Falling in Love Again (6 page)

John stepped down to confront the man, who took a step back as if awed by the height and breadth of her infamous husband. “I am he.”

At that moment, another man in the crowd, his expression ugly, pounded on the window on Mallory's side of the coach. She jumped, startled by the man's anger. Suddenly deciding she had
no desire to be trapped inside the small coach, she tried to push her way out on John's side, but he protectively refused to let her leave, guarding the door with his body.

“What is going on here?” John demanded.

Before the officious-looking man could answer, a voice shouted from the crowd, “I'll tell you what's going on!” The man pushed his way to the front and Mallory recognized him as the one who had pounded on her coach window. “His high-and-mighty lordship owes me money, and now it looks like I won't ever get paid because the magistrate is going to have him taken away.”

“The magistrate!” Mallory repeated, even as John stiffened at the threat.

“This is absolute nonsense,” her husband said. “I owe no man.”

“You owe me,” another man cried. “Fourteen hundred pounds for feed and boarding.”

“Louis Barron is my man of business,” John said with indifference, as if such matters were beneath his notice. “Submit your bills to him and you'll be paid, with interest. I'll draft a note to him on the morrow with my instructions—”

“Bah! I've had it up to here with your Mr. Barron,” the first creditor answered. “We've sent all your bills to Mr. Barron, and we've sick of his excuses. We want what's right and ours. That's why we've sent for the bailiff.” Heads in the crowd nodded; fists were raised threateningly.

“And I'll see that you receive payment,” John announced, in a voice of steady command. Mallory marveled at his control. Her knees had turned
to pudding. Fourteen hundred pounds in debt for feed!

John continued calmly, “Give me a moment to escort my wife to our door and we will settle this matter like gentlemen.”

Angry shouts met his words. “You ain't goin' anywhere, guv!” a voice called.

Another said, “The gaol's the only settlement you'll get!”

Terrified, Mallory touched John's arm, just as the man in the top hat who had first confronted them stepped forward. For the first time, Mallory noticed the man's blue coat and vivid waistcoat. A Bow Street Runner!

“I'm afraid they have the right of it, Lord Craige,” the Runner said. “The Magistrate of Bow Street has ordered me to bring you before him.”

“Now?” John asked. “At this hour of the night?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And for what reason?”

“Bankruptcy, my lord,” the Runner replied respectfully.

The first creditor practically danced with glee as he delivered the news. “That's right, Lord Craige, you're bloody broke!”

“T
hat's impossible!” The steel edge in John's voice could have commanded battalions on a battlefield, but it had little effect on the Runner. Mallory understood John's anger. Such a public humiliation was practically unheard of—unless the charges were true and John was bankrupt.

“That's not what they say, my lord.” The Runner nodded toward the people closing in around the coach. “Now, if you will come with me, I've been hired to take you to the Magistrate.”

From the back of the crowd, a man's deep bass voice boomed, “Wait there—just one minute!”

Every head turned. A heavy-set man in a caped great coat and wide cocked hat, and carrying a tall
walking stick with an air of authority, pushed through the crowd. “Clear the way! Bailiff of the Court with court orders.”

A host of people followed him like tiny boats in the wake of a big ship. These newcomers were a better attired class of people, although they'd obviously dressed in haste. One man still wore his nightcap under his top hat.

Confronting the bailiff, the Runner spread his jacket to show off his red waistcoat. “You may not have Lord Craige right now. He is to appear before Bow Street.”

The bailiff waved a dismissive hand. “You may have the man. I've come for the house and contents. We'll be auctioning them to pay off Lord Craige's debts to these men.”

With a quiet, “Stay here,” to Mallory, John stepped down from the coach's footboard and closed the coach door. “I couldn't possibly owe them money,” he said, aristocratic disdain etched in every line of his face. “I've never set eyes on a one of them.”

The bailiff's eyes narrowed to piggish slits. “They're moneylenders, my lord. They know their business.”

John had borrowed from moneylenders? Mallory sat up on the seat in shock. Only a fool would pay their exorbitant interest—or a man desperate for money.

“The devil you say!” John exclaimed. “I would never leave my mark with sharks.”

The moneylenders muttered angrily among themselves. The man in his nightcap shoved his way forward to stand in front of the bailiff. “You
may turn up your high-and-mighty nose at our business, my lord, but you used our money and you knew the terms.”

“I have never used a moneylender,” John said, his voice tight with anger.

The moneylender shook his head. “Your agent, Mr. Barron, handled the loans. I have papers to prove it, including copies of your signature giving him authority to act on your behalf.” The man matched John's proud look with pride of his own. “Isaiah Benjamin conducts himself honorably and fairly in business and expects you to pay the debts!” A chorus of agreement met the man's words.

