Elisabeth Fairchild (38 page)

Black suited well her complexion, her eyes, the shining sweep of her freshly dressed hair--her mood. She disguised her misery with a dash of powder, a touch of rouge.

She went down to meet the solicitors, to sign the papers. Captain Stapleton waited, all smiles and gladness. Her father and the Stapletons beamed at her expectantly. On the table waited the documents.

She knew what the stiff white pages contained, settlements of Stapleton’s investments, his properties, her pin money and jointure, a small separate estate endowed by her father, appropriated portions for future children. Here Stapleton legally bound himself to protect, cherish and financially support her the rest of his life. Here she would sign away all rights and freedoms to his care and decision-making. These documents bound her legally until the church bound her in God’s name three weeks hence.

The pages waited like a baited trap, ready to ensnare her with legal responsibilities, this commitment carefully penned in quadruplicate by the solicitors, Mr. Haden and Mr. Lott. They stood waiting, beady eyed as crows, sharpened quills and fresh ink at the ready.

Behind Stapleton, behind Mr. Lott, to the tune of a discreet little chamber orchestra, a murmur of low voices, the expectant ballroom filled with friends, family, Stapleton’s crewmates, and business associates. They had examined the basket making suitably appreciative noises. They had examined the trousseau, traipsing in and out of Stapleton’s bedchamber, polite voyeurs to the delights of the wedding night. They now waited to witness the documents signing--one set hers, one set his, one set each for the solicitors.

Only one person, important beyond measure, made no appearance to wish her happy--only one man thoroughly occupied her thoughts--regrettably--not Stapleton, who took up a pen and signed the first document with a flourish.

With a sense of finality, he stepped through the door and allowed the doorman to relieve him of hat, coat, and walking stick.

“This way, sir,” the footman indicated.

Jaw set, he strode into the drawing room, prepared for a crowd, unprepared for a room full of things, gifts for the making of a marriage, the foundation of a household. There were expensive scent bottles, elegant china figurines, a rosewood walking stick, a sable collar with matching sable muff, a sealskin coat, swan’s down and fox-fur tippets, a collection of Limoges china, embroidered linens with the family crest, boxes of rich velvet, heavy damask, lengths of cashmere and paisley shawls, and, of course, a purse full of newly minted coins--for the poor.

He wandered amid the Stapleton’s outpouring of love, affection and hope for the coming union, alone, a latecomer, an intruder. He could hear the sounds of celebration, voices and laughter, beyond the far door.

He did not belong here.

Commitment. He stood in the midst of the visual shout of it. Shaken, he headed for the door.

A footman discreetly cleared his throat, suggesting politely, “This way, sir.” swinging wide a door, not the one he wanted, leading not outside, nor into a room full of people as might be expected, but into a paneled stairwell.

With trepidation, Roger proceeded up the stairs, risers creaking. The bedchamber awaited. Fresh horror. A head-spinning, heart wrenching sight--Dulcie’s nightclothes, Dulcie’s lace and lawn underthings, Dulcie’s future love life, carefully displayed on another man’s bed.

Chapter Forty-Seven

The Stapleton Townhouse, London

Roderick signed, pen scratching paper, his name staining black the crisp white pages, one after another. He relinquished the pen to her, placed the inkwell convenient for dipping. A roomful of faces watched, waiting, as she dipped the sharpened goose quill, as she contemplated the empty space beside Roderick’s name. She paused, searching the faces for a reason not to go through with it, hand shaking, the pen splattering ink.

She found not the face she sought.

Lip caught between her teeth, she lifted the quill--a feather and yet so great the weight it transferred--set point to virgin paper. A D she transcribed. A shaky D, for dumb Dulcie, struck dumb by a movement in the room, a gasp from Lydia, the sound of heels crossing the dance floor, movement in a room where all else stood still.

She felt the touch of his presence before she lifted her head. He tinted the page blue. She looked up and he was there, handsome, glowing, fluid and as fine as ever he had looked in black evening clothes, his hair a flame ready to consume his crisp white neckcloth.

Every head turned to observe him, every face was drawn to watch the rising of hers--an unsmiling sun.

Roderick half rose from his chair beside her. “Ramsay,” he said. “Good of you to come.”

Roger’s color diminished, his gaze withdrew that he might briefly regard her future husband. “That remains to be seen,” he said with the slightest of bows.

Roderick frowned, puzzled. He remained standing.

Roger returned his attentions to her. “A favor?”

Dulcie blinked, tears threatening.

“Surely this is not the time,” Roderick bent to suggest.

She reached out to touch his hand.

Roger’s gaze followed the exchange. The severity of his expression deepened. He stood waiting her response, blue simmering low, and yet she could feel the burn of it washing over her, filling her senses so that her flesh goosed and the pen slid from her fingers leaving an ugly trail of black spots where her name should have been.

Anger fired in her that he should come here, now, begging favors.

“I am sorry,” she said to Roderick. She could not look at Roger as she repeated the words. “I am sorry. No more favors, sir. You have used up all I had to offer.”

From his pocket a flash of white, an initialed handkerchief, double R’s, landed in the ink. The fine lawn, ruined, soaked up the blackness, spreading it.

“The Gargoyle,” he said, in a voice loud enough to carry. “Begs one last favor.”

Heads turned. The color of the crowd intensified along with their interest.

“The Gargoyle?” Lydia blurted, the name picked up and repeated. It seemed to echo from the walls.

