Murderer! Traitor!
Daring to walk among us, among God-fearing people who follow in the footsteps of Christ, while he dances with cloven hoof in the company of devils! Look at this man— this devil! Look at his fine clothing, the
arrogance
of the creature!"
The man paused, and there were several angry shouts from the crowd, most of them coming from the very front of the crowd.
Courtland leaned closer to Rian. "They're calling him Geoffrey Baskin. I don't know if that's lucky for us or not. Would you like odds that those are Beales's hirelings, taking up the cry the loudest?"
"No need to wager. You're right. Look at Ainsley— he's staring down at one of them, isn't he. Recognizes him, I'll bet. Look— did you see that? He said something to one of them. God's teeth, Court, someone could put a knife in his ribs before either of us could move. We have to put a stop to this."
The minister had gotten the bit between his teeth and was even louder now. "And now he dares—
dares!—
to speak, to mock us, sure his money will save him, his
arrogance
will save him. Do we stand here and let that happen?
No!
Do we allow him to sit safe at Dover Castle, laughing at us, to be perhaps transported or even freed to kill again? This murderer of women, of a helpless child? Yes! A child!
No,
I say, he will not escape justice! He is in Dymchurch, and in Dymchurch he will stay, buried in ignominy, justice meted out by you good citizens who will not allow his sins to go unpunished! Take him! Take him now! Show him the swift, vengeful sword of the Lord, show him the justice of good and honest men!"
"Bloody hell," Courtland breathed as the crowd seemed to surge forward as one, arms reaching up toward Ainsley as the soldiers were curiously slow to react. Even as he and Rian shoved their way forward, Ainsley disappeared into the mass of reaching, grabbing hands, dragged down from the box, unable to defend himself.
Courtland saw the men from Becket Hall pushing into the crowd, to protect their Cap'n. He knew they were all armed, with pistols, with knives, with belaying pins tucked beneath their jackets— and were now exposing their presence to anyone who was watching, counting noses, trying to identify anyone from Becket Hall, from the island. The riot could turn deadly at any moment.
The Lieutenant finally barked out orders and the soldiers quickly affixed their bayonets and leveled their rifles at what was now a mob intent on blood, even as more soldiers emerged from the gaol, also pushing themselves forward, their bayonets slowly inching back the mob as they formed a phalanx around Ainsley, who lay still on the cobblestones, his knees drawn up as if he had been fending off kicks from wooden clogs and heavy workman's boots.
"Bastards!" Rian shouted as the crowd began to disperse and, remarkably, the minister had vanished. "Bloody cowards!"
Courtland grabbed Rian by the shoulder and pushed him to the side of the street, where they blended in with the others who watched, but were now silent, whatever had pushed them into acting now warning them that the day could end with more than Geoffrey Baskin in chains.
"Let go of me, Court. God, is he all right?"
"We'll find out soon enough," Courtland told him. "But we can't chance going to him now, exposing ourselves. Look, there— they're getting him to his feet. Jesus, he doesn't look good, does he? Come on, we'll take this alleyway, circle around, back to the coach, find a doctor and have Callie take him with her into the gaol."
Rian took one last look toward the gaol as Ainsley was being half marched, half pushed back up the few steps to the flagway, and through the doorway. "What in hell were they thinking? Parading him out there, all but asking for something like this to happen. Beales. You had it, Court, he had to have planned this— the humiliation, and probably that beating as well, keeping his own hands clean. It's cowardly, underhanded, just the sort of man he is."
"I think you're right, and I think I also understand what he's trying to do. Just as Ainsley always taught us, cut off the head and the body dies. With Ainsley dead, Beales must think the rest of us will fold like a bad hand of cards, leaving him to— well, I'll tell you about that later. Beales wants more than to see us all dead. Right now, let's find that doctor."
