What a Rogue Desires (22 page)

“The rest of the highwaymen,” repeated Hamilton, laying a slight stress on the second word. “Yes, I see now.”

“Yes, yes, she’s a thief,” David said impatiently. “Or she was. How else was she to survive? If you say prostitution, I shall cut your throat.” Hamilton merely smiled and shook his head. “Now they’ve gone and taken her off to Newgate, or will in the morning, and I’ve got to think of a way to get her free.”

“Pose as your brother again,” suggested Hamilton. “Exeter could get a murderer out of Newgate.”

David grunted. “No.”

“Why not?” asked his friend in mild surprise. “Ought to be easy enough to do.”

“Enough people know he’s on the Continent.” David continued to scowl at the fire. Vivian certainly wouldn’t have a fire tonight, nor the soft feather mattress he knew she adored. “And I don’t like it.”

“What has that got to do with anything?” There was a clink of crystal as Hamilton poured himself more brandy. “Do you want the girl or not?”

David did. He wanted the girl more than anything he had ever wanted before, and he was mortally afraid he would fail her, when he was her only chance. But he didn’t want to pose as his brother again. He’d only done that once when it mattered, and it had almost gotten him killed. He couldn’t afford that this time, for Vivian’s sake; he was her only hope. The burden of that phrase sat on David’s head, and heart, like a giant boulder. He couldn’t recall any other moment in his life when he had felt such a responsibility, and such a helplessness regarding it. “I’ll have to think of another way,” he muttered.

Anthony Hamilton leaned back, stretching his legs out toward the hearth. “Bribery? Trickery? A prison break? What other choices do you have?”

David frowned at the implication. “It has to be legal,” he said. “I can’t get her out, only to have the Runners swarm London looking for her. We’d both end up in Newgate, and as you have already pointed out with exceedingly helpful clarity, Marcus is hundreds of miles away and unable to save my neck yet again.”

“Indeed,” said Hamilton in tones of wounded surprise. “It seems to me then you might as well just walk into the place and ask for her back.”

David’s scowl slowly eased. The instinctive rude retort faded from his lips. Like an oracle from on high, a plan sprang to life in his mind. He’d been thinking too hard, he realized; the best plan was not complicated, but very, very simple. He thought quickly, trying to catch any fatal flaws before he committed himself to a course of action, but didn’t see one. There were flaws, to be sure, but none fatal—he thought. He hoped. He didn’t really have much time to think of something better, but he must use his head this time. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I think I might just do that.”

Vivian sat on the floor, curled into the corner of the holding cell. She, Simon, and Flynn were locked in a small, filthy country jail, apparently for the night. The constables and the horsemen, who were, she believed, from Bow Street, had departed in a roaring chorus of self-congratulation, no doubt for the local pub. Vivian had feared they would be taken straight to Newgate and hanged at the dawn, but this was only slightly better. The floor was wet, and she could hear the wretched scratching of mice nearby. She thought they were at the other end of the narrow room, in the pile of straw covered with a thin blanket that passed for a bed. She refused to go near it. After so many nights in a warm soft bed and no mice to be seen or heard, she preferred the hard cold floor to that vermin-infested straw.

She wondered where David was, and what he was doing. When they locked the irons on her wrists and ankles, then tossed her onto the wagon like a hog for market, she hadn’t been able to look back, not wanting to feel the shame of being seen like that. Now she wished she had. It might be the last she ever saw of David, and she oughtn’t to have let pride steal those last few glimpses from her. She closed her eyes against the squalor of her current situation and tried to summon up the memory of last night instead. Last night, when she had been warm and secure and loved.

“Viv?” She opened her eyes at the soft query. Simon sounded tired and worried. She scrambled across the floor to the wall that divided the holding cells, and ran her fingers over it, looking for a hole. “Are you there?” His voice cracked. “Are you awake?”

“I’m here,” she whispered back, locating a seam where mortar had crumbled away between the bricks. “Are you hurt?”

