Black Gold (34 page)

Tyson then admired Anne's gown. On a mischievous impulse, Anne acknowledged his compliment with a strong French accent and a slightly supercilious air. This earned her the M.C.'s deep bow. Would they honor the assembly with a minuet a little later in the evening? he asked. Paul and Anne glanced at one another, considered the offer, then agreed with a mixture of nonchalance and grace.

While waiting for their dance, they scanned the crowd. Sir Harry was talking business somewhere and wouldn't attend the ball until the intermission, when Harriet would sing. Lady Margaret and Captain Fitzroy sat among the people of quality. He appeared relaxed, throwing her a brilliant smile from time to time. She also performed as if on stage, nodding graciously to him and to her neighbors. A green velvet gown showed off her creamy skin and a tiara of diamonds glittered in her auburn hair.

In due course, the M.C. beckoned Paul and Anne onto the dance floor and introduced them as Comte and Comtesse de Saint-Martin, distinguished French visitors to Bath. “I think the title suits you, Anne,” whispered Paul, pretending to be unaware of his remark's implication.

“Mr. Tyson has exceeded his authority. I'm not a comtesse yet.” She gave Paul a teasing smile. “But I shall enjoy playing the role.”

As they began to dance, the crowd craned their necks for a view of Anne in her white silk dress. Its delicate gold embroidery took on a rich amber tone in the light of five great chandeliers blazing with burning candles. A buzz of voices rose, threatening to drown out the orchestra. Within minutes the crowd reached agreement: the elegant woman in white was a maid of honor to Queen Marie Antoinette and her gown followed the French queen's latest fashion. Captain Fitzroy and Lady Margaret might have protested, but they had already left.

Anne and Paul executed the dance with a graceful passion, their mistaken celebrity adding to the pleasure. Anne delighted in the skill of her partner and the working of an inner harmony between them. Holding hands at the end, they bowed to the crowd, then left the floor to hearty applause.

As the evening wore on, the crowd grew more boisterous. The level of noise became deafening, the air hot and stuffy. After a round of country dances, Anne suggested to Paul that they quit the ballroom and find a more comfortable corner of the building. They made their way into the Tea Room to a table with a view of the patrons.

Sir Harry had arrived in the meantime and sat on the opposite side of the room with Harriet Ware. She flashed a look of desperation to Anne, then retreated behind the mask of rapt attention she affected for Rogers. He seemed restless, at times staring at Harriet as if to devour her, at times detached from her, absorbed in his own dark thoughts.

While preoccupied with Harriet and Sir Harry, Paul and Anne had not noticed a short, thick-set bewigged waiter in a blue and buff silk suit. Carrying a tray under his arm, he approached their table from the side.

“May I serve you?” asked the stranger with a high-pitched, accented voice.

Anne started with surprise, then recognized him. She threw back her head and was about to burst out laughing, when he brought a finger to his mouth and hushed her.

“Georges!” Paul whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“Keeping close watch on those two redcoats.” He gestured toward a half-hidden table where Fitzroy's officer friends sat, brandy glasses in their hands, their attention fixed on Sir Harry. “Remember, Fitzroy told them, ‘Tuesday, then.' We assumed he meant they should attack Sir Harry on his way to Bristol sometime during the day. Well, Tuesday begins in less than five minutes.”

Paul stiffened, then glanced toward Tarleton and Corbett.

Georges leaned forward. “I've overheard Sir Harry and Miss Ware. At midnight, he's going to walk her to her apartment, like he usually does when the weather is good. On his way back to the Assembly Rooms, he'll be alone in a dark street for several minutes. Those two scoundrels know his route and intend to intercept him. I've made sure they won't.”

“How?” whispered Paul and Anne together.

Georges took a small bottle from his pocket. “Laudanum. In their brandy.” He pointed toward the officers. “Watch.”

One of the men was slowly bending over; the other, sliding back in his chair. Within a few minutes they had both passed out. Georges beamed with satisfaction.

At that moment, midnight struck and Sir Harry and Harriet left the Tea Room. Paul turned to Anne. “I haven't seen Fitzroy and Lady Margaret for at least an hour.”

“They left with some friends to go to a private party,” interjected Georges. “They'll probably spend the night there. She was already tipsy when I last saw her.”

