Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03] (26 page)

“Perhaps not, milady,” said Woodham. “See that vessel there?” He pointed out into the confusing forest of masts. “The one flying the fleur-de-lis?”

Elf shaded her eyes and did see it. “What does that mean?”

“I reckon it’s the ship taking the French ambassador back, and it’s the only one that’s yet to sail. Stopping vessels like that ain’t usually done.”

“Of course,” murmured Elf. “That’s why it all had to be last night. To travel on that ship. You say it’s about to sail?”

He squinted at the great vessel. “Aye, milady. Anxious to be off on the tide, I’d say.”

Excitement had fueled Elf, but at this crucial moment, it suddenly drained away, making it hard to formulate decisions. What-ifs and ifs only clamored in her weary head. She shook them away. “Block the way of that boat,” she ordered.

“Aye-aye, milady,” said Woodham, but he added, “That’s a lighter they’re putting that coffin on. A big boat, a lighter is. If it chooses to go through us, we’ll be kindling.”

Elf could see what he meant, but couldn’t weaken. “Then we’ll have to stop it before it goes through us, won’t we?”

The coffin sat on the lighter now—a mere fraction of the cargo the huge barge could carry—and Fort and Bryght’s parties had arrived nearby. From a sudden shift in the crowd—a surge away from the edge of the wharf—Elf knew something was happening. Like a line of toy soldiers, the redcoats aimed their muskets.

At whom?

At a man with a pistol.

Even as she saw that the man with the pistol wasn’t Murray, fire spurted from the barrel as he fired, and the line of muskets belched flame and death.

The pistol-wielder tumbled backward into the river.

On the wharf another person fell.

Who? Dear God, who?

Elf stood clutching one of the stanchions, watching the lighter moving ponderously into the river, while on the wharf confusion seethed. But the barge was steering
away
from them, away from the French vessel!

“What’s he doing?” Elf cried, trying not to even think of dead bodies. “Where’s he going? Get closer to him!”

“Nay, milady,” said Woodham phlegmatically. “He’s heading for the French ship. Lighters are dumb-boats, see. With just one man and one oar they can’t steer proper. They have to use the flow of the river. Lightermen know the ways of the river like you know your hand and he’ll end up at the French ship in the end. Of course,” he added, squinting at the crowded Thames, “that means that even if he don’t
want
to crash right through us, there’s not much he can do about it.”

“Oh, God,” Elf whispered.

She stole a glance back at the wharf, but saw only a milling crowd. The soldiers suddenly fell into line again and fired another round after the boat, but it missed. She prayed God their fire not injure an innocent person, and that Bryght or Fort stop them firing again.

If Bryght and Fort were both still able to give commands.

Who had fallen on the wharf?

Perhaps it wasn’t either of them.

Why did she have this certainty that it was Fort?

She forced mind and eyes back to the lighter.

It was sidling and drifting its way over the river, and now it clearly headed toward the French ship. Which meant it headed toward them.

Then she spotted Murray.

He stood, one hand protectively on the coffin, gazing rapt at his destination. He wore clergyman garb, but Elf recognized him all the same. A pistol in his free hand pointed at the lighterman, so he couldn’t be entirely caught up in the sight of the French ship. Clearly, the lighterman would not be allowed to turn back even if he tried.

There was only one thing to do.

Elf spoke to the soldiers. “Which of you is the best shot?”

One moved forward. “I am, milady. Pickett’s the name.”

“Well, Private Pickett, do you think you can kill the man standing in that vessel?”

He considered it, squinting. “If this boat don’t move too much, it’s an easy shot, milady.”

“Woodham, keep the boat as steady as you can.”

“Aye-aye, milady.”

It shocked her to contemplate cold-blooded murder, but she had to stop the barge. Elf remembered Vauxhall, and the way Murray had pursued her, knife in hand. She knew he would shoot the innocent lighterman on the slightest pretext, and he was responsible for all the recent deaths, including Sally’s.

Including Fort’s?

She couldn’t know that Fort had been the person who had fallen on the wharf, and yet she did, and chill sat heavy inside her because of it.

She cast one last harried glance at the distant riverbank, took a deep breath, and said, “Whenever the time seems right, Private Pickett.”