His sigh was faint through the wall. “Not compared to what comes next.” Vivian shuddered. There was a scuffling on the other side. “Viv?” he asked, slightly louder. “What are they going to do with us?”

She ground her teeth together, thinking about what to say. Her heart ached for him; he sounded scared, but he was trying to be brave. She had failed them both, but especially him. Simon never would have joined Flynn’s band if she hadn’t brought him into it when he was a boy. And if she had managed to escape David’s house earlier, she might have found her brother and warned him of the danger and gotten him away. “I don’t know, Si,” she said at last, hating that she had nothing else to say. If only David…But no. What could he possibly have done?

He was quiet for a long moment. “Where’ve you been, Viv?” he finally asked. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the wall. The stone was rough and cold. “That bloke, he was on the other job, wasn’t he,” Simon went on when she said nothing. “The one I hit. The time I knocked you down.” His voice cracked again, in anguish. “He caught you, didn’t he?”

Vivian sighed. “In a way,” she said softly. Caught her, and caught her heart. “He’s a good sort,” she added, not wanting Simon to worry. “He didn’t hurt me.”

“I’m sorry, Viv,” her brother whispered back. “If I hadn’t been such a sapskull, I wouldn’t have taken his ring. You were right, I shouldn’t have done it. Aw, Viv, I’ve gone and got us all killed!”

“Simon, it was a small mistake, and you haven’t gotten us killed,” she said firmly. “We’re still talking, aren’t we? Dead people don’t talk, so we can’t be dead.” Whether that would still be true tomorrow, she wasn’t sure, and didn’t mention. “It doesn’t matter now that you took his ring.” She paused. “Flynn’s got it, I expect? What happened after I…left?”

“Aye, Flynn kept the ring,” said Simon. “He fancied it, you see? So he took to wearing it, and admiring it…Well, you always knew he weren’t too clever, but he started telling people he was a duke’s bastard, a proper gentleman, just on the wrong side of the blanket. Crum, he didn’t care, because Flynn took to paying for ale and such when he was wearing that ring.”

“What did he do to you?” she wanted to know.

“Nothing he hadn’t done before,” said Simon, avoiding the question. “It didn’t matter. I was sore sick about you, though. I feared the bawds had got you, or you’d been murdered by some ruffian. And Flynn wouldn’t let me go to look for you, nor would he send Crum. He said you’d run off and taken the profit for yourself and we were well rid of you.” In spite of herself Vivian scowled. She and Simon might end on the gallows, but at least Flynn would, too. It was cold comfort, but solace nonetheless to her vengeful heart. Simon’s voice dropped. “I missed you, Viv.”

Guilt speared her. “I missed you, too,” she replied, trying not to think about the theater, the long days exploring David’s library, the long nights spent in David’s bed.

“So that cull,” he said, homing in on the topic she didn’t know how to discuss. “He didn’t hurt you, you say; what did he do?”

Thinking hard, and trying not to grow maudlin at the same time, Vivian shifted. Tiny feet skittered nearby, and she sprang back to her feet, shaking out her skirts before kneeling down by the crack in the wall again. “He caught me trying to sell the goods, and said he wouldn’t let me go until I returned his ring.” But then he had let her go. At any time in the last fortnight, Vivian knew she could have walked out of the house, and he wouldn’t have stopped her…or at least not on account of his ring.

“So why’d you turn up on the stage with him?” Simon asked.

Vivian sighed. “It’s complicated, Simon.”

“You let him hump you, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

Vivian bristled. “Don’t you speak to me like that! Mind your tongue, Simon!”

“It’s true, isn’t it,” he shot back. “When they put the irons on you, he argued with the charleys. A man don’t argue over a filching mort for no reason.”

“Well, he’s gone now, and it’s not your concern,” she said, brutally putting down the small thrill of happiness that David had made some effort to help her. But of course there had been nothing he could do.