John's anger melted to surprise. “Louis Barron worked with moneylenders?”

“For years, my lord, and we've been happy to extend you the credit,” another moneylender replied. “Now we've come for our money.”

“Aye. We want our money,” came several shouts of agreement.

“Starting with this fine and fancy coach,” someone cried.

John raised his arms, his height commanding attention. “I will pay my creditors,” he announced firmly.

That statement sent the bailiff's eyebrows up to his hairline. “You can do that, my lord?”

“Certainly,” John said with authority. “What is the amount?”

“Ninety-eight thousand pounds, with the interest calculated in.”

Mallory fell back on the leather seat. The enormity of the figure confounded her imagination. Ninety-eight thousand pounds! Dear Lord, certainly even the Regent himself didn't have that kind of money. Debtor's Court would claim everything John owned to meet the debt. Craige Castle was lost. She'd never find a way to win back her beloved home.

“That's impossible! I can't possibly owe that much money,” John was saying, arguing loudly with the bailiff while the crowd around him hooted in derision.

Mallory wished she'd never come to London. Never, never, never…and then the thought struck her. As John's wife, she, too, would be held responsible for such an enormous debt.

Shame and horror turned her cold with fear. She should leave now. While everyone was shouting and arguing, she should crack open the opposite coach door and slip away unnoticed into the night—

A blast exploded, the sound reverberating off the fine brick houses of Mayfair.

Mallory fell to her knees on the coach floor and threw her arms over her head.

Several heartbeats later, finding herself still alive, she gathered what was left of her courage and scrambled to look out the window. The world had fallen into chaos.

Torches lay burning right where they'd fallen and everyone cowered close to the ground in fear. Even the bailiff and the Runner huddled together.

Someone moved near the open door of John's
house. It was the one-legged butler in the act of reloading a huge blunderbuss. “She still packs a punch, doesn't she, Colonel?” he shouted.

It took Mallory a moment to realize that the “Colonel” was John, who no longer stood in the coach door but sat hatless astride the lead horse. Before she could gather her scattered wits, the butler lifted the musket to his shoulder and fired another shot into the air. John kicked the horses and they sprang forward, throwing Mallory back against the seat.

Someone shouted, “He's bolting!”

Women screamed and moneylenders swore as John drove the terrified horses through the crowd. Mallory prayed he wouldn't trample anyone. She looked out the back window. To her amazement, no one appeared injured because they all started chasing after the coach, shaking their fists and swearing. The coach hit a bump that bounced Mallory so high her head hit the roof. The coach landed to the ground with a fearsome hop that tested its springs and sent the door opposite Mallory flying open.

The door banged against the side of the coach and swung back. She grabbed for the handle and slammed it shut. She rubbed her bruised head, holding onto the velvet squabs with the other hand. John rode the lead horse neck or nothing.

And then Mallory gave a small cry of alarm. Up the street ahead of them, a small army of torch-bearing Bow Street Runners was spreading out, determined to stop them.

This was it. This was the end. John would have to halt—and the moneylenders would hang him
right on the spot. And they'd string her up next to this philandering, lying, spendthrift—

She hadn't run out of names to call John when he reached over to the bridle of the other lead horse and turned both animals sharply down a narrow side street. The coach heeled up, running on only two wheels as Mallory screamed and quickly threw her body weight to the opposite side.

The coach seemed to hang suspended in midair. Sparks flew from the wheels as they grated against the cobblestones.

And then the coach righted itself, jumping and lurching on its springs so that Mallory bounced around inside like a child's India rubber ball. She landed, wedged between the seat and the floor. Every bone in her body felt as if it were broken.

Still John drove the horses on. The coach lanterns reflected off the buildings lining the narrow street as they charged past. Over the clattering of hooves and the screech of coach wheels, Mallory could hear the clacking of the Watchman's rattles.

John heard her scream, but he couldn't stop. He wouldn't let them catch him.

Not since the war had he felt such freedom! The lethargy that had weighed him down since his return to London dissipated. In its place drummed a lust for adventure, of anticipation and excitement!

He felt alive again.

He took two more turns down winding side roads before he was convinced he had an excellent lead over the Runners. He had to get rid of
the coach. Both animals were spent, their muscles quivering. Hadley would have his head for using his cattle in such a manner, but there wasn't a moment to waste. The Runners might call out the Horse Patrol.

And he had to check on his wife. He hadn't heard a sound from her since that last scream.

Bringing her along had not been one of his more sane impulses.

John reined the horses to a halt, slid to the ground, and hurried back to the coach, only to stop dead in his tracks. One of the coach lamps had been knocked off in the chase, but the remaining one lit the interior.