The man knelt on one of the velvet-covered seats, using the back as extra support for his long musket, viewing down the barrel with great care. With a loud click, he pulled back the pin and removed the flint cap. Mouth dry, Elf saw his finger begin to tighten on the trigger.

Then another lighter passed between, blocking the shot, and creating a bobbing wave.

Pickett muttered something, then said, “Bob, keep an eye open for anything else like that, will you?”

“Right’o, Billy,” said one of the other soldiers. “Looks clear for the next couple of minutes.”

Pickett waited for the swell to die down, having to let the lighter get closer and closer. This would make the shot easier, but Murray had only to take his gaze off the lighterman and the French ship to spot the unlikely sight
of the nobleman’s barge among all these working ships. Then he would surely notice the red-coated soldiers on board, and the one aiming at him.

They were close enough now for Elf to make out the name on the lighter. The
Tilbury Troll.
It seemed suitable for such a cumbersome craft.

Hurry, hurry!
Elf silently beseeched Pickett, even though she knew the soldier had to wait for the boat to steady.

Then Murray did move, shifting to look back at the wharf. As he turned back toward the lighterman and the French vessel, his gaze passed over Elf’s boat. His mouth opened as if to shout something, but the thunder of Pickett’s musket silenced everything. As the smoke cleared Elf saw the Scot sprawled back over the coffin containing his precious Stone of Scone.

The enormity of death froze her, but then she took in the
Tilbury Troll
gliding ever closer, the lighterman yelling, and Woodman asking—

“Yes!” she screamed. “Move! Move!”

Eight powerful oars thrust them out of the lighter’s way, but only just, so the blood-soaked rag doll that had so recently been a man passed only feet away.

Everyone on the boat stared at the corpse, and Elf thought perhaps even the soldiers weren’t hardened to such sights. Suddenly she realized she had the command here. She’d acted that way, giving orders, taking responsibility. But she knew there was more to command than that. She had to make this sit right for the men.

Wishing her hands would stop shaking, she said, “Well rowed, Woodham. Can you call to that lighterman to head back to Harrison’s Wharf?”

“Right, milady. But it’ll take him a while.”

“No matter so long as his cargo doesn’t end up on the French vessel.”

As the shouted exchange began, accompanied by some lively language from the distressed lighterman, Elf turned to the soldiers. “Well done, Private Pickett. A
clean shot. You doubtless saved that poor lighterman’s life.”

She looked closely at him for the first time, realizing he couldn’t be more than twenty years old and was white with stress. At her words, however, he turned pink and bashful. “ ’Tweren’t nothing, milady.”

“On the contrary. It was very important, and you played your part.”

Woodham had finished conveying her instructions to the lighterman, so she turned back to him. “Take us back to the wharf, if you please.”

And she finally felt able to slump down on a seat. Unfortunately, the release of urgency allowed fears for Fort to surge in like a river flood.

On the wharf, a coach had arrived. A doctor? Or a means of taking someone to a doctor? They wouldn’t call a coach for a corpse, would they?

They probably would for the corpse of an earl.

Perhaps it hadn’t been Fort who had fallen.

She was sure it was.

Perhaps he’d just tripped and fallen.

Perhaps . . .

Perhaps . . .

She knew, with an instinct beyond human comprehension, that he had fallen, had been shot, and was seriously injured.

Surely she would know equally clearly if he were dead.

She remembered at Sappho’s house, with Fort bound and her brothers angry, she hadn’t been sure where her deepest allegiance lay. Now she knew.

Hands clenched together before her mouth, she prayed as she’d never prayed before. Prayed for his life and another chance to bring joy into his life.

Then she saw the concerned attention of the soldiers and hastily lowered her hands, striving to appear normal. She had to play another part—that of a Malloren, cool commander of death and destruction.

Bryght waited at the stairs, alone.

He
wasn’t injured. She was relieved, of course, but not from her main concern.

She saw no sign of Fort or the soldiers who’d been with him. On the planks, red glinted in the sun.

Blood.

Heart racing, she leaped to her feet, desperate to be the first off the boat. As soon as the oarsmen had the vessel alongside she seized Bryght’s hand and scrambled up onto the wooden jetty.

“Well done!” he said.

“Fort?” she demanded.

