The Marsh Hawk (37 page)

Biggins had scarcely scrambled up to the top of the coach when Phelps addressed the issue by posing the question Simon had seen in his eyes since they boarded.

“What do you hope to accomplish by bringing that . . . person along, my lord?” the valet queried.

“I don't trust the blighter enough to let him out of my sight,” Simon replied. “He's safe enough up top. How far could he go that we couldn't run him to ground in open country? But that's as far as I'm prepared to go. Either Marner lifted that pistol, thinking to use it in some way as leverage to get to Jenna, or Biggins pinched the deuced thing and wants to cover it up to save his hide. If I cut him loose and he is guilty, he'll disappear. I can't take that chance, Phelps. He can go to blazes after I get my hands on that gun—not before.”

“He will slow us down, my lord.”

“Not ‘us,' old boy;
me
. I'm not stopping at the Hall. I'm just dropping you off so you can have Molly pack a portmanteau for Jenna. You're to return to London at once with it, and if I don't get back there in three days, think of some way to stall for time.”

“Me, my lord?” the valet cried, through a strangled gasp. “What can I possibly do?”

“You'll think of something, I have no doubt. You always come through, and we've been in tighter spots that this over the years, my friend. It's just that the stakes haven't ever been quite so high as they are this time. I'm counting on you, Phelps. Don't let me down.”

“You know I'd sooner lose my limbs than fail you, my lord, but that magistrate is a Neanderthal. If my lady couldn't charm him—”

“My lady charmed him well enough.”

“Not without your . . . sacrificial performance. And that's another thing! What would you have done if they believed you? Hah! Are you even certain that they didn't?”

“I'm certain, or I wouldn't be sitting here right now. I've been such a colossal fool! I love her, Phelps. Without her, it doesn't matter what they believe.”

The barouche wheels had scarcely stopped rolling in the circular drive at Kevernwood Hall when Evelyn came flying through the portico attached to the conservatory. Her sprigged muslin gown tinted peach in the rays of the setting sun, she raced across the drive, reached inside and flung her arms around Simon's neck, almost upsetting Phelps as he vacated the coach.

“Oh, Simon, thank God!” she sobbed. “The doctor said he was going to be fine . . . and now—oh,
Simon
! He was nearly killed! Lady Hollingsworth has taken a fit of apoplexy. She hardly knows us. Why, the doctor has practically taken up residence. We thought you would never return, and none dared leave to come after you.”

“Who was nearly killed? Calm yourself and tell me, Evy. What's happened?”

“Robert . . . I mean, the vicar . . . he—”

“What's happened to Rob?” he demanded, gently shaking her.

“H-he's been shot, Simon!” she wailed.

“Shhh,” he soothed. Catching a glimpse of Biggins's slack jaw and wide-eyed stare, taking it in with not a little interest, he said in a low-voiced aside to Phelps, “See that our Runner is made comfortable in the study. Instruct one of the footmen to dance attendance until I join him there once I've sorted this out. See that the coachman and groom are refreshed in the servants' quarters while Molly packs my lady's portmanteau, and then leave for London at once. I'll handle whatever this is here.” Without waiting for a reply, he led Evelyn ahead, out of the Runner's range of hearing.

“Will you please tell me what the deuce you're talking about?” he snapped, hurrying her up the front steps.

“I . . . I saw your coach from the conservatory. I didn't mean to fly at you like that. Please don't scold me, Simon . . . it's been dreadful!”

“Where is Rob now?”

“In his old chamber. You know, the one he used to use when we had the hunts.”

“How bad is he?” Simon asked, streaking toward the staircase.

Evelyn's stutters bloomed into a helpless spasm of blubbering, and Simon scaled the stairs two at a stride, leaving her behind. On the landing above, Lady Jersey appeared, and he raised his hands and jutted his broad chin out in a desperate plea for an explanation from the woman standing ramrod rigid in his path.

“The vicar was shot in a duel with Rupert Marner, Simon,” she said levelly.

“In a—
Rob
?” he blurted, incredulous. “Was he foxed? Rob is a better shot on his worst day than Marner ever was on his best.”

“He was back-shot, dear,” she explained.