Roderick leaned close to question fiercely, shocked, “You know the Gargoyle?”

She stood up, open-mouthed, amazed that Roger would go so far as to mention the name.

“Not even the Gargoyle has sway--” she began.

“What is the meaning of this?” Roderick interrupted.

Roger’s color flared golden. His voice was firm, resounding. “He is prepared to reveal himself, if you will not hear him any other way.”

Roderick sputtered indignantly. “What in God’s name?”

Arrested in her anger, she blurted, “What favor?”

Everyone craned to hear his reply.

“May I not speak to you in private?” The blue of him seared through her, as intense as the longing in his eyes.

She could not continue to look at him. The depth of her feelings would be revealed to the room at large if she did. She faced poor, dear Roderick, whose gaze traveled from her to Roger and back again, as if she had invited an elephant into the ballroom.

“I mean to marry you,” she said. “I would have no secrets between us.”

“Do not make promises you ought not keep!” The raw, aching emotion in Roger’s ardently voiced objection turned her head. She could not look away once his eyes locked on hers, searching, for what she could not be certain. She knew only that she had long hoped for such an open display of need.

“Mr. Ramsay,” she said stiffly “you hold my future in the balance. I am about to sign my marriage settlements. Do you mean to convey to me the Gargoyle’s request, or will you come back at a time and place more appropriate?”

He sank to one knee before the desk, stilling hushed gossip. The room held its breath. “There is no better time or place.”

She rose, put out her hand as if to stop him, the movement producing the opposite effect, in galvanizing him to action. His light swept over her, into her. He took her hand, blurting, “The Gargoyle begs favor on my behalf, Miss Selwyn. He begs you will not now close your eyes to that which you have so clearly seen.”

“Seen?” she stammered, backing out of his grasp, the chair, rudely bumped, squealing protest.

His eyes flashed, the blue in them a river with which he would sweep her away. “That we are meant to be together. That there is a force binding us, a force that might rob you of happiness in another man’s arms.” His head canted in Roderick’s direction.

The guests were in an uproar. Mrs. Stapleton sank into a faint. Lydia plied her with smelling salts.

“Damned nerve,” Stapleton thundered. “I must ask you to leave, sir.”

The sight of Lydia, cheeks livid, bent over the prostrate Mrs. Stapleton--of Roderick, face purpling with rage--left Dulcie’s knees weak, her direction uncertain.

Her father rose, frowning, to stand beside Roderick. “You have been asked to leave, Ramsay.”

Dizzy, Dulcie sought the blue of Roger’s eyes, the rich, cobalt blue of his light. Her balance returned. Her strength.

“I beg you will not sign those documents.” Unmoved by the tumult of the room, calm in this crisis, as in every other they had witnessed together. He focused on her, on nothing and no one but her.

“Come away with me.” To the tune of a dozen horrified gasps he held out his hand. “Marry me?”

“No!” Lydia shrieked.

“Dulcie, don’t!” Stapleton begged.

“You musn’t,” her father said.

But there was no question of resisting. No moment’s hesitation. Her hand was drawn to his, as if to a magnet.

Blue-green, the smoldering heat. His passion poured through her, filling the hollow of her heart, soothing the uneasiness that had troubled her since dawn.

From his palm to hers, images flit, like lightening on the window of her future, the rare riot of emotions that would sweep the length of their adventure filled lives. Dulcie Selwyn had seen their love the first time Roger Ramsay had touched her.  She had known it in the depths of her heart from the start. And what Dulcie Selwyn knew, generally happened.

Epilogue

Arthur Thistlewood, Brunt, Ings, Davidson and Tidd
were found guilty of conspiring to, and actually levying a war against the King of England.  On the first day of May, 1820 they were hanged
en masse
and then decapitated for their crimes.

Harrison, Wilson, Cooper, Strange and Bradburn,
involved to a lesser degree in the conspiracy, pled guilty to the indictments against them. The very governing body they had plotted to overthrow, showed them unexpected leniency, commuting their death sentences to transportation for life. On the second day of May, 1820 they sailed for New South Wales, Australia.

George Edwards,
whereabouts unknown, was charged with High Treason, on May 22nd for his part in the Cato Conspiracy. A reward was offered of one hundred guineas. The reward was never claimed.

John Castle
announced to
Lord Sidmouth
on May 23rd that the Gargoyle had taken on a partner,
Bethany White,
a young woman of considerable talent who had been instrumental in the success of the Cato Street conspirators. A new agent provocateur, identified only by the initials B.W., was promptly added to the king’s secret services payroll.

Roger Ramsay and Dulcie Selwyn
married in London on the first Sunday in June. They honeymooned thereafter in the north of England. A rash of riots, connected to the cotton spinning industry, broke out shortly after their arrival.

——The End ——

Author Bio

Elisabeth Fairchild’s passion for history stems from her heritage: her mother a British war bride, her father a descendant of a U.S. Senator, Teutonic knights, and a Cherokee chief. The Fairchild name is ancient Anglo-Saxon, the family seat predated the Norman conquest, the coat of arms includes a knight’s helm and a griffin. As a child who loved books, Elisabeth fell in love with knights, ladies, winged creatures and Jane Austen’s works. At sixteen she was hired as a maid in a haunted 12th century castle. Currently, one foot firmly fixed in the past, Elisabeth explores castles, cathedrals and country houses from the viewpoint of a historical mentalist with old soul insight, a phenomenal floor-to-ceiling research library and an insatiable desire to understand women’s historical roles.