He sobered. “Took the ball in the leg. I don’t think it’s life-threatening.”

All strength left Elf, and she collapsed into his arms, weeping for grief, for relief, and perhaps for sheer, bone-deep exhaustion.

She felt herself lifted and carried, but fell asleep before he found a means to take her home.

After two hours of explanation, questioning, and excuses, Rothgar emerged from the King’s Drawing Room through a side entrance and asked a footman for his brother. He found Cyn under guard in a small room on a lower floor, but lounging around in reasonable comfort, drinking ale.

At Rothgar’s entrance he raised his tankard. “How long do I keep my head?”

“Indefinitely, though His Majesty is still not entirely convinced. Congratulations on using your head to effect.”

Cyn laughed, surging to his feet. “It was the most damnable thing, Bey! The blasted machine was sitting there, right on that big gilt table in the Drawing Room. It appears it had come with a cunning message from you, and the king had demanded it be sent straight up. His equerry tried to put him off, but wasn’t about to forbid him to try the thing. The only reason the king hadn’t already switched it on was that he’d sent for the queen to enjoy the treat! I got him out of there.”

“Admirable military verve.”

“Yes, well, with hindsight, I probably committed all kinds of lèse-majesté and, judging from his reaction, my chances of making major, never mind colonel, are decidedly dim.”

“Perhaps we should convince him of your worth. Where is the diabolical device?”

“In the room next door. I insisted they put it where I could keep an eye on it.”

Rothgar opened the door. The gaudy Chinese pagoda stood on a side table, its tiny figures frozen, waiting only the release of a catch to spring into lethal life.

“A pity, really,” he said. “It is most cleverly made.”

“Should we blow it up?”

“I gather it will blow itself up, given the opportunity. The trick will be to let it do so safely. Roll up your sleeves. We’re going to carry it.”

“
We
are?”

“Who else? It appears to have been carried up and down stairs without hazard. But in case, should we order others to take the risk?”

“ ’Struth. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were feeling penitent.”

“You think me beyond repentance?”

Cyn shook his head. “I think you’re in a damned funny mood. Very well. Let’s move the thing.”

It was not heavy, but it was cumbersome, especially when they wished to move it with great care. Eventually, however, they could put it down outside the castle, on the grass near the river. Cyn pulled out a handkerchief to wipe sweat off his face.

Rothgar, unruffled, then summoned servants to bring old mattresses and a musket, and sent a message to the king to invite him to watch the spectacle from a distant balcony, if it so pleased him.

“Why?” Cyn asked.

“Your military advancement, of course.”

As soon as the king and queen appeared and could see the pagoda, Rothgar supervised the servants as they
piled the mattresses around the toy. Then, moving everyone to a distance, he handed the musket to Cyn. “I’m sure you’re more of a hand with these things than I am. Try to get the ball through that gap we left.”

Cyn carefully loaded the gun, then raised it, sighting down the barrel. With a click, he cocked it. His finger squeezed the trigger and with a boom and a burst of flame, the ball sped forward.

A moment later, a louder boom sent cloth and flock and pieces of gaudy metal flying in all directions.

“Damnation,” said Cyn, lowering the butt to rest on the ground. “Imagine that uncovered and in closed quarters.”

“Indeed,” said Rothgar, and turned to the balcony. But the king and queen had already disappeared.

As servants hurried forward to take the musket and clear up the mess, he said, “The question is, would a replica of that toy be a treasured gift or send the king stark, staring mad?”

Cyn collapsed into laughter.

When they returned to the castle, they found not just their coach waiting, but a messenger from the king requesting Lord Cynric’s immediate presence.

“Alas,” said Rothgar. “He has remembered to have you beheaded for lèse-majesté. Do you wish to take the coach and flee the country?”

For once, Cyn did look alarmed. “ ’Struth, Bey, what do you think he wants?”

“I suggest you go and find out. After all,” he added benignly, “you have always claimed to want to deal with life on your own.”

When Elf awoke, she felt as if she’d been battered by the mighty Thames and thrown against the starlings at London Bridge. From dim memories of her dreams, she wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t been.

Then she recalled tangled images of Fort sprawled bloodily over the box on which they had made love, dying because she had shot him . . .

