The Marsh Hawk (42 page)

“Simon Rutherford, Earl of Kevernwood, you stand accused of the murder of Matthew Elmore Biggins, a servant of the Crown, and Runner of Bow Street, London. What have you to say for yourself?”

“I am innocent of the charge of murder, Your Worship,” he responded. “Mr. Biggins suppressed knowledge of the whereabouts of a pistol belonging to my wife, a weapon that would have cleared her of a charge of highway robbery—which, I might add, has been recovered, and the Crown has awarded Lady Kevernwood a full pardon.”

“Yes, yes, my lord, but what has that to do with the Runner's murder? I fail to see a connection.”

“I had taken Mr. Biggins into custody, my intent being to bring him to make a confession before the magistrates at Serjeant's Inn, since he would not relinquish the pistol in question. He set fire to my town house in a mad attempt to escape. I unlocked his pinions, but one was still attached to his arm. When he made attempt to escape, I warned him to halt. He did, and when I approached him, he struck my hand with the chains. My pistol discharged at close range. He fell down the stairs.”

“Is that all, Kevernwood?”

“I should think it enough, Your Worship.”

“Cheeky upstart!” the magistrate blurted. “I shall decide what is ‘enough' here, my lord. Have you any witnesses who will speak for you?”

“He does, your worship,” came a thundering from the periphery. Ridgeway's voice rumbled through the chamber like cannon fire.

“Come, then,” said the magistrate, beckoning with an impatient hand motion.

Simon stared through misted eyes. When the lieutenant approached, he wasn't alone. He had in tow Marner's coachman, Wilby, and the physician who'd examined the Runner. But even more impressive, they were flanked by two, four—no, there was no end to the line of men who followed, a virtual sea of faces, some familiar, some Simon had never seen before. There were so many men that the courtroom couldn't contain them. A roar of milling voices rose from the spectators to such a crescendo of ear-splitting noise as they continued to file past that it took the magistrate several minutes to dispel it with his shaky gavel.

“This is most irregular!” he intoned, bristling.

“Indeed,” said Ridgeway. “Which of us would you like to hear first, Your Worship?”

Jenna had just finished nuncheon, which had been served on a tray to her abed, since Mrs. Wells would not hear of her leaving it, despite her insistence that she was perfectly able. She was just about to relinquish the tray to the chambermaid, when the door burst open and Simon streaked across the floor. He hadn't shaved, and dark stubble colored his jaw. His queue had come unbound. Were those tears in his eyes? And where had his limp gone?

All at once she was in his arms. The tray and dishes crashed to the floor, and lay somewhere out of her view on the carpet, which sent the plump maid scrambling to retrieve what was left of the china before she made a hasty exit.

Simon murmured Jenna's name. It was the most wonderful sound she had ever heard, full of passion and love and longing, and she surrendered to it, to his kiss, deep and slow and intimate, a mating of souls. It was an endless time before their lips parted.

“It's over. You are free?” she begged, searching his face.

“Yes, my love,” he murmured, pulling her to him again. “Nate rounded up a veritable army of men—naval officers, conscriptees, men whom I knew on my tours, and men whom the Marsh Hawk has helped since.”

“Oh, Simon!”

“Nate backed me up, of course, and then there was Wilby, who testified to Biggins's guilt, and the doctor, who couldn't say for certain what killed the blighter . . . but I'm not sure any of that is what got me off. I believe there would have been a riot in that courtroom if things had swung the other way. I've never seen a look of fear quite like what I witnessed on that magistrate's face. He was positively gray with fright. There weren't nearly enough bailiffs to handle that crowd, nor space enough in that godforsaken pesthole at Newgate to contain them even if there had been. There, by God, is a cause worthy of attention, and don't you think I won't take it up once all this is behind us—even if I have to become an M.P. to do it, heaven forefend.”

“You, in Parliament?” she blurted. “Isn't that a far cry from—”

“Masks and tricorn hats?” he concluded for her. “What do you think, my lady, should I give it a go?”

“I think I love you,” she murmured, pulling him close in her arms.

