Leopard in Exile (7 page)

Wessex had often had cause to be grateful that Providence had possessed him of an understanding wife,

but never more so than upon this particular occasion, for after making an appearance at the Royal Ball

this evening—Warltawk had not been there—he had left Sarah to open the ball at Herriard House alone.

He had stopped only long enough to change from his ball-dress to something far more inconspicuous:

breeches, boots, and a many-caped dark grey riding-coat. Then, taking up black riding-gloves and a

low-crowned, wide-brimmed hat that would hide his features, the Duke was off to the stables to saddle

his horse.

Hirondel greeted him warmly, the great black stallion nuzzling his master and making it difficult to bridle

him—though Wessex could, and had, ridden the formidable beast with neither saddle nor bridle at need.

The servants who were still putting away the carriage and wiping down its team paid no attention to their

master's actions—they were paid well to see little and say less.

A few moments later Wessex and Hirondel were away. Wessex led the animal through a narrow path

behind the mews that led to a side street. He continued to lead his mount for another block or so, until

they were well removed from Herriard House, and then mounted up and began to ride briskly eastward

just as the clock on a nearby steeple began to strike ten.

His enquiries had disclosed, through the Groom of the Chamber, that Lord Warltawk had not been sent

an invitation to the Wedding Breakfast, though of course he had certainly been able to produce one upon

arrival. Finding out who had not attended the fete so that Warltawk could go in his stead would take

hours of cross-checking, and would mean alerting Lord Misbourne, and possibly the traitor within the

White Tower. If Wessex could take Warltawk and his contact himself, he might be able to settle the

matter once and for all. But to do that he needed very special help.

Wessex could hear the distant boom of celebratory fireworks at St. James and Vauxhall, and every once

in a while the sky above him would be lit by a cascade of artificial stars. He rode through a London alive

with revelry—a good cover for any amount of peculiar activity. With so many notable personages

gathered in London, the Midnight Princes would be gathered for the feast—and finding one particular

demi-ruffler out of all that company was a task for which Wessex would need the devil's own luck.

In the thud tavern he tried, out on Ratcliffe Highway, Wessex found that his luck still held.

Hie man sitting with his boots to the fire was dressed after the fashion of a Top-o'-The-Trees: high black

boots with silver heels and spurs, a long, full-skirted riding coat in green velvet, and a deep-brimmed

country hat into which he had stuck a long gold pheasant feather.

This garb was not that rather more theatrical costume by which five counties knew and feared him, and

Wessex did not know his face, but a horse was harder to disguise than a suit of clothing, and Wessex

had a keen eye for horseflesh. The proof of his quarry's identity, a silver stallion out of the Templeton

stud, was standing in the best loose-box the Rat and Gauntlet could boast, placidly eating oats.

Wessex seated himself at the far side of the unoccupied table. The man in the green velvet coat looked

up with quick warning, but Wessex was not cowed.

"Ah,
Merlin le Fou
," he said amiably in gutter French. "Do allow me to stand the next round."

Morgan Tudor—known as Mad Merlin to the Bow Street Mounted Patrol and a large number of

magistrates across England—regarded his unsought companion warily. There were few people who

knew to call him by that name, and most of them he disliked extremely.

"You've got the wrong man," he answered briefly, draining his glass and standing to leave.

"I'm looking for the Welch horse-thief who stole a horse called Moonlight two years ago, and who is a

particular crony of the Earl of Malhythe," the pale stranger said without moving.

The name caused Merlin to sit back down, slowly. His hand dropped to the knife in the top of his boot.

This man didn't have the look of one of Malhythe's messengers, which made it very likely that he would

suffer an unfortunate accident before morning.

There was the unmistakable sound of a pistol cocking.

Merlin froze, the tips of one finger just touching the hilt of his knife.

"Please do not force me to shoot you," the stranger said sympathetically. "I wish to make you an offer

that does not conflict with your present employment."

Merlin hesitated. If he resisted, the stranger would shoot him. If he ran or protested, the same thing might

happen. But if he listened to the offer, he had nothing to lose. There was already a price of a thousand

gold guineas upon his head and a rope waiting for him at Newgate whenever he had time to attend. He

could hardly be more an outlaw than he already was.

He settled back into his seat. "Who the devil are you?" Merlin demanded ungraciously.

"As to that," the stranger said, still in French, "for tonight, you may call me Blaise."

He'd been drinking, Merlin thought hopefully to himself an hour later. That would surely explain his

present situation, although he'd much prefer never to have to explain it at all, least of all to his noble

master and jailor, the Earl of Malhythe. The mysterious Blaise had given Merlin a choice: to occupy

Newgate within the hour if he did not cooperate—or to gain a hundred guineas if he did. The choice had

seemed simple, or as simple as his choices were these days.

Two years ago he'd been an honest villain. As a boy growing up in the mountains of Wales, his choices

had been the Army or the mines, and he'd liked neither one. Morgan had a gift for horses, but no

respectable Englishman would hire a Welchman to work in his stables—and to be perfectly frank, Merlin

didn't much care for the amount of work involved in the life of a stable groom. So he'd become a

horse-thief instead, and a vastly successful one… for a time.

If he'd known that choice of career would lead to another set of choices—run Lord Malhythe's errands

or face the gallows without hope of transportation—he might well have gone for a soldier's life. But the

Earl of Malhythe had use for a highwayman, and so his career as Mad Merlin had begun.

And now someone else had found a use for a Prince of Midnight.

Merlin did not for a moment believe that Blaise was anything but a
nom de minuit
for the blond

Englishman who had accosted him. Blaise had the look of the nobility about him, and Merlin with all his

Welch soul knew that such men were all mad; and therefore dangerous to cross.