No! She struggled for reality. That had been
Murray,
not Fort, and she hadn’t fired the shot. But she’d ordered it, which came to the same thing.

Then her brain cleared completely and she remembered that Fort had, indeed, been injured. In the leg.

She forced open her gritty eyes and sat up.

A leg injury might mean anything from a little blood loss to amputation, but either way, infection and death hovered. Only last year, young Sir Francis Cornhallows had died of a trivial wound that turned septic because he would not let the surgeon clean out the bits of cloth forced into his flesh by the ball.

Her fumbling fingers found the bell rope and she tugged at it again and again, praying for Chantal to hurry.

She scrambled out of bed, easily able to imagine the arrogant Earl of Walgrave scaring away his doctors. And he had no one to gainsay him. Except her. A line of bright sunlight shot through the gap in her drawn curtains. It wasn’t night yet. There might still be time to make him see reason.

Chantal burst into the room, with Chastity only a step behind.

“Milady! You are awake!”

“Elf, how do you feel?”

Elf clung to the bedpost, assailed by a fit of dizziness. “Dreadful.” She could hardly speak for the dryness of her mouth. “Water. That would help.”

“You need more, milady,” said Chantal, and whipped away in a flash of dark skirts.

Chastity poured water from a carafe and brought it over. “I think I must echo your kind suggestion to me once. I suspect you would love a bath.”

“Lud, yes.” Elf drank the whole glass of water, then touched her hair. “Am I still powdered? I must look a veritable horror. But I have no time. I must go to Fort—”

Chastity pushed her gently to sit on the bed. “There is no need. He is in no danger.”

Elf stared into her sister-in-law’s eyes. “Has he been properly treated? Has the wound been cleaned?”

“Yes and yes. I assure you, I stood over him and bullied him just as much as you would want.”

“He will recover?”

“As always, that is in God’s hands. He’s in pain. Fevered. But he seems to be healing.”

The image of Fort in fevered pain had Elf off the bed again. “Surely it’s too early to tell if he will heal. Why are you here and not there? You’re his sister!”

Chastity eased her back down. “Elf, you have slept a day and a half. It’s Sunday afternoon.” She went to throw back the curtains, flooding the room with light, so Elf covered her aching eyes.

“A day and a half,” she murmured, “and the world carried on without me. The king?”

“Is safe.” Chastity refilled the glass and brought it over. “Cyn arrived in time.”

“Thank God. And the stone?”

“Has been quietly returned to Westminster Abbey, with some story of it having been moved in order to
repair the throne. I must confess, I wasn’t aware of it being there at all. Do you believe in this idea of it conveying mystical kingship?”

Elf drank part of the water and stood again, more carefully this time. The dizziness seemed to have passed, so she moved about the room, feeling stiffness and aches in unlikely places.

That reminded her of a great many problems. She’d rather deal with the Stone of Scone. “I don’t know. It didn’t seem to do the Stuarts much good. They were crowned on it.”

“True. Did you hear about Cyn?”

“What?” A score of horrible possibilities leaped into Elf’s mind. “What happened?”

“Oh, nothing bad . . .”

But then Chantal hurried in with a coffeepot, along with a neatly peeled and divided orange and a selection of cakes. On command, she bustled off to see to the bath.

Elf eyed the elegant tray. “Ask for water, and I get a meal. Please, have some and tell me what Cyn’s been up to.”

Chastity picked up a piece of orange. “As for up to, he and Rothgar exploded that mechanical toy, safely outside Windsor Castle, of course. However, Cyn first had to ride hell-for-leather to warn the king. Would you believe he found him standing right by that thing, in a ferment to turn it on, and only waiting for the queen to arrive?”

“Saints save us!”

“In this case, Cyn saved us. He hustled the king out of danger with a fair degree of military brusqueness. At that point, His Majesty doubted Cyn’s tale. But when he saw the thing explode into a thousand lethal bits, George summoned Cyn back, clasped him to the regal bosom, and declared him Lord Raymore!”

Elf stared at Chastity. “But why Raymore?”

Chastity was fighting to keep a straight face. “
Apparently it’s the name of . . . of His Majesty’s favorite horse!”

They collapsed into giggles.

“And Rothgar,” gasped Chastity, “would only say that Cyn shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth! Particularly when the king accompanied the title by an estate to support the viscountcy.”