He drew her to him so relentlessly then that she could scarcely draw breath. Easing her back against the propped pillows, he smothered her with anxious kisses. His hands roamed her body through the thin nightgown like a flock of starved birds descending upon crumbs. When they found her breasts she moaned, and he swallowed the sound with a hungry mouth that left her weak and trembling, totally aroused. Had he pressed her then, she would have surrendered to that one long, steamy, lingering kiss. But he did not press, and his lips had scarcely left hers when she gave a start, remembering.

“Phelps!” she cried. “Oh, Simon, no one knows what's become of him. He—”

“Shhhh,” he soothed, burying his hands in her hair. “He's drawing my bath.”

“You've found him? Where—what happened?”

“He was quite your champion you know. Trying to buy you some time, he got himself thrown into Newgate, too. The magistrate was only too glad to commute his sentence, considering Nate's show of force in that courtroom.”

He kissed her again . . . and again. “Now, my love”—his mouth found the pulse at the base of her arched throat—“I shall have that bath”—he spread her gown open, and the skilled tongue glided lower—“make myself presentable”—his tongue teased her nipple then roamed back to her lips again, whispering against them—“and ravish you.”

It was moon-dark as the barouche sped along just north of Newcastle on its way to the Scottish border. The night was soft, quick with mists that the rain would soon chase, and the coachman had just lit the carriage lanterns. Inside, Jenna sat cocooned in Simon's strong arms, scarcely daring to believe that they were finally embarked on their wedding trip.

“I feel dreadful making Phelps ride up top in all this damp,” she said. “He's going to catch his death.”

“That was his idea, my love,” said Simon. “He wanted to give us some privacy. I do believe the old boy's an incurable romantic. Who would have thought it?”

“I feel a little guilty leaving Robert and Evelyn to fend for themselves while we traipse off to the Highlands,” she said, clouding. “He is still on the mend, after all.”

“Don't you think they deserve a little privacy of their own?” he chided. “After all your hard work bending Cupid's arrow in that direction, I should think you'd be gloating.”

“As much privacy as Mother will give them,” she returned. “I shudder to think. But then, if they can survive Mother, I expect it's a match made in heaven that can withstand anything.”

Simon laughed outright, and pulled her closer in his arms as their carriage tooled along the highway in the still darkness.

“I wouldn't be at all surprised if when we return next month we'll be decking Kevernwood Hall out for another wedding breakfast,” he observed.

“I told him to take the initiative with that girl,” said Jenna, “but I never expected that he'd go to the lengths of a duel, for pity's sake. How bizarre.”

“I've known Rob nearly all my life, and the man never ceases to amaze me. I could tell you stories passing bizarre that would raise the hair on your head. But we'll leave all that for another time. Suffice it to say that I've always looked upon Rob as family, and now that it's about to become official, I couldn't be happier.”

Jenna was about to agree when all at once a shot rang out, and Phelps, scrambling down from the driver's seat, came crashing through the barouche door, pistol drawn, with an agile lunge that dropped her jaw.

“A highwayman approaches, my lord,” he announced, out of breath, “a young one, too, by the look of him. Green as grass.”

The coach pulled to a shuddering halt. The masked man, dressed in black, mounted on a dark horse, had ranged himself on Jenna's side of the barouche, and Simon quickly moved to the seat facing her, motioning her back.

“Put that away, Phelps,” he charged, nodding toward the pistol in the valet's hand. “Keep it down out of sight. Unless I miss my guess, what we have here is a novice in need of a lesson. Novices have a tendency to be rather . . . trigger-happy. I can personally vouch for that, by God.”

Jenna caught his raised eyebrow and half smirk, and frowned. Would he never let her live it down? Her breath caught when, to her surprise, he reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and removed a black silk half-mask.

“This will have to do, since I don't have the hat with me at the moment,” he said. He offered it to her. “Well, my dear—shall I, or would you rather deal with the brigand?”

“Stand and d-deliver!” the highwayman's shaky voice intoned, interrupting him.

Jenna stared at the mask. Surely he couldn't mean to . . .

“Don't worry, my love, I was just offering you a professional courtesy,” Simon assured her drolly, tying the mask in place. “Allow me,” he said, and burst from the coach, both pistols blazing.

