Priceless (24 page)

“It’s not true,” Judson said, but it sounded as if he begged to be told a lie.

“What difference would it make if I had lost everything?” Walpole asked. “Why would that help your plans?”

“I thought…” Defiant, Judson said, “
We
thought if you were ruined, I could kill you and all would believe it was suicide.”

Hearty, bluff Walpole burst into laughter at the ludicrous plot.

From the copious pocket of his coat, Judson pulled a pistol and pointed it right at the convulsed Walpole.

Adam balanced his knife on his fingertips, aimed, yet as he threw Judson shouted, “Die slowly, like Bronwyn.”

The knife buried itself in the wall beside Judson, and Adam leaped after it.

Judson’s arm, extended out straight, swerved toward Adam, and Adam skidded to a halt. “If Bronwyn is alive,” he whispered, his preposterous promise balancing his despair, “I’ll smuggle you out of the country with enough money to set yourself up nicely.”

Indignant, Walpole snapped, “You’d reward him for trying to assassinate me?”

Ignoring Walpole, Adam kept all his attention on Judson and that pistol. The pistol never dipped, but, like a snake prepared to strike, it wavered between its targets. Adam coaxed, “You know you can trust me. It’s the only way you’ll get out of this alive.”

“And if she’s dead?” Judson asked.

Adam laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant laugh. “You’d better kill me now.”

Walpole insisted, “The worst crime you could commit is to kill an aristocrat.”

The black eye of the pistol pivoted toward him once more, and Judson stepped farther into the room. The light fell on his face, and what Adam saw there put a shaft through his heart. “Your face is marked.”

Judson jerked his shoulder up to cover the telltale scratches.

“Your cheek is marked by a woman’s fingernails.” Tempted beyond logic, Adam prepared to spring. The air trembled with the intensity of his impatience.

“I’ll shoot you,” Judson threatened.

Judson would put down the gun, Adam determined, or Judson would use it. “You can’t shoot us both.”

Eyes locked, Judson and Adam stared, weighing one another in wordless communication.

Until the hall door burst open and Northrup called, “Sir!”

As Northrup realized the situation, his face paled, his
mouth created an O. Judson swung on him, the gun blasted, Northrup flew back under the impact of the bullet. Too late, Adam sprang for Judson’s throat, but the door stood empty. The sound of Judson’s heels striking the hardwood floor echoed loudly.

Adam raced to Northrup’s side and reached for the pulse at his neck, but Northrup’s fingers caught his wrist. Hoarse with pain, Northrup said, “Carriage.” He shook Adam’s wrist. “Carriage…in the alley.” Blood spurted from a wound at his side; Walpole knelt beside him and smothered the stream with a pillow.

“Go,” Northrup murmured.

“We’ll take care of him.” Walpole shoved Adam’s walking stick into his hand, and Adam needed no more encouragement.

He ran down the hall past the milling servants, out the kitchen door, through the garden. Sprinting down the alley, Adam saw a broad carriage, splattered deep with mud. It swayed as Judson clambered up onto the driver’s box. Adam leaped as it lurched away. He missed, yet with a burst of triumph he knew he’d catch it. Judson couldn’t drive that unwieldy carriage with any finesse.

Adam ran, but Judson whipped the horses. Mud splattered Adam in the face. The carriage rounded the corner onto the street, leaning so far to the right that Adam expected it to topple. It did not. It righted itself, and Adam heard the whip crack. He ran for it, but Judson careened down the street without regard to pedestrians or other vehicles. Adam skidded to a stop, his hand on his throbbing thigh.

In a kind of despair, he murmured, “Judson, you bastard.” He limped toward the stable, cursing his luck, the weather, and most of all, Judson. Too aware of his injured leg now that the burst of energy had failed him, he glared fiercely as a frightened-looking boy accosted him.

“M’lord? We’re ’olding yer horse at th’ front door.”