“It would’ve been bloody useful to have his help,” Simon mumbled. “A flash cove like that ought to have the ready to spring us.”

“Aye, and why should he? So you can hit him again?”

“I wouldn’t knock him around if he got us out of here,” Simon retorted. Then he heaved a sigh. “I’m just…Well, I’m not scared, you ken; just a bit nervous, is all.”

Vivian gave a dry laugh. “I’m scared.”

There was a pause. “You are?”

“Bloody scared enough to cry,” she admitted. “It’s my fault you’re here, Si. Mum told me to look out for you, and look where I brought you. Into a gang of no-account ruffians without enough wits to rob a coach properly. And now…Well, I haven’t got a plan just yet, but I don’t know what to do. Flynn went and made certain they’d be quick to tie the hangman’s rope, and I don’t know how to stall them until I can think of a way out.” She sighed. “So, aye, I’m scared.”

A long silence was her only answer. Vivian leaned against the wall, exhausted. What was the point in consoling Simon when she really didn’t see any hope for them? In all the tight spots she’d ever been in, Vivian had always refused to give in to the despair and panic. That only ensured a bad ending. So long as she kept her calm and her wits, she always thought she had a chance—until now. She was tired. Her brain felt sluggish and fogged. She’d gotten soft, sleeping in a warm, cozy bed, because now she felt stiff and cold and so miserable she wanted to cry. Something ran across the toe of her shoe, and she kicked it in frustration. Let the ruddy mice wait until she was actually dead before they nibbled at her.

“Where’s Flynn?” she whispered, when she couldn’t bear the silence any longer. “Si?” Nothing. “Simon?”

“He’s in another cell,” mumbled her brother. She heard a faint snuffle. “He’s likely proud, being treated like a real duke, and all…” Vivian wanted to laugh, incredibly. “He was talking at me through the wall for a bit, but he’s sound asleep now,” Simon went on. “I can hear him snoring.”

Just like always. She shook her head. “What about Crum?”

“Don’t know. He took off like a rabbit, didn’t he?” Simon gave a shaky, choking laugh. “Back to Alice, probably.”

That was fine with Vivian. If the constables never caught Crum, she wouldn’t care. Alice needed him. At least they all wouldn’t suffer for Flynn’s idiocy. “Get some sleep, Simon,” she said gently.

“What for?” He snuffled again, and her heart clenched. He was crying. “I expect we’ll get enough sleep tomorrow, and the day after, and every day after that.”

Another truth she couldn’t counter. She hunched her shoulders and propped herself against the wall more securely. When the mice ran past again, she didn’t move.

It looked bleak indeed. She at least had had a taste of heaven before the end; her poor brother had not.

“I’m sorry, Simon,” she whispered again. “So sorry.”

More sniffles, and a scraping noise. “Me, too, Viv,” came her brother’s voice, a little louder than before. “Me, too.”

David found the Moresham jail without much difficulty. He pulled up his horse, and Harris, the Exeter coachman, brought the Exeter town coach in all its lumbering glory to a halt behind him. David had judged it a necessary part of the show he intended to put on, but couldn’t bear to be trapped inside it. He studied the building that held Vivian. It was an old dingy building with stone walls and small windows. It was certain to be damp and cold inside. David dismounted, handing the reins to one of the footmen who sprang off the back of the coach. He glanced at the man climbing down from the coach.

“Do you remember what we discussed?”

Mr. Adams shook his head eagerly. “Yes, sir. Every word.”

“Good.” David took a deep breath. “Let’s to it, then.”

He paused in front of the coach, tugging at his gloves. Adams handed him a walking stick. Then David walked up to the door of the jail and began rapping as loudly as he could.

After several minutes it opened, revealing a pudgy, yawning constable scratching his belly. “What the bloody hell do you want?” he complained. His barely-open eyes were bloodshot and his breath reeked of ale. David judged it had been a night of celebration.

“You are the constable, I presume.” David leaned elegantly on his walking stick.