“Bloody hell!” Simon seethed, raking his hair with a rough hand. “What was he doing dueling with Marner in the first place?”

“Saving you the trouble.”

“Damn and blast!” he said in an undervoice. “Where is Marner now?”

“Rupert Marner is dead,” she informed him.

Simon searched the woman's eyes, which were dark in the shadows of twilight that had fallen over the stairwell, for the servants had not yet illuminated the landing. He nearly lost his footing. A low groan leaked from him, so charged with emotion it caused her to take a step back.

“What is it?” she murmured.

Evelyn's wails had grown louder, and she motioned the girl toward quiet with an impatient hand gesture that did little to quell the din.

“Rob killed him?” Simon said. His mind couldn't take it in. It was like a nightmare. Evelyn's sobs, though shrill, were no more than an echo behind the desperate thoughts tearing around in his brain—thoughts that demanded action from all quarters at once.

“No,” Lady Jersey replied, her voice edged with caution. “The lieutenant killed him.”

“Lieutenant? What lieutenant?”

“A friend of yours, so it seems. Nathaniel Ridgeway, Earl of Stenshire. He's staying on. He and the doctor are with Vicar Nast now.”

“Nate Ridgeway . . .
here
?” Evelyn's sobs had finally begun to invade his addled brain, and he gestured toward the girl behind. “My lady, please see to her,” he said. “Perhaps one of Mrs. Rees's herbal teas will help. Once I've sorted all this out, I'll want a word with you before I leave. But now, you must excuse me.”

Dr. Arborghast was standing over the vicar's sleigh bed, staring down, when Simon entered the bedchamber. At sight of him, Lieutenant Ridgeway came forward extending his hand. Simon gripped it hard, and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Nate,” he greeted. “What the bloody devil's going on?”

“Your friend here got himself back-shot in a duel with a coward on the Promenade at Plymouth,” he replied. “We thought he was out of the woods, but then infection set in, and he can't seem to shake the fever.”

“He's got to shake it.” Simon decreed, uptilting his chin toward the doctor. “Arborghast?”

“I'm not liking this relapse,” the doctor said. “He was getting on well at first. I'm not liking this at all.”

“How long has he been delirious?” Simon asked.

“Since sunup, my lord. Mrs. Rees is preparing another herbal poultice, and a tisane to bring the fever down, but if it doesn't break soon—”

“Shouldn't he go to hospital?” Simon interrupted.

“No,” said the doctor, with a quick shake of his head. “I don't want to take a chance on moving him again as he is. The trip from Plymouth has all but had its way with him. It isn't necessary. Mrs. Rees is as able a nurse as he'd find at hospital, I promise you.”

Simon looked in dismay toward the vicar tossing in the bed alongside. Emotion choked him. He could never recall seeing his friend so helpless, nor could he recall himself in so helpless a state—so powerless to make things right for the two people that meant the most to him.

“I should be lying there in that bed,” he said ruefully. “I should have known he'd do something foolish like this. Who's minding his church?”

“The deacons,” the lieutenant said, laying a hand on his arm. “There's nothing you can do here.” He nodded toward the doctor. “Come away and let the man work.”

For a moment, Simon looked at him as though he were a stranger. Marner was dead, but where was the pistol? He had to find that pistol.

“Simon?” the lieutenant prompted.

“Come with me,” Simon replied, shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear his hammering thoughts.

A sitting room adjoined the vicar's chamber, and Simon had a bottle of brandy and glasses brought there. They drank, while he and Ridgeway exchanged accounts of the events that had brought them together.

“So you see, I've got to find that pistol,” Simon concluded. “We pushed four horses at a gallop, only allowing an hour at each coaching station to get here in less than two days. I'll need at least that much time to make the return trip, and that's not allowing for broken springs, sprung wheels, and lame horses—not to mention the weather. I was fortunate coming down, but I don't dare count upon providence to smile upon me so readily returning; not the way things seem to be stacking up against me. Time is running out. I've only got four days left, and one of those will be gone before I settle all this. What sort of weapon did Marner use in that duel?”

“They used a brace of dueling pistols that belonged to the publican at the Albatross Inn, down on Notte Street by the quay.”

“I know it. Go on.”

“Your friend never got the chance to fire.”