From black fury, Adam’s emotions swung back to exultation. He clapped the boy on the back. “Good man. Bring him around!”

The stable boy took off, echoing the cry, “Bring ’im around!”

Adam climbed the mounting block and as his stallion arrived, slid into the saddle, crying, “My thanks.”

Rounding the corner out of the alley, he searched anxiously for a glimpse of the carriage. No luck. Judson had gone too far, too fast. But Adam had only to follow the trail of indignant folks, toppled in Judson’s reckless dash. Not blessed with the indifference that enabled Judson to drive over beggar children and vendor wagons, he dodged and weaved through the streets, on his way to Change Alley.

What madness had induced Judson to go to Change Alley, Adam didn’t understand, but without a doubt they were headed for the narrow, cobbled lane that lay between Lombard and Cornhill streets. As he neared the Alley, a taste of hysteria filled the air. The dropping stock had taken its toll, and—if anything—carriages, berlins, landaus, and chariots clogged more of the area than in the
summer days of success. Adam struggled along on his horse, looking over the top of heads and around the bulky vehicles, seeking Judson’s four-wheeled carriage. At last his horse balked at the crush, refusing to squeeze through a narrow opening between two coaches.

He could hear the distant roar of the seething crowd, smell the wet, evil scent of bodies crammed together. He could see the preacher who shrieked at sinners from atop his box, see Judson—

Relief and apprehension roiled in Adam. The towering wig looked much the worse for the rain, the face no longer wore its disguise with suave urbanity, but it was Judson. He flew from seller to seller, seeking reassurance, and seller after seller shook his head.

Hating to abandon his fine beast, Adam cast about for a solution and found one in the sly-faced boy creeping his way. Pretending ignorance, he waited until the lad reached up to cut his purse strings, then snatched him up by the nape of the neck and boomed, “That’s a hanging offense.”

The boy struggled, kicking his skinny legs, cursing with gutter efficiency, until he realized the futility. “Eh, gov’nor, didn’t mean no ’arm.”

“Of course you did.” Only a bit of his attention on the thief, Adam watched Judson flounder through the milling crowd.

“But ye’ll forgive me, gov’nor? If I promise never t’ do it again…” The boy’s speech trailed off when Adam turned his gaze on him.

“Don’t gammon me, you little brigand. But to show you how lenient I am, I’ll not turn you over to the magistrate.” A quick glance at Judson showed a desperation Adam hadn’t seen since the pitched battles aboard his ship. Judson’s violent gestures, his indifference to the jabs of the crowd, spelled a reckless abandon that boded ill for Bronwyn. Only men who believed their death was upon them comported themselves in such a manner. With a
surge of ferocity, Adam shook the miniature thief. “I’ll give you tuppence now to watch my horse, and tuppence when I return—if the horse is where I left it.”

The boy stopped squirming and stared, charmed. “Aye, gov’nor, I’ll do it wi’ pleasure.”

“Right.” Adam set the lad down, dismounted, and dispensed the promised recompense. “Remember, another tuppence when I return.” Without waiting for reassurance, taking only his walking stick, he dashed away. If he returned and had no horse to claim, he decided, he’d take it out of Judson’s hide.

On foot, down among the tangle of duchesses and yeomen, he couldn’t see his prey, but far ahead he heard someone call, “Adam Keane.” He ignored it. Squeezing through the warm, sweating bodies, he made his way toward the place where he’d last seen Judson, following the track he believed he would go. The crowd did not easily yield to Adam’s agitation. In their own frenzy, they had no tolerance for his. A full-bottomed wig hustled through the rabble; Adam grabbed the man, swung him around—but it wasn’t Judson. “Damn you,” Adam cursed him most unfairly.

The nobleman’s eyes lit with recognition. “And be damned to you, too, Lord Rawson.” Wild-eyed, he snatched Adam’s lapel. “You ruined me, with your false stocks and your false advice.”