The man blinked at him a few more times. “Aye, sir, that I am, sir. Constable Chawley.”

“Excellent.” David made no attempt to hurry things along, letting his appearance and manner work on the fellow. The man’s eyes flitted around, taking in the heavy town coach, the liveried footmen, and Adams standing a respectful step behind David. He noticed the man’s eyes lingering on one point for a moment; the crest on the coach door, no doubt. The constable’s throat worked, and he gave a little bow.

“How can I serve you, sir?”

David arched one brow. “Must I discuss it on the front step?”

Chawley jumped. “Aye! I mean, nay. Right this way, sir.” He held the door open and David strolled inside, Adams at his heels. Chawley trotted around in front of them, hitching up his trousers as he went, and showed them into a small office.

David took a seat without waiting to be invited. Chawley, now flushed, repeated his earlier question. “How can I serve you, sir?”

“You have something of mine, I believe.”

The constable’s mouth opened, flapping once, twice, like a fish’s. “I’m sure not, sir,” he said in a tone that was not certain at all.

“A ring,” said David. “Made of gold, bearing my family crest. It was stolen from me in a robbery on the Bromley stage some weeks ago and has not been seen since. Or rather,
I
have not seen it since. Bow Street informed me a villain…” He paused, head cocked.

“The Black Duke, my lord,” supplied Adams.

David raised his eyes to the ceiling for a moment before focusing on the constable again. “Yes. Just so. This…person has been wearing my ring, calling himself this preposterous name, and then robbing stagecoaches.” He pulled a slight grimace of distaste. “I should like to have it back now.”

The constable’s ruddy color had faded from his pockmarked cheeks. “Ah…well. Erm, right, sir. Could—could you describe the crest?”

David inclined his head again. On cue, Adams stepped forward and drew out a sheet of paper from his folio. “The arms of His Grace the duke of Exeter,” murmured the secretary.

Constable Chawley’s eyes rounded with alarm. He glanced sideways at David. “Are you—that is, begging pardon, sir—”

“No, I am not Exeter,” said David with an amused look. “I am his brother.” The constable’s eyes swung to Adams, who bowed his head in discreet confirmation.

“I see.” Chawley’s fingers left little damp marks on the paper as he turned it around again. His mouth was screwed up in concentration. David waited. Somewhere a door opened, and a tuneless humming drifted in through the door.

“Lord bless me, that’ll be Mr. Spikes,” said the constable, relief flooding his face. “He’ll know what’s what, sir.” And he hurried from the room.

David sat back in his chair and listened. The humming abruptly stopped, followed by a rush of whispered conversation. Footsteps clattered in the outer office, followed by another bout of loud whispers. Then footsteps came toward the office where he waited until the door was thrown open again.

“Sir, good morning,” said an oily new voice. David turned his head to see the new arrival, the bowlegged man who had strutted before him last evening in the torchlight and crowed about catching the Black Duke. This would be Mr. Spikes, the man who had put Vivian in irons. “Allow me to bid you welcome to our town—”

David looked him up and down. “Yes.”

The man paused, nonplussed, then hurried on. “I am Mr. Samuel Spikes, good sir, sheriff of this county.”

“Indeed,” David said. “Then you have my signet ring.”

“I do have that ring, sir, but you understand, I can’t simply hand it over to the first gentleman who walks in and asks…” His voice died as David got to his feet and faced him. “For it,” he finished weakly.

“Of course,” said David. “What proof do you require?”

“Er…” Spikes seemed unprepared for this. “Proof.”

David cast his eyes upward and sighed, and Adams rushed forward to present the documents again.

“Who are
you
?” hissed Spikes at him.

“Private secretary to His Grace the duke of Exeter,” said Adams. “Assisting his lordship in His Grace’s absence.”

“Absence?” Spikes frowned at David.

“Lord David Reece,” murmured Adams. “His Grace’s brother has the management of the estate at present.”

Spikes continued frowning. “Does he.”