“There seems to be no reason to stay here any longer,” Paul remarked to Anne. “Shall we return to Combe Park? I think the danger's past.”

“I'm not so sure.” Anne shivered. Lady Margaret's dire warning echoed in her mind.

***

From a shadowed corner of the entrance, Captain Fitzroy observed Colonel Saint-Martin and Miss Cartier leave in a carriage. The Irishman hastened into the building.

The Spring Ball was still in progress and its guests were too tired or drunk or dazed by the noise to notice him hurry toward the Tea Room. His heart pounded; his mouth felt dry. What had gone wrong? An acquaintance, who had arrived late at the private party, had remarked offhandedly that Tarleton and Corbett had disgraced themselves. Notorious for their tolerance of brandy, they were seen drunk at the Assembly Rooms before the Spring Ball was half over.

The Tea Room was thronged with people coming and going, jostling one another. All the tables seemed full. Quickly scanning the room, Fitzroy saw his friends. His heart sank. Even as he watched, they were lifted limp from their chairs and hauled away.

“I must look to the matter myself,” he growled as he left the building.

Chapter 29

Final Reckoning

Tuesday, April 10

Following his routine at the city prison, the night guard glanced into the small cell. Its sole occupant, a tall thin lank-haired man, lay sound asleep on his pallet. They said he was a scholar who had studied too closely his employer's silver; many of the finest pieces had stuck to his fingers. He was also suspected of killing Jack Roach, but it seemed a shame to hang a man for that.

The guard returned to his post by the entrance and settled into his chair. He yawned, then dozed off in the quiet of the early morning hours. A knock on the front door woke him. Eyes half-closed, he shuffled to the door and opened its small barred window. A watchman stood outside with a lantern in one hand and a cowed, ill-dressed man gripped in the other.

“A pickpocket!” announced the watchman. “He's yours for the night.”

The guard rubbed the sleep from his eyes, complained that one's personal property was no longer safe in Bath, and unlocked the door. The watchman shoved his prisoner forward. The guard turned his back to them as he closed the door and began to lock it. Suddenly, he sensed a movement behind him. A hard object struck his head. A spray of light enveloped him, then darkness.

***

Since he came to this prison on Saturday, Critchley had avoided sleep as much as he could. The nightmares were torture. He had seen himself again and again on the scaffold in front of Newgate, hands tied behind his back, the crowd taunting him while a minister prayed. A leering hangman fitted a hood over his head, then slipped a noose around his neck. Sweat poured from his body. The stool beneath his feet was kicked away and he hung by his neck, fully conscious but slowly choking to death. The crowd roared and roared and roared. Then he woke up shaking violently.

Late this evening, when the night guard came by, Critchley had feigned sleep. Now, as the appointed hour drew near, he sat on his pallet wide-awake, trembling with anxiety. Suddenly, keys rattled in the lock; the door swung open. A man dressed as a watchman entered and tossed a small bundle to him.

“A change of clothes. Your disguise. Hurry.”

On the way out, Critchley saw a second, ill-dressed man, tying a gag on the night guard, who was now strapped to his chair. The two strangers walked Critchley a short distance through a dark wood to a clearing where four horses waited. On one of them sat a large man, his features concealed by the hood of his cloak.

The night watchman helped Critchley mount, then walked back to his companion.

“Follow me,” ordered the large man, the hood muffling his voice.

Critchley's throat tightened. He barely stammered, “Yes.” Too frightened to speak, he rode silently behind the large man until they reached the broad footpath along the river. The rushing water drowned out all other sounds. The large man had not said another word nor showed his face, yet Critchley knew beyond a doubt, it was Sir Harry. Who else rode like he owned the place he was riding through!

Last Saturday, Sir Harry had said, “Be ready shortly after midnight on Tuesday morning. The stolen package in exchange for your freedom. A new life in America with enough money to live comfortably.”

Critchley would have preferred Italy, but America was better than hanging! The plan was daring, but Sir Harry had the resources to carry it out. So, Critchley asked himself, why did his heart pound, his hands tremble? What had he to worry about?