“A viscountcy! That advances him over Bryght and Brand. What does Cyn think about this?”

Chastity grinned. “Of course, you know him so well. Mostly, he’s embarrassed to be rewarded for merely doing his duty. He’s also slightly suspicious that Rothgar somehow arranged it all. You know how he’s always been about accepting support from the family.”

“He carries it to extremes.”

“I agree, but you know men.”

Elf thought of Fort and Sappho. “I am beginning to.” She turned to face her sister-in-law. “You know Fort and I were lovers.”

Chastity’s cheeks became a little pink. “Yes. I’m hardly one to throw stones.”

“But you loved Cyn.”

“True. Do you not love Fort?”

Elf turned away to look out of the window at the quiet of Marlborough Square. “Yes. It’s so foolish, though, to give my heart to an impossible man.”

“Perhaps all men are impossible. When I made love to Cyn, I believed marriage between us was impossible. I, too, wore disguise, though as it turned out he knew who I was. I gather Fort really didn’t recognize you.”

“Why would he even suspect anything so unlikely? And we spoke French nearly all the time.” She turned back to Chastity. “I’m very afraid I’ll be with child.”

“You must have thought of it.”

“After a fashion.” A nervous laugh escaped, and she smothered it with her hands. “It seemed simple enough in theory. But now . . .”

Chastity became very serious. “Even if you are with child, Elf, I don’t think he’ll marry you.”

That caused a pang, though she smothered it. “It would be unfair to expect him to. Our contract was clear.”

“Contract?”

Elf waved the question away and moved restlessly around her room. “For a moment last night, I wanted Bey to force a marriage. ’Twas madness, and Fort would rather die. But surely we shouldn’t just create a child and deny it its heritage . . . ?”

Chastity captured her and held her still. “Face battles when they come, not before. Advice from Cyn. Good advice.”

Elf collapsed into her arms. “I suppose it is. It will be weeks before I’ll know. Anything could happen by then.” Including Fort’s death from wound fever. Or—if he followed through on his threats and made a scandal—at the hands of one of her brothers. She wouldn’t be able to stop them then.

“ ’Tis a pity you didn’t take some precautions,” said Chastity, settling them both onto the sofa.

That reminded Elf of her last real conversation with her brothers. “Ah, yes. The whore’s tricks! I assume you’ve been using them, since you’ve been married now over six months.”

Chastity blushed. “Oh. Yes. Well, since we were expecting to travel to Nova Scotia, we didn’t want me to give birth onboard ship, or even travel with the extra burden of a child within me.”

“But how is it done?”

“A sponge soaked in vinegar is supposed to help prevent the seed taking root.”

“A sponge soaked in vinegar,” said Elf, puzzled. Then she added, “You mean,
inside
?”

Chastity nodded, quite red now.

“Goodness. But how does it . . . You put it there?”

“Or Cyn does.” Chastity turned away to take a piece of bread from the tray. “I don’t know quite what happened with you and Fort,” she said, fiddling with it. “But
it’s not unusual for a man to touch a woman . . . there.” She turned back sharply. “If they are lovers I mean!”

“Yes, I see. Goodness,” said Elf again.

“It’s not the word most would use. Many would call it wicked to try to avoid God’s plan.”

“I can’t believe it would be God’s plan to have a heavily pregnant woman on a naval ship crossing the ocean, never mind giving birth there. Thank you for telling me. I think we should spread this word to all women.”

“Women and men do pass the word around. But it’s not approved or foolproof. Nature’s urge to conceive is not easily thwarted. In fact,” she said ruefully, “I’m beginning to suspect that nature has overcome in my case. But don’t tell Cyn. He might try to delay the journey, and I am as eager as he to see the New World.”

Whether from loss again of her twin, or fear of conception, or longing for a child, tears ached around Elf’s eyes. “Oh, I envy you!”

“The child or the New World?”

“The adventure of it all!”

Chastity hugged her. “If life here becomes too dull, just take sail and visit us among the forests and the Indians. We’ll find you all the adventure you could want!”

“Ah, but will it be wicked enough for me?”

They shared teary smiles, both knowing that the only adventure Elf really wanted was Fort. But then Chantal came in from the adjoining dressing room.