Adam jerked out of the man’s grasp and shoved the evangelist off his box, interrupting the shouted sermon. After leaping up, he scanned above the tangle of heads. In none too gentle a tone, someone called his name, but he was too intent, too terrified for Bronwyn, to pay attention.

And there he was! The familiar big-boxed carriage was shackled by other vehicles, and Judson wiggled toward it. Hands pushed Adam from behind, and gladly he jumped down. Behind him, the preacher shouted, “Wretched sinner! You’ll burn in hell!”

With an irony none could appreciate, Adam muttered, “Too late, I’m already there.”

Again he heard his name called. “Adam Keane, Lord Rawson.” A fist smacked his chest. He smacked back blindly, instinctively, respecting no one in his surge to catch Judson.

“Damn you, Adam Keane.” A hand clutched his hair, and his walking stick dealt roughly with the culprit. Building like a rumble of thunder, he heard his name repeated, in a variety of voices—but only one tone. He heard the call in front of him, he heard the call behind him. He realized trouble stalked him even as he stalked Judson.

Adam broke through the seething mass of people, caught Judson’s coattails as the blackguard tried to mount the box of the carriage. With a jerk, he knocked Judson to the ground, then dragged him up by his cravat. “Where’s Bronwyn? Where’s Bronwyn?”

Judson’s face screwed up into a little knot of features, then he spit at Adam.

“That’s it!” a woman’s voice said shrilly. “Spit in his eye!”

Paying the heckler no heed, Adam roared, “Where’s Bronwyn?”

“What do you care?” Judson asked shrilly, delving into his pocket and pointing his pistol right at Adam’s nose. “You’ll never see her again.”

Adam remembered the missile had struck Northrup down and didn’t hesitate. “It’s not loaded,” he bellowed, and reached for Judson’s throat.

As if in response to Adam’s fury, the door of the carriage rammed into Judson’s back, pitching him forward. Gagged, bound hand and foot, Bronwyn tumbled out.

Dropping his walking stick, Adam lunged for her, caught her before she struck the cobblestones.

She was warm, struggling, fierce.

And safe. Pure as the spring wind, joy overwhelmed
him. He hugged her for a brief, ecstatic moment, then hard on the trail of the joy came the cold whistle of terror.

Judson still had a gun—and perhaps, perhaps it
was
loaded.

Adam had to leave, lead the bullet meant for him away from her.

But he had misread his enemy. The sight of Bronwyn galvanized Judson. He aimed the pistol at Bronwyn, at the helpless woman who, even now, radiated defiance.

Without a sound Adam launched himself, catching Judson’s wrist and shoving it above his head.

Clutched tight in Judson’s fist, the pistol was the wild card. Its single shot could turn the tide either direction. The men and women of Change Alley crowded around the fighting pair.

Bronwyn struggled to stand, bumping a gentleman who watched with his spectacles held to his nose. “Watch yourself,” he ordered. She bumped him harder, and his belly quivered with indignation. “I said—” His eyes widened at the gag that held her silent. “Did he do this to you?” he demanded.

She nodded, and he cried, “Look! Here’s another one of his victims.”

A lady in dove gray, by dress a seamstress or governess, clucked in dismay. “You poor child.” She raised her voice. “Another one of that perfidious man’s prey. Help me take this cloth from her mouth.”

They freed her from her bonds, then Bronwyn plunged to the front of the crowd. Locked together, Judson and Adam strained mightily. She couldn’t see all four of their hands—most important, she couldn’t see the pistol. She cast about her for something to smack Judson with, but there was nothing, only a circle of faces mirroring a savage appreciation.

Muffled yet penetrating, the crack of the gun struck her as the bullet struck flesh. But whose flesh? Both Adam
and Judson tumbled to the street. First Adam, then Judson, then Adam reached the top, pounding each other with their fists, kicking, kneeing, brawling with dedication. Blood smeared their skin—or was it mud? The gun skidded across the slime and wedged between two cobblestones. The crowd bellowed, “Kill the bastard! Break him!”