“Ainsley Park,” piped up the constable, who had been watching with bleary eyes. “My cousin’s an under-gardener there.”

“Ainsley Park in Kent, as well as several other properties and estates in England and Scotland,” said Adams. “You are quite fortunate his lordship came in person this morning. He is a very busy man.”

David simply stood there and watched them, the paunchy, sour-faced sheriff and the plump, half-drunk constable. This should be an easy game for him, persuading these two bumpkins to give him what he wanted. Still, he couldn’t afford to lose, which always made things more difficult.

Mr. Spikes exchanged an uneasy look with the constable, then hunched his shoulders over the papers Adams had brought. After examining them for several moments, even turning them sideways, the sheriff thrust them back into Adams’s hands. “Hmmph. Well, right then. I’ll just go fetch it for you.” He jerked his head at Chawley, who twitched in surprise, then followed the sheriff from the room.

“Thank you.” David waited until they closed the door behind them. Then he turned to Adams. “Well done.”

The secretary’s eyes shone. “Thank you, sir!”

“They’ll be talking it over,” said David, almost to himself. “Trying to decide between handing things over to Bow Street or currying favor for themselves. Stroke of luck, really, that the constable’s cousin is an under-gardener.”

“Even more importantly, sir, they have no wish to bring disfavor on themselves.”

David smiled faintly. “Well, I shall give them every opportunity to avoid that.”

Spikes and the constable returned again in a few minutes. His manner considerably more restrained now, Mr. Spikes held out a small grimy pouch. “I believe this is what you’re seeking, m’lord.” He gave an awkward little bow.

David took the pouch and opened it. Out rolled the heavy gold signet ring Marcus had given him so many weeks ago. He tossed the pouch aside and put the ring on his hand.

The cool weight of it slipped easily onto his finger, at once reassuring and foreign. He breathed a mental sigh of relief; the first part of his plan had been accomplished. David favored Mr. Spikes with a smile. “Yes, indeed. Mr. Adams, see to it the reward for its return is sent at once.”

“Yes, my lord.” Adams flipped open his folio and made a note. Mr. Spikes couldn’t conceal his delight and relief.

“Thank you, sir, though it’s not necessary, of course. It’s our duty to protect the good folks of—”

“Yes.” David cut him off. “There is something else.”

The sheriff closed his mouth, glancing uncertainly at Adams. His skinny throat worked twice as he faced David again. “How else can I serve you, sir?”

“I am looking for someone,” said David. “A woman.”

Something surprised and uneasy flashed across Spikes’s features. He didn’t move.

“Brown hair, blue eyes,” David went on. “So high.” He held up his hand to indicate. “Have you seen her?”

Spikes looked unwilling to open his mouth. “Who is she?” he muttered at last. David raised one eyebrow in reproach. The sheriff flushed. “Begging your pardon, m’lord, but I can’t just hand over my prisoners to anyone who asks.”

David’s face cleared. “You have seen her, then. Excellent.” Then he frowned again. “Prisoner?”

Spikes was the color of turnips. “Who else would I have, here in the jail?”

“I see.” David let his impatience show. “Bring her out at once, if you please.”

“I have to ask who you’re looking for,” said Spikes stubbornly. “I got only prisoners here, and I ain’t giving over any of them without good cause. Caught robbing a public stage, they were—”

“A female, engaged in highway robbery?”

Spikes flushed even deeper. “She was with ’em! Part of the gang, most like.”

“The woman I am seeking would be a passenger, not a thief,” said David. “Perhaps this is not the same woman.”

“Who is she?” Spikes growled, although he looked more and more wretched about protesting.

David leaned on his walking stick and fixed an intent stare on the man. “I hardly think that is your concern,” he said softly.

For a long moment they stared at each other, as if in silent combat. David didn’t move; neither did Mr. Spikes, aside from the clenching of his fist.