South of Spring Gardens, Critchley and his hooded companion left the river path and turned onto the road up to Combe Park. The sounds of the river grew fainter, then disappeared. In the growing quiet of the early morning, Critchley thought he heard someone behind them. He had sensitive ears, tuned to the slightest whisper or the fall of a leaf. But now, he thought, his ears were playing tricks on him. He was tired from lack of sleep and overwrought by his misfortune. He stared at the large dark hooded man ahead of him. Unbidden, a memory surfaced from his youth. A picture on the vicarage wall. A large dark hooded figure, the Angel Death, led a sinner to Hell.

***

Georges dodged to the side of the Pulteney bridge over the Avon as two mounted men from Bathwick rode into the lamplight. An odd pair, he thought, as he studied them. One was dressed like a night watchman. Georges frowned. He had made the acquaintance of virtually all the watchmen of Bath. This man was a stranger. The other was unshaven and wore a long ragged derelict's coat. But beneath the coat Georges saw sturdy riding boots. Both men sat astride their mounts with assurance, as if they were at home in the saddle.

A pair of highwaymen, Georges guessed, as he followed them out of the corner of his eye. He hastened his steps. He couldn't give himself a good reason for going to the city jail, only a suspicion. Sir Harry had not returned to the Spring Ball. According to a chairbearer whom Georges had hired to follow Sir Harry, he had escorted Miss Ware home, then walked to a stable and emerged on a horse. He rode as far as this bridge before the spy lost sight of him.

Why would Sir Harry go to the other side of the Avon into Bathwick so early in the morning by himself? Spring Gardens were closed. The only other place anyone might visit was the city jail. Sir Harry did have a reason to go there. Critchley! But, at one o'clock in the morning?

The jail was dark as Georges approached. He knocked. No response. The night guard had probably fallen asleep. Georges knocked again, loudly. Still no response. He began hammering on the door. To no avail. He stepped back and examined the door. Thick solid oak. Its little window was shut. He ran back to the New Road, stopped a coach and sent it off with urgent messages to Dick Burton and the warden, who had keys to the jail.

Waiting restlessly by the roadside, Georges recalled the two suspicious horsemen he had just met on the bridge. Brigands hired by Fitzroy? Had they enticed Sir Harry into Bathwick fields and killed him, then somehow entered the prison and killed Critchley? A farfetched idea, Georges admitted, but it removed the two obstacles standing between Fitzroy and Lady Margaret's inheritance. Or, what was more likely, the men were in Sir Harry's pay and met him at the jail. Why? Georges racked his brains, but the only answer he could think of seemed incredible.

***

Jeffery sat obediently at his post in the hallway of the chamber story. It was early in the morning at Combe Park, the quiet hours, before birds would begin to sing. The deaf boy was safe in his room, sleeping peacefully. His tormenter, William Rogers, was away for the night, visiting the nymphs of Avon Street. The night footman who was supposed to mind the main entrance had also gone to the city. The other servants were sound asleep in their basement and garret rooms. The master and mistress, and Captain Fitzroy were at the Spring Ball and wouldn't come home until dawn—if then. The French colonel and Miss Cartier had returned early and retired to their rooms. Everyone was accounted for.

Unnerved by the stillness, Jeffery fell into troubled thoughts. He hadn't heard from Sarah Smith or Mr. Woodhouse. Had they met obstacles arranging his escape? Sir Harry might have changed his mind, moved up the date for the abduction, intending to take him by surprise. Jeffery argued with himself, what to do. Did he dare to sneak into the city to Sarah's shop? That seemed foolish. He decided to ask Miss Cartier later in the day if she had any news.

In the meantime, he needed fresh air and exercise. Cooped up inside for days, he felt sluggish, missed his training and sparring. Charlie was safe, the house secure. Having eased his conscience, Jeffery walked downstairs, through the darkened entrance foyer, and out the front door. The moon cast a hazy, spectral light over the courtyard. He had reached the far side when he heard the sound of horses approaching, their hooves crunching in the gravel. His heart began to pound. Fearing discovery, he crouched down in the shadow of a retaining wall and waited.

Two men rode by slowly, silently. That's odd, Jeffery thought. Why didn't they go to the stables or stop at the entrance to the house? Instead, they kept riding toward the pine grove and the tennis hall. He sprang from his lair and dashed back to the house.