The young man's hat went flying, having taken one of Simon's pistol balls, and his weapon spun off into the scrub having taken the other. Simon had managed both without inflicting so much as a scratch upon the horseman, whom he promptly yanked out of the saddle and pulled close for observation.

Phelps had climbed down and stood at the ready, his own pistol aimed at the quaking youngster in Simon's white-knuckled grip. Jenna remained where she was, staring through the coach window, streaked now with rain, watching Simon rip off the man's mask and throw it down, revealing a terrified youth of scarcely twenty.

“And who might you be, laddie?” Simon growled, close in the man's face.

“Lemmee go!” the youth shrilled, struggling.

“Answer me first,” Simon demanded. “Your name—and be quick. You've wasted enough of my time tonight as it is.”

“J-Jeremy . . . Jeremy Higgins,” the youth replied. “Ow! Ease off! I told ya, didn't I?”

“And why have you taken to the highway, Jeremy Higgins?” Simon demanded, ignoring his plea.

“Why have
you
?” the youth flashed.

“Plucky little whelp, isn't he?” Simon observed to no one in particular. “I've just given up the trade, actually,” he went on, “and so shall you, if you want to stay out of the place I've just come from.” The youth struggled to free himself, and Simon jerked him to a standstill. “No?” he observed. “You mean to defy me, do you? Maybe I should find a bailiff and see you there straightaway; you can take my place. Have you ever been inside Newgate Gaol?”

“N-no, sir . . . lemmee go! I'm sorry I come inta your territory.”

“You're going to be a whole lot sorrier if you ever put that there on again,” Simon snarled, grinding the mask into the mud of the road with the toe of his polished Hessian. He reached into his coin purse and pulled out a crown. “Here,” he said. “It's not quite what you had in mind, of course, but it'll get you where you're going. Do you know Stenshire Manor, on the moors south of York?”

“Aye,” said the youth, “I know of it. Never been there.”

“Well, you're going there now. When you arrive, tell the Earl of Stenshire that you met with the Marsh Hawk's ghost on the old road to Newcastle, and that it was none other than he who has recommended you. He will see that you are gainfully employed.”

“The M-m-m—” the youth stuttered.

“Don't think to disobey me, laddie,” Simon warned, shaking him in punctuation. “I'll know. And you won't like my haunting.”

Simon let him go then, and the youth leapt up on his mount and rode off in a southerly direction without even trying to locate his pistol. Simon laughed, plucking it out of the mud. Staring after the boy, arms akimbo, he stood with Phelps until the sound of hoofbeats grew distant, and the horse and rider were long out of sight. Then, as though nothing untoward had occurred, the valet resumed his seat beside the coachman, and Simon climbed back into the brougham.

“Oh!” Jenna cried, exasperated. “Do you really think Lieutenant Ridgeway is going to appreciate this, Simon—foisting off a thief on him after all he's done for us?”

“You don't know Nate,” he replied through a chuckle. “He'll straighten that little would-be thatchgallows right out. Don't worry, I'll write him from Roxburghshire.” He chuckled again. “That poor young ne'er-do-well doesn't know yet if he's just had an encounter with flesh or spirit, he was so struck with terror.”

“You can't save every brigand in the realm, you know.”

“No, surely not, but there's hope for that one. Poor bungling lack-wit would be dead in a week but for the Marsh Hawk's ghost.”

“Is that why you put the mask on? I don't understand.”

“That lesson needed to be taught anonymously, my love,” he replied. “Believe me, the Marsh Hawk was far better suited to the task than the Earl of Kevernwood.” Pulling her closer, he attempted a kiss.

“Ohhhh, no, not until you give me that mask,” she demanded, turning her head aside. If he thought he was going to fox her with his kisses, he had another think coming. She extended her hand, working impatient fingers. “Give it here,” she said with resolution.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew the mask. Serving her one of his irresistible lopsided smiles, he placed it in her open palm, closed her fingers around it, and kissed them gently. When she promptly tossed it through the barouche window, he burst into deep throaty laughter.