Rian looked at him curiously. "You'll tell me about what? Don't tell me something else is going on. And nothing else matters anyway, not now. We've got to get him out of there, Court. Because we were right when we discussed all of this yesterday, even if we didn't understand what we were saying— one way or another, he'll never make it to Dover Castle."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CASSANDRA KEPT HER head down as she descended from the coach, the good Dr. Fletcher taking her hand and helping her up the few steps to the door of the gaol. Jacob Whiting followed, carrying the portmanteau holding fresh clothing and food from Bumble's kitchen.
A red-jacketed soldier stepped in front of her, in front of the door. "No entrance, miss. I'm sorry."
She said what Courtland had instructed her to say. "I'm here to see Geoffrey Baskin," Cassandra told him quietly. "As his daughter, that is my right."
"
He
ain't got no rights," the soldier said, snorting. "No visitors. Now take yourselves off before there's trouble."
Courtland had also said that, if she should meet resistance, she should climb back into the coach and drive away. They didn't need another incident.
"Come away, Miss Callie," Jacob Whiting warned quietly.
But Cassandra was going to see her father, and no smirking idiot was going to keep her from him.
She lifted her head, her heart pounding, and skewered the young soldier with her eyes, mimicking Eleanor, who could be as quietly imperious as a queen. "It saddens me, but I fear I will have to report this rudeness to your superior. What is your name, please?"
The young guard's watery blue eyes turned suddenly fearful. "M'name? I ain't givin' you m'name. I don't have to do no such thing."
"His name's Thomas Cobby," the doctor told her wearily, "and I brought him into this world, for my sins, but it wasn't me dropped him on his head and rattled his brains. Tommy, you've got an injured man in there and I'm going inside to tend him. You want me to go fetch your Ma?"
Cassandra ducked her head once more so young Thomas Cobby couldn't see her smile.
"I'll…I'll go ask the Lieutenant," Thomas said quickly and retreated inside the building while a second soldier, who had been watching and listening, grinned at the doctor. "Got him good, Dr. Fletcher. His Ma'd have his ears, and that's a fact. Bad business, this, Dr. Fletcher. Almost had us a hangin'."
"So I heard," the doctor said as Thomas Cobby opened the door once more.
"The Lieutenant says you can come in, but he's to inspect the bag and all, so as to see you didn't bring no pistols or nothin'. Goin' to do it hisself, he says. It's a bad man we got in there, no mistake. A real pirate, so I heard it said. Can you imagine that? A real honest to goodness pi— "
"Thank you, Tommy, that will be enough," Dr. Fletcher said, gesturing that Cassandra should precede him into the gaol house, and Cassandra quickly complied, before anyone inside had a change of heart and denied her.
"Ah, Miss Baskin, or is it Miss Becket?" a large soldier with a pockmarked face and a leer like a loon said as she stood in the dimness, fighting the urge to cover her nose with her hand, for the smell was not unlike a stable that hadn't been mucked out in weeks. "I apologize for the misunderstanding. Of course you may see your father. Although I will warn you. He's had a small accident. Fell on some boots— fell a couple of times, didn't he, boys?"
Again Cassandra fought the urge to lift her head, to speak to this man the way she wished, which would not be with kindness in her heart. "Thank you," she murmured quietly. "I'd like to be taken to him now."
"Not until you're searched. No end to the weapons and such some seem to think they can slip to a prisoner. But don't worry, I won't leave that to any of these bumbling idiots. It will be my pleasure to search you, personally. You'll like it, you'll see. I'm real thorough."
She couldn't help her reaction this time. Her head came up, the hood of her cloak falling back, exposing her face, her tumbling curls.
There was an audible intake of breath from the darkest corner of the room and Cassandra turned that way, unable to see anything but a vaguely human shape in the gloom.
"Leave her."
The lieutenant also turned toward the corner. "But I have to— "
"I said, leave her. You play the boorish buffoon to new heights, but you are not indispensable to me, Lieutenant Tapner." A chair scraped against the stone floor and the shape grew larger, became recognizably human as the man stepped out of the darkness.