***

At the pine grove, Sir Harry pushed back his hood and beckoned Critchley forward to take the lead. He veered off the gravel road onto a path, Sir Harry following close behind. Moonlight shafted in thin rays through the trees, lighting their way. In front of the tennis hall, they dismounted and tied up the horses.

“It's in here, is it?”

Critchley nodded and led him into the hall. He lit a lantern. It shook in his hand.

“Where have you hidden it?” Sir Harry threw aside his cape.

Critchley hesitated. The moment had come when he must give away his secret, the only power he had. But, he had come too far to turn back. His knees nearly buckled beneath him. He summoned what little courage he had left and pointed to the training room.

Sir Harry shoved him into the room. “Show me,” he growled.

***

Saint-Martin stared open-mouthed at the black footman standing before him. “Two tall men just rode across the courtyard? Are you
sure
one of them was Sir Harry?” He could scarcely believe what he had heard. He had just been roused from sleep and was rapidly dressing.

“I didn't recognize his horse,” Jeffery replied patiently, “but I would know
him
anywhere. He sits so firmly in the saddle, holds the reins like a king.”

“And the other man?” Saint-Martin pulled on his boots.

“Thin, long hair. Awkward on the horse.” Jeffery hesitated, as if unsure. “Mr. Critchley, I think.”

“Critchley! Good God! What's happened?” Saint-Martin took his pistol from a drawer, laid it on the table, stared at it. He shook his head and put the weapon back in the drawer. Better to rely on one's wits. More to himself than to Jeffery, he said, “Sir Harry has freed Critchley from jail. They're riding toward the pine grove and…perhaps the tennis hall. For a good reason, most likely the missing package.”

As he rushed out of the room, he told Jeffery to alert Miss Cartier. “Tell her to warn Georges Charpentier and Mr. Burton. There's an emergency at Combe Park.”

In the pale moonlight he made his way quickly over a familiar path. In the pine grove, he heard a horse trotting toward him. He ducked behind a bush. The rider dismounted and tied his horse to a tree not more than ten paces away, and stalked toward the tennis hall. At the edge of the grove, he halted for a moment, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword, then stepped out into the clearing. Watchful, as if reconnoitering an enemy camp, he crossed the clearing and stopped in front of the tennis hall. A light shone in the high windows of the training room.

The moon showered its thin pale rays on the man, as he cocked his head, listening at the door. Saint-Martin gasped. Captain Fitzroy! He cautiously slipped inside, leaving the door ajar.

***

Meanwhile, Critchley had led Sir Harry into the training room to the cabinet where tennis racquets were hung. Sweating profusely, he stumbled to a halt and stared blindly ahead. His arms refused to move.

“Give it to me!”

Critchley dared not look back over his shoulder. The anger in his companion's face would have turned him to stone. Finally, he grit his teeth, bent down, and reached into the narrow space beneath the cabinet. Just as he grasped the thin flat package, he heard faint sounds outside the room. He rose with a start and hearkened. A sword unsheathed. A floorboard creaked.

Rogers leaped to the door and crouched to one side. In the next moment, Captain Fitzroy burst into the room, sword drawn. Rogers jumped out of the shadows and plunged a long sailor's knife into the Irishman's side. Fitzroy's sword clattered on the floor. He uttered a short cry, stumbled forward. His body twisted, dropped to the floor, and came to rest on his back. For a few moments, he jerked and twitched, then lay still, three paces from Critchley's feet.

Rogers stood over his fallen enemy, gazing down at him without pity. Life appeared to linger in his face. “Do you hear me, Captain?” Rogers bent forward and stared into Fitzroy's eyes. They flickered. Rogers shook his head. “I had not planned to kill you, Captain, to stick you like a pig. A worse fate awaited you in a French prison. You've cheated me again. But now I'm glad to be rid of you and soon to be rid of my whoring wife and your bastard son.” Rogers looked sharply at the man's face, then straightened up and said without feeling, “He's dead.”

Fascinated by the ghastly scene before him, Critchley clutched the package with trembling hands. Rogers stepped over Fitzroy's body and picked up his sword from the floor. Flourished it. “Now, Mr. Critchley, we shall have our reckoning.”