His wife sat on the coach seat as regal as a princess waiting for her Sunday ride—although her hair looked as if it had been captured in a windstorm.

She faced him as he yanked open the door, her eyes flashing with fiery indignation. The only signs of her fear were the white knuckles on the hand still gripping the passenger strap and the steel in her voice as she said, “Are you quite done?”

John almost grinned at her, but caught himself in time. “I don't know if we're still being chased by the Runners or if we are safe. It all depends on how tenacious they are. You may stay here or come with me.”

“What is the advantage of staying here?”

“You can tell them what a blackguard I am.”

“It's tempting.”

Her response earned a short laugh from him.
His child-bride was growing more entertaining by the moment. “I wouldn't advise it.”

She nodded her head. “I'd probably be locked up for your debts.”

“Once they know you are my wife,” he agreed amicably.

“I don't think I like you.” She said each word clearly and separately.

“You're in good company.” Struck by a new thought, he added, “But then, you're the one who came looking for me.” Sparks shot from her eyes at that statement, but now was not the time to match verbal swords, no matter how much he enjoyed the challenge. He held out his hand. “Come, we must hurry.”

Mallory didn't release her hold on the strap. “Why? Don't you believe we have escaped them?”

“Not if they've been hired to catch me.”

“Someone would pay them to hunt you down?”

Just then, a man shouted, “Here they are! I've spotted them.”

Mallory had barely let go of the hand strap before John grabbed her arm and practically dragged her out of the coach. “Run, Mallory, run,” he said, helping her gain her balance while still moving.

“What about the coach?”

“Hadley will be disappointed in its condition when it's returned,” he answered, then shouted at the horses.

The already frenzied animals bolted, charging
down the street into the night, pulling the coach behind them. John joined Mallory. “Run!”

A group of mounted riders charged around the corner up the street. John pushed Mallory toward an alley. She ran. Behind her she heard the riders give chase to the runaway coach.

The alley opened onto another street. John didn't let them slow their pace, but led her down another side street and then another and another until she had no idea where they were.

With each corner they turned, the streets became darker and seedier. He shoved past pedestrians, drunks, and sailors, heedless of the curses and shouts thrown at them. A stitch needled her side. Her breathing grew labored and painful in her chest. Oblivious to all, John took them deeper and deeper into a part of the city that was strange and foreign to her country eyes.

At last, just when she thought her lungs would burst, he pulled her down another side alley and stopped.

Mallory jerked her arm free even as he let go, and placing her hands on her hips, walked the parameters of the alley, trying to catch her breath. Immediately, the smells of rotting food and human waste struck her full force. She gagged.

“Come over here,” his voice ordered from the shadows. “It smells a little better.”

She followed his advice, covering her mouth and nose with her hand and stumbling over some sort of slippery debris on the ground. The moon barely reached the alley's depths and she didn't see the cat until it hissed and growled in outrage, knocking over a wooden crate in its flight.

Startled, Mallory jumped back—and bumped into John's hard, strong body. His hands came down on her arms to steady her. For one blessed second, she let herself rest there. He smelled so clean and fresh compared to the sordid odors of the alley. From a distance, over their heads, she heard a child cry and then a woman laughing. Or was she sobbing?

But there were no shouts of alarm. No sounds of the wooden watch rattles the Runners and the Watch used clacking in the night.

Mallory pulled away from his reassuring warmth. “So, you're…” She searched for a word, the right word. “Ruined.”

“Apparently.” John moved out of the shadows. His teeth flashed white in a sudden dare devil grin. “But not until they catch us.”

Us?

Not if she could help it.

She confronted him head on. “I think now I could build a strong case for divorce.”

A cloud that had covered the moon passed. Silver illumination highlighted the planes of his face, giving him an almost mythical beauty. “No.” His eyes glittered in the darkness. “I said no divorce.”

“You can't stop me—”

“I can and I will.” He reached her in two long strides, his broad-shouldered form blocking out the light. “Mallory, I am fighting for my life right now. I don't believe it's a coincidence that tonight of all nights my fortune came toppling down around me. Someone is paying Bow Street to send out the Runners and paying them enough
that they are being damned tenacious about it, too. Furthermore, whether you like it or not, as my wife, you're in this as deeply as I am. Now is not the time to discuss divorce.” He made the last word sound like the foulest epithet.

But Mallory was no longer paying attention. She'd been struck by a new, more urgent thought. “Mother.”

“What?”

“My mother will be sick with worry when she hears all of this.” Mallory raised a hand to her forehead. “Now we'll never recover the castle. It's lost to us for good.” Hot tears threatened. “How could you have involved yourself with moneylenders?”