He was dressed in black, from head to shiny black Hessians, his linen crisply white. He was tall, slim, like her papa, his hair black, his eyes blacker. He slowly lowered the scented, snow-white linen square he had lifted to protect his nose, revealing that he was almost a handsome man. Almost. But there was something about his eyes that edged him into the world of the terrifyingly sinister. He smiled at her, and Cassandra did her best not to shiver as his ice-cold stare raked her to her toes before settling once more on her face.
She wanted to look away. She wanted to attack him, rip his face with her nails. But it was as if her shoes had been nailed to the floor. She couldn't move. She could barely breathe.
Please God, that You didn't allow that face to be the last thing my mother saw before she died.
"Well, well, well," the man said, all but purred. "And what is your name, hmm?"
"Sheila," Cassandra said quickly, probably too quickly. "My name is Sheila Whiting."
"No, it's not. Let me think. I knew the name, once. Oh, yes, I remember now. Cassandra, the prophetess whose beauty enslaved men, who warned that Troy would fall but, alas, was not believed. Poor doomed Cassandra. That's why we couldn't find Odette. She hid you. Naughty woman, but I think now I should thank her before I turn her over to her loving sister who so longs to see her again. And how you must ease my dear friend Geoff's heart, little sweetheart."
He stepped closer, bent to whisper in her ear. "Tell him. Tell him you saw me. Tell him how delighted I am to have seen you. Tell him you're mine. You,
and
the Empress. Everything that's owed me. No mercy, no quarter, until it's mine. And there's not a blessed thing in the world he can do about it but to die."
And then, before she could move, he put his lips to her cheek, kissed her.
She raised her hand to slap him, but Jacob Whiting, who had never moved quickly in his life, grabbed at her arm and pulled her away, held her arms at her sides as Edmund Beales smiled one last time before leaving through a door that led deeper into the gaol.
"Are you all right, Miss Callie?" Jacob asked her. "That was him, wasn't it? The one what caused all the troubles on the island. I have to go right now, tell Court. We got him, Miss Callie, stuck right here. All we have to do is wait for him to take himself outside of the— "
"Yes, all right. Go, tell Court. I have Dr. Fletcher here with me, and Waylon's just outside. Go."
But Lieutenant Tapner had another idea, and that included pointing a pistol in Jacob Whiting's direction and cocking it. "He didn't say anything about not touchin'
you,
now did he? Stand where you are."
Cassandra waited, her mind whirling with what she would say to her father, what she would keep from him, as the portmanteau was inspected, as the lieutenant checked the black leather bag Dr. Fletcher had brought with him. But, finally, they were ushered back through a thick, barred oaken door as Jacob remained where he was, and led down some damp stone steps, deeper into the bowels of the gaol.
They passed several empty cells and, Cassandra counted, a half-dozen armed guards who came to attention as the lieutenant led her past them, bayonets affixed to their rifles. There were small, smoky torches hung on the walls every twenty feet or so, with darkness in between that concealed at least a few puddles Cassandra found with her slippered feet and tried to tell herself were composed of water, just water and nothing else. No windows, for this was a cellar, dank and dreary, a place where hope could be very easily abandoned, to be replaced by fear, which could always grow quite well in the dark.
At last the lieutenant stopped in front of another thick oaken door guarded by two more soldiers, and motioned that it should be opened. The key one soldier took from his pocket was larger than any key Cassandra had ever seen, and the last of her optimism about breaking into the gaol, easily freeing her papa, disappeared at the sight of it.
"Ten minutes, no more," the lieutenant said as the door creaked open and Cassandra rushed inside.
"Papa? Papa!" She could barely see anything in the dark, until Dr. Fletcher entered behind her, carrying a candle in a tin holder. "Oh, God, Papa!"
Cassandra went to her knees beside the low straw pallet her father lay on, his arms wrapped about his waist. At least he was no longer in chains.