“Did Marner have a pistol on him any of the other times you saw him, Nate?”

“I never saw one. But that's not to say he didn't have one in his room at the inn.”

“Where were his coach and driver? The Runner says . . .” He gave a start and slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Good God! I'd forgotten all about Biggins! He's downstairs in the study waiting for me.”

“Never saw a coach or driver,” the lieutenant said. “Marner may have dismissed them. He had booked passage on a ship bound for Guernsey, you know. He wouldn't have needed a carriage.”

“That deuced gun could be anywhere. Jenna insists that she put it in the sack with the spoils. Biggins says not. He's either lying, or Marner took it. The whoreson could either have left it in the coach, which I sincerely doubt, or he could have taken it with him. Could it still be at that inn, do you think?”

“You'd best pray not,” Ridgeway ground out with a guttural laugh. “If it's still at the Albatross, someone's pinched it for sure. They'll never hand it over to you, Simon; not that lot. They're a wild bunch of pirates and brigands on that waterfront. You walk in there all got up in superfine and silk, and you'll be up against ten-to-one. They'll take your blunt, keep the gun, conk you on the head, and pitch you off the dock with nobody the wiser. Your friend in there—hah! and Marner, too, come to that—were fortunate that they ran into me and my crew, or they'd likely have met the fate I just described. It's a daily occurrence. It wouldn't have mattered in Marner's case, of course, but I think you get my drift.”

“Phelps was right,” Simon murmured. He'd begun to pace the Aubusson carpet. “Biggins is going to slow me down. But there's nothing for it. I don't trust the blighter.”

“Look here,” said Ridgeway, putting himself in Simon's path. “Do you want me to deal with this Runner chap?”

“For the moment, Nate, if you wouldn't mind,” Simon decided. “Bloody hell, I haven't even thanked you for all your help, and here I am asking for more. Forgive my want of conduct. It's no excuse, but I'm half-mad with all this.”

“Don't give it a thought. Whatever you need. That goes without saying, Simon.”

“All right, then stay here, and keep Biggins till I return. That will free me for what I have to do. Also, I'm worried about Rob. Whatever he needs, see that he gets it. We've been friends since before we were breeched. I love him like a brother. And if he comes 'round while I'm gone . . . ask him if he knows anything about that gun. If by some miracle you manage to find it, don't come after me, deliver it to my valet at the town house—you know where it is, in Hanover Square—and tell him to take it to Serjeant's Inn. He'll know what to do.”

“You really think the Runner might have that pistol?”

“I don't know what to think, but I can't afford the luxury of trust. He better
not
have it—not after I go off chasing my tail while the clock is ticking.”

“Where are you going?” Ridgeway called, as Simon slapped his glass down on the table and bolted toward the door. “Don't you think I ought to know—just in case?”

“
I'm
not going anywhere,” he hurled over his shoulder. “The Marsh Hawk is going to pay a little call at the Albatross Inn.”

“Simon, the Marsh Hawk is
dead
! He needs to stay dead.”

“Word travels fast, but not that fast,” said Simon. “They won't know that yet in Plymouth, Nate. Just keep Biggins in your sites, and leave the Marsh Hawk to me.”

Lady Jersey made it plain that she was only too glad to stay on and help with Evelyn and Lady Hollingsworth, when Simon broached the subject with her before he left. That he was taking advantage of her generosity worried him, but after speaking with her, he got the distinct impression that, short of being put out bodily, she had no intention of leaving Kevernwood Hall until his dilemma was resolved. It was obvious that her curiosity was piqued. Simon also knew she wasn't about to budge until she had all the particulars on what promised to be the juiciest on-dit since the Fordenbridge wreckers scandal, so that she could be the first to break the story—with his permission, of course.

Fury was the fastest horse in his stables, and Simon wasted no time having Barstow saddle the stallion. At the tower, he exchanged his bluecoat of superfine, embroidered brocade waistcoat, and faun-colored pantaloons for a black shirt and breeches. It was too warm for a greatcoat, so he chose a light black cloak instead, stuffed a tricorn hat and mask in a sack, loaded the brace of dueling pistols that lived in the chifforobe drawer, and set out for Plymouth under cover of darkness.