“Let me be very clear,” said David at last, speaking very slowly. “If you have arrested the lady in question, I shall be most displeased. Perhaps the only way to mitigate my displeasure would be to produce her, posthaste, and pray she is unharmed. Do you understand?”

Spikes wet his lips. “Her name?” he asked through his teeth.

David bent his head very slightly toward Mr. Adams, without taking his eyes off the sheriff. “Gray,” said Adams at once. “Mrs. Mary Gray.”

“Posthaste,” David repeated.

“What makes you think this particular female is here, sir?” argued the sheriff.

“A man”—David glanced to Adams again.

“Mr. John Palmer,” supplied Adams.

“Yes. Mr. Palmer is employed by my brother. Mr. Palmer informed me that a woman of her description was on a stagecoach with him yesterday.”

Spikes looked as though he’d eaten something very bitter. “Very well, sir,” he muttered. “I’ll go have a look.” He ducked back out of the room.

Samuel Spikes was not having a good day. It had begun well enough. He woke to remember, quite proudly, that he had personally apprehended the most notorious villain in all the shire, the Black Duke, not to mention the highwayman’s gang. The Bow Street horse patrol had commended him for his assistance. He was certain to receive a citation from the Home Secretary. Mr. Spikes had himself bought a round for all the constables and officers at The Bear and Bull in celebration last night.

Today was to have been one of the finest in Samuel Spikes’s life, and now this lordship fellow was spoiling it. It was bad enough he had come to claim the Black Duke’s ring. Spikes had suspected that was a real ring, stolen of course, and would be returned. He had expected to present it to the men from Bow Street, though, when they returned today to remove his prisoners to Newgate. Now he had been forced to give it to the gentleman waiting in his private office, and there would be no triumphant presentation to the magistrate.

That was bad enough. This lord wanted one of his prisoners now. Grinding his teeth, Spikes stomped down the hall to where Chawley waited, scratching his belly and looking stupid. “What’s her name?” he snapped. “The girl.”

Chawley gaped at him. “Eh…”

“Go check.” Spikes stood fuming while Chawley retrieved his records.

“Gray, sir. Mary Gray.”

Mr. Spikes ground his teeth. “Here, Chawley. Gutterson was dead certain about her, wasn’t he? He wasn’t drunk yesterday, was he?” Amos Gutterson, the man who had told them one of the thieves had recognized the female passenger, was well-known in Moresham for his fondness for ale. At the time, Mr. Spikes had been so pleased to capture the Black Duke and his mates, he’d ordered the woman taken away, too, as a person of interest if nothing else. Now, however, that didn’t seem so farsighted.

Chawley hesitated, confirming his suspicions. “I don’t think much,” he mumbled.

“Damn it!” Mr. Spikes glanced around and lowered his voice. “That gentleman in there says he wants her. Won’t say why, or what gives him the right to demand a prisoner’s release, but he’s a duke’s brother and I don’t know how to refuse him, not based only on Amos’s word.” He slashed one hand through the air. “Go fetch her, then. But not a word to her about why she’s coming out. I’ll not lose a prisoner if I can help it. This bunch is clever, and she might see an opportunity to give the hangman the slip.” Chawley nodded and hurried off.

Mr. Spikes took a moment to compose himself. What on earth could a nobleman want with a young woman who knew thieves? Spikes wished he had time to send to London and ask Bow Street what to do. The notices sent around to all the local sheriffs had described the Black Duke in detail, and made only passing reference to his gang. A woman had not been mentioned. If this gent insisted, Spikes supposed he’d have to choose between defying the man, with who knew what consequences—the fellow likely had friends in the Home Office and Parliament who could remove Spikes from his post—or giving up a prisoner of uncertain value.

Facing a choice between awful and worse, Spikes stomped back to his unexpected and unwanted visitor.

The clang of the lock woke Vivian. Blinking, she sat up from where she had fallen asleep leaning against the wall, and saw the stocky constable who had shoved her into the cell last night opening the door. “Come,” he said. “You’re wanted.”