"And perhaps, Master Merlin, you will need a friend someday. The Earl does not care for those who

cannot be of use to them," Blaise said, as if generously bestowing recondite information.

Merlin shuddered. It did not seem to him that there was much to choose between the terrible Earl and

this madman Blaise. And if the man wanted to rob a coach, why the devil didn't he do it himself, instead

of forcing a poor honest man from a cozy slumming-ken to help him?

Between Morgan's knees, Moonlight stamped and fretted, though the night was warm. The grey had

been rubbed down thoroughly with soot to dull his coat, and the moon rolling through the heavens above

did not betray his presence. A few feet away, the Englishman sat his gleaming black beast as if both had

been turned to stone.

They had let three coaches cross the Heath already—fat horses drawing them and fatter lords

within—and the hour was late. Blaise seemed to be waiting for something in particular, and Merlin could

not imagine what. His orders for after he was given the office were quite specific, however.

"
I want everything he has, and everything the coach could possibly contain. Open his luggage
—

strip him to the skin if you must, but disclose everything
." Merlin wondered what this could possibly

be about. A bet? A loss? Outraged affections? If he was lucky, he might never find out. There was the

sound of another equipage crossing the heath. Merlin glanced over his shoulder at his companion as it

drew nearer. This time Blaise nodded and gestured.

Merlin was to take the coach.

Something had drawn Warltawk to London, and Wessex was betting that having now shown himself, the

Baron intended to depart from Town before his numerous foes pounced—with whatever prize had lured

him out.

Wessex intended to anticipate him.

The coach approached, drawn by four handsome bays. At the head of the wheeler ran a footman

carrying a lantern. The coach was Warltawk's.

Wessex pointed, and Merlin spurred his mount and rode out into the road.

"Stand and deliver!" he shouted. His voice was muffled only a little by the black scarf that concealed his

features.

The running footman grabbed the headstall of the near leader as the bays shied and swerved to a halt.

Merlin backed Moonlight out of the road and displayed his pistol.

The glass in the coach window folded down, and its occupant craned out, trying to see the source of the

disturbance.

"Who the devil is it?" he demanded in a harsh voice cracked with age.

The coach's passenger had very much the look of a vulture at bay. His hands were covered by a foam of

delicate and expensive lace through which jewels of price glinted, but the hands themselves were twisted

with age, the nails thick and yellow.

Things, Merlin felt, were looking up. Blaise hadn't said anything about wanting any of his victim's

possessions, and surely it would add an air of authenticity to a highway robbery if Merlin were to make

off with the gold and jewels his victim wore?

"I'm a disguised highwayman," he said helpfully, as his victim continued to regard him. He had not

expected to be lifting coaches this evening, and therefore Mad Merlin's gold-laced scarlet coat, plumed

tricorn, and purple silk muffler were locked away in a trunk in the basement of a safehouse in Stepney,

but the silvermounted Mantons he carried should be
bona fides
enough for any man.

"And I am Baron Warltawk. Drive on," Warltawk said, rapping at the roof of his carriage with his

gold-headed cane.

"I'll shoot the wheeler," Merlin said promptly. He'd rather shoot the coachman than harm any of the

horses, if it came to that, but he'd learned through long experience that this was a threat that worked.

Intent upon the coach's passenger, Merlin did not see the running footman reach surreptitiously into his

coat.

But his companion did.

There was a shot, the nearly simultaneous discharge of the running footman's concealed pistol, and a

scream as the man fell to the ground, blood darkening the surface of his pale satin livery-coat.

Merlin kept his eyes fixed on the driver. The fact that Blaise had just stuck his neck into Jack Ketch's

noose was obscurely comforting: it meant he was a stand-up gentleman who would not be betraying his

confederates later.

"I've still got four charged pistols," Merlin said helpfully. "Now tell your men to come down, me lord, or

I'll lay the lot o' them out upon the turf!"

There was a long moment of silence, followed by the sound from the bushes of another pistol being

cocked. The coach-horses backed and fretted, disturbed by the smell of blood. The three servants still

above—two on the box, one on the back—sat frozen, obviously terrified of moving.

This was not going well. Merlin had never known any soul to be more terrified of a mortal man than of a

bullet, but it seemed he'd finally met one—four, in fact, for the bleeding man on the turf was crawling

desperately toward his pistol, and Merlin would have to shoot him when he reached it.

Do something
! he thought toward his
soidisant
partner.

To his relief, he heard the sound of Blaise dismounting. He came forward—muffled to the eyes in a

maroon scarf that gave him a headless appearance in the dim light—with one hand on a pistol and a

peculiar object in the other. Merlin had no idea what it could be, until Blaise used it to shear through the

harness leather in half-a-dozen swift strokes, before kicking the fallen pistol into the ditch and discharging

his own into the sky.

The horses were smarter than the men—they required no further encouragement to bolt, and did so,

marooning the coach where it stood.

The carriage door opened. The footman on at the back leapt down to unfold the step and help his master

dismount.

"I shall see you drawn and quartered for that," Warltawk said, stepping down. "You may trust me in this."

Meanwhile, Blaise had motioned for the two on the box to descend. He forced them to lie facedown

upon the damp grass and bound their hands behind them with pieces of the cut straps.

A man who knows his way about the prancing lay
, Merlin thought with growing puzzlement.
And as

that's the case, I'd give a great deal to know why he needed me to help him enact this little drama
.

"And now, me lord," Merlin said to Warltawk. "If your lordship would be so good as to remove your

valuables—and your clothes."

As Warltawk glared sulphurously at Merlin, Wessex moved past him and into the coach, taking down

one of its lanterns as he did. He did not doubt that Merlin could handle one ancient Baron and a terrified

lackey, and if he had to shoot Warltawk, all to the good. Wessex would not grieve for the old viper,