Chastity rose. “Your bath is ready, dearest, so I’ll leave you.”

Elf went through to her dressing room and took a long, thoughtful bath. She counted her scrapes and bruises, but mostly fretted about the possibility of being with child. What would she do if she were?

It was all very well to think of bearing a bastard child abroad and giving it to foster parents to raise, but she would want to raise her child herself. She would want to feed it at her breast, rock it in the night, coax its first steps and words, and applaud its every little achievement.

She’d think a father would want that closeness, too. He had mentioned those two children he knew of, and that he had provided for them and kept an eye on their welfare.

Surely he’d want to do as much for a child of Elf’s.

Elf knew she wanted more. She wanted them married and enjoying a child together.

What if she bore a son? He would be Fort’s heir, but only if they married before the birth.

If she demanded it, her brothers would force Fort into marrying her, but she could imagine nothing worse than to tie a man for life against his will.

Oh, Lud, Chastity was right. Why fight a battle that might never arrive?

One matter could not be put aside, however. At the time, Fort’s threat to make a public scandal had been serious. She’d put off telling her brothers for fear of what they would do, and now Fort was injured, perhaps he couldn’t do anything. But it would be folly not to take steps to prevent disaster.

Elf rang for Chantal to wash her hair, then while it dried, she drank coffee and ate a slightly more substantial meal. Despite her long fast, however, her stomach felt too uneasy to accept much.

She hoped that wasn’t an early sign of pregnancy. She thought it mainly came from anxiety about Fort. Despite Chastity’s assurances, she desperately wanted to race over to see for herself that he wasn’t at death’s door. She wanted to wipe his brow and feed him nourishing broth.

He’d probably spit it right back in her face.

There had been that moment about shooting the bridge, though, when he might have been concerned for her.

She grimaced. It was so easy to delude oneself about such things. Now her hair was dry she must face more immediate problems.

She summoned Chantal to perform her usual magic, and soon Lady Elfled Malloren was ready to face the world, hair shining and neatly arranged under a lace cap,
dressed in corset and hoops under cream lawn sprigged with forget-me-nots, and discreetly adorned with pearls. A glance in the mirror told her that no outward trace of wanton Lisette survived.

Then she realized she was dressed exactly as she had been when she’d waved good-bye to Cyn and the madness had all begun. Yet now, this suitable appearance felt like a costume, a costume even more absurd than Lisette’s scarlet domino.

Who was Elf Malloren now? Perhaps she had better venture out and answer that question.

From a footman, she learned that Cyn and Chastity were in the garden while Bryght and Rothgar were in the office.

After a moment’s thought, she headed for the latter, entering by the private side door that bypassed the busy clerks.

Rothgar and Bryght were working at the same desk, poring over papers that seemed unlikely to have anything to do with her adventures. So soon did the ripples of the explosion fade.

Both looked up and rose, showing no sign of anger or condemnation. She knew her cheeks were red, however, and just hoped they weren’t flaming.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Nothing important,” said Rothgar, taking her hand and leading her to a chair. “You look much improved.”

“Thank you. I gather I’ve slept the clock around.”

“I think you needed it. Though we had to fight to stop Cyn sending for every doctor in town.”

“Considering the worry I’ve felt over him for years, it’s only fair that he fret over me at least once.”

“My sentiment entirely. So, are you completely recovered?”

Elf knew she had turned a deeper red. A broken maidenhead did not mend. “I think so. Some bruises and scrapes, that’s all. Chastity told me some of the events. Have the Scots all been rounded up?”

“As best we can tell.” Rothgar resumed his seat
behind the ornate desk. Bryght, more restlessly, perched on the edge.

“Murray died on the lighter,” Rothgar continued. “You did well there, by the way. And one of his men was shot on the wharf. We think another was the dead man left at Walgrave’s. A fourth corpse was found at the Peahen Inn clutching a declaration of loyalty to the Stuart cause. We assume he committed suicide when he realized the game was up. They seemed to be the only four deep in the plot, though they hired others as needed. The men who took the toy to Windsor, for example, were dupes. They believed they had truly been hired by me to deliver the gift. Since the king wants the whole affair kept quiet, they are not even aware of the true nature of their act.”