The pain of Adam’s leg drained him. Judson’s shot had probably lamed him, possibly killed him. With angry despair, Adam pummeled Judson. Judson struggled spasmodically until Adam stung him with an open-handed slap, then Adam forced the words between swollen lips. “If you’ve sent me to hell, rest assured you’ll accompany me.”

Judson’s eye developed a tic, and he squalled. “Sounds like a babe,” Adam heard from the crowd, and if he could, he would have smiled.

Instead he pushed Judson’s wig aside. It disappeared beneath the trampling feet of the onlookers, and shock brought silence. “Why, that Adam Keane’s naked an’ shiny as a baby’s behind,” a woman marveled.

Startled into inaction, Adam glanced up at the gawking housewife.

Unveiled, Judson tore himself away from Adam, and screeched, “You stupid tart!”

Adam grabbed, not Judson, but his long forgotten walking stick. Like a good friend, the rod fit in his hand, the amber globe weighed heavy on the end. He twirled the knob around, cracked Judson beneath the jaw. Judson’s head jerked back, crashing against the cobblestones. Drowning in victory and in pain, Adam throttled him.

The crowd howled. Bronwyn howled with them, thundering her approval. Judson struggled, and the noise of the crowd shifted from the appreciation for a good fight to the sound of a vendetta.

“Adam Keane is killing that poor man,” the governess complained.

“’E’s not Lord Rawson,” argued a tired-faced whore. “’Tis th’ other one what ruined us. He sol’ me stocks on th’ street.”

“You idiots! The bald one’s not Lord Rawson,” an aristocratic voice said. “Lord Rawson is the other one.”

“Lord Rawson is the man on top.” Bronwyn smiled savagely. “He’s the one who’s winning!” All faces turned to her, ignoring the struggle on the ground for the even more interesting quarrel above.

“’E’s not,” the whore insisted. “Th’ other one’s been sellin’ th’ stock.”

Silence chilled the air, and the aristocrat insisted, “I’ve met him at court.”

“Who cares?” a hoarse voice from the back sang out. “Let’s string ’em both up. That way we’ll be sure to get the right man.”

“String ’em up.”

Maddened by bloodlust, cheated of their livelihood, the crowd pressed in, closing on both men.

“Leave him alone,” Bronwyn yelled, but they caught Adam by the arms and jerked him off Judson. He collapsed where he stood. Bronwyn tried to run to him, but the crowd pressed together.

The same hoarse voice screamed, “Hang the rich one first!” and the impassioned street minister stepped into the center of the mob. “Hang them from my preacher’s stand.”

“Hang ’em,” the call rang out again.

Bronwyn fought to gain ground, clawed at the faceless people, yet Adam moved away from her. They propped him up on the stand. He slid back down out of sight, and someone snickered. “He fainted.”

Fainted? Panic pounded through her veins as Bronwyn strained to see. Adam fainted? She didn’t believe it. “It’s a trick.”

Beside her, a dockworker heard and laughed coarsely. “Nah, ’e fainted all right.”

Even faced with his own hanging, Adam would command with impatience, not wither like a flower in the heat. “What’s wrong with him?” she cried.

“Ye’re not much bigger than me daughter,” said a big-armed, big-bellied man, swinging her up like a sack of potatoes and placing her on his shoulder.

She grabbed at his throat; he grunted and tore her hands away. “I’ll not drop ye. Can ye see?”

She could. Packed together like a coven of witches, the mob surged ahead of her. She could see the rope the young, hoarse-voiced ringleader had flung over a protruding roof beam. She could see Adam shrouded with blood. “What happened to him?”

The shoulder beneath her shook with laughter. “Th’ bloody bastard took that gunshot in th’ leg. Serve ’im right fer causin’ all this trouble.”

Fists doubled, she smacked him on the side of the head. “You fool, he didn’t cause this trouble, the South Sea Company did.”