what of the horses, the lightning?

David was about to tell his coachman to leave him for the night, when he caught sight of a ruined cottage near the hilltop.

"Do you think, Dickerson, that we might be able to spend the night? We could stable the horses in that old building—the roof doesn't look too bad, at least on the west side, and I could keep watch throughout the night. You see, there's somebody in need of help below, in that house…"

Dickerson threw him an even more skeptical glance, but the house did seem solid enough. And they did have warm blankets and a lantern packed for emergencies—as well as some pretty decent cheese and ale from the inn.

And so they arranged themselves—Dickerson, the horses, and half the food and blankets in the abandoned building, and Lord Linseley in the carriage to keep an eye on the stone house below.

The rain began to fall sometime about midnight. It was comforting, David thought, monotonous…

A violent thunderclap woke him an hour later. A violent thunderclap and a thunderous knocking at the locked carriage door.

"Lemme in, dammit, afore I die out here of the cold and rain."

Stokes.

He'd probably seen the carriage on the hilltop, illuminated by a flash of lightning. The springs creaked under his knocking. In another minute he'd break the window.

David had a pistol hidden below his seat, but somehow he didn't think he'd need it. He opened the door slowly.

"Good evening, my man, and can I offer you what's left of the ale?"

Stokes hurled his big body into the carriage and immediately made for David's throat.

Just as I suspected
, David thought,
too big and clumsy to be a real fighter
. He freed himself from Stokes's grasp and pushed him out of the carriage, leaping on top of him and taking out the day's tensions by giving him a good pummeling. It was absurdly satisfying, he thought with some embarrassment, even if there was no admiring Marston to watch—no one except Stokes's frightened horse, tethered to a tree.

Stokes kicked and bellowed. The two big men rolled about in the mud until David had finally subdued his opponent.

"Yer a good boxer, guv'nor," Stokes muttered—quite flatteringly, David thought, since he himself wouldn't have dignified their filthy, flailing scuffle as an instance of the sweet science of boxing.

"And you're a good loser," David returned.

"Now," he continued, "let's stable your horse with mine, over there in that tumbledown building. Would you like to come in out of the rain and have a spot of ale? We could discuss how you might improve your boxing—I'm afraid you haven't much strategy—or, more interestingly, how two fine fellows like ourselves happen to be out here on such a devil of a night."

They'd brought enough mud back into the carriage with them, David thought, to plant a few bushels of turnips. Sharing the small, enclosed space with Stokes was like sharing it with a muddy, affectionate sheepdog. David didn't find it entirely unpleasant; it was rather like a return to early, pre-civilized, childhood.

He supposed he'd have a bit of a black eye by morning, but—he allowed himself a boyish inward grin—it would be nothing compared to the colorful array of bruises that Stokes would be sporting. "Have some refreshment," he urged the man. He gave Stokes what was left of the cheese, and they passed the ale back and forth companionably.

"Can't blame a chap for trying to grab yer purse, guv'nor," Stokes confided as he chewed. "It being so dark and deserted out here, and you wi' this expensive fast coach and fancy way o' talkin'. Never expected a gen'lman like you to be a fighter."

He wiped crumbs of cheese and foam from his mouth with a bloody sleeve. "But yer right, guv'nor, I never did have the patience to learn much strategy. Usually I scares 'em enough to make 'em forget theirs. Me being so big, you know."

"Your right jab isn't bad," David conceded, "but you don't put up enough of a defense on the left. I could show you sometime, I suppose…"

"Ah, but I've forgotten my manners. Haven't introduced myself. David Arthur Saint George Hervey, earl of Linseley, in Lincolnshire."

"Got a nice ring to it, guv'nor, Linseley of Lincolnshire. And I'm Archie Stokes of Soho, at yer service."

"Stokes of Soho isn't bad either."

"No, it ain't at that. Don't suppose there's another bit of that bread to be 'ad?"

"Would a leg of chicken do?"

It seemed that it would do nicely.

Stokes tossed the bones out the door and gave a contented grunt followed by an enormous belch. The rain continued to pelt the carriage, though the thunder and lightning had ceased. Too bad I didn't bring a few cigars, David thought. Nothing like a fine Havana to encourage postprandial confidences on a stormy night.

But Stokes didn't need a cigar to loosen his tongue.

"Yer a real gen'lman, guv'nor," he said, "not like some fancy types I could name, like the Nancy-boy wot's hired me to go after this young gen'lman down there in the 'ouse."

David raised his eyebrows.

"They's high-strung, see," Stokes continued. "Scared o' their reputations and their wives finding out. Always come to me to threaten the other bloke. 'Stop wiggling that pretty arse of your'n, old chap, or Baron Bunbury promises you a bloody nose.'"

Baron Bunbury, was it? The name was dimly familiar. David might have met the gentleman some years ago. Not a very impressive specimen, he thought.

And as the implications of what Stokes was saying became clearer to him, he felt an embarrassing flush warm his cheeks. He turned his face toward the window to hide his agitation, making a show of keeping careful watch on the house. It was still pitch black outside, though the rain was beginning to slow to a drizzle.

Stokes gave a brief bark of a laugh. "Yeh, I know, guv'nor, it ain't pretty work I do."

"But are you saying," David stammered, "that there existed some sort of…
liaison
… between Baron Bunbury and Mr. Marston?"

"I'm sayin', guv'nor, that maybe there
were
a lee-ay-zone and maybe there
weren't
. But that the Baron sure
wished
there were."

David shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Stokes might be slow-witted, he thought, but eventually he'd come round to wondering what David was doing out on his own pursuit of Marston.

Stupid
, he thought,
for me to give my own name. But I could never be cowardly enough to hide it
.

"O' course," Stokes continued, "I did me own research on the pretty gen'lman down there."

"Ummm?" David hoped the sound was noncommittal.

"Got other en'mies as well. 'E's quite the gambler, see."

"Oh. Oh yes."

"Ye needn't be proud wi' Archie Stokes, guv'nor. I take it that's
yer
argument with him,
you
clearly not bein' no Nancy."

David hoped the man's double negative meant what he thought it meant, rather than its strict grammatical construction. Shrugging noncommittally, he endeavored not to betray his relief.

"He's clever, that Marston," he offered weakly, "a slippery character in every particular."

"But we'll catch 'im." Stokes's big bruised face caught a few early rays from the sun coming over a distant hill. "We make a good team, you and me, guv'nor."

And like a good team, they took turns keeping watch on the stone house below, each allowing the other a nap as the rain tapered off and the sun rose through a gray, then a pinkish-yellow, and finally a clear blue sky.

"Psst, guv'nor, wake up!" Stokes's elbow in David's ribs was like a mule's kick.

"Umm, wha?"

"Somebody's coming out of the house…"

The two of them rushed out of the carriage to get a better look.

"…but what the bloody 'ell, it ain't 'im at all, just two ladies…"

One in yellow and one in pink, they seemed like serene spirits of the morning, strolling arm in arm to a very fine barouche—not Marston's closed carriage—that awaited them at the end of the garden path.

David couldn't see their faces from atop the hill. But the early morning sunlight illumined their costumes and postures. The lady in yellow wore a large bonnet that seemed to shadow her face, while the one in pink, the taller of the two, walked with an oddly familiar upright grace and had her hair hidden in a white turban.