Swept Away (37 page)

“They are not outlandish accusations, Wessex,” Emory said in a low voice. “They are the truth and I will be damned if I am the only one left hanging in the wind.”

“If you are hanging in the wind, sir, it is by your own doing not mine, for as God is my witness I had no foreknowledge of the escape from Elba!”

“Then you have a spy in your cabinet, sir, and he has managed to play us both for fools!”

A violent ache was throbbing in Emory’s temple, the pressure so intense against the back of his eyeballs it was almost impossible to think. He had been counting on Wessex to support him, to at least lend credence to his claims of innocence and perhaps even buy him the time necessary to prove it.

He raised a hand to his head, and, finding the stiff orange curls of the wig there to greet him, tore it angrily off, flinging it along with the elf mask halfway across the room. Once freed, his own hair fell in wild black waves around his face, making the green paint and sparkled silver eyebrows Fysh had enjoyed applying seem all the more incongruous.

“I might,” Wessex said with a calmer, though unconvincing coldness, “be able to argue for leniency if you surrender yourself to the authorities. Do it here, now, tonight, and I promise I will personally guarantee a fair trial.”

Emory’s hand had risen again to massage the back of his neck. His fingers rubbed across the gold chain and he stopped, narrowing his eyes as he drew the links forward until the iron key dangled free of his shirt. “The dispatches,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I did not have time to destroy the last ones you sent.” He glanced pointedly at Anna. “I locked them away in the strongbox, dammit, along with--”

“
There he is
!
I knew it was him, I knew it!”

The shrill female cry came from the shadows behind them. All three turned to stare at the doorway, where Lucille Althorpe stood, her arm outstretched, her finger pointing across the room at Emory Althorpe. Standing beside her, his pistol drawn, was Colonel Rupert Ramsey, and behind them, four armed Beefeaters fronting a small group of gentlemen who were straining forward to see the cause of the commotion.

One of those gentleman was Anthony Fairchilde and the shock of seeing him was enough to keep Anna’s feet rooted to the floor, delaying her reaction long enough for Ramsey to push past Lucille’s encumbering panniers and aim his pistol across the room.

Anna screamed, and leaped forward. “No!”

She saw the puff of smoke as the hammer struck flint and sparked against the powder. There was a split second delay while the powder in the chamber ignited, followed by the loud explosion of the shot.

Lucille Althorpe clapped her hands to her ears and screeched, falling back against the four Beefeaters as they were about to surge through the door. Two of them went down with her in an upheaval of wire hoops, panniers and lace petticoats; the other two managed to step around the tangle of legs and rush through the doorway. They were armed only with their beribboned pikes, but the latter were ten feet long with viciously hooked steel points at the end.

Anna had felt the heat of the shot fly past her face but it had missed her and gouged a deep pit into one of the panelled walls. Emory was shouting something, but before she could turn and run to him, Wessex had stepped forward to block her path. In desperation she tried to dart past, but he was close enough to grasp her arm and jerk her to a painful halt. She lashed out with her fist, with the toes of her shoes, and managed to pull free, but she was off balance and spun painfully into the corner of the escritoire

Across the room, with one hand on the gilded latch, Emory hesitated and started to turn back for her.

“No!” Anna screamed. “No! Go quickly! Save yourself! Do what you must do, I will be all right!”

The Beefeaters were beside the desk, racing for the opposite door, their pikes raised with deadly intent. Rupert Ramsey was right behind them, shouting and waving his gun. The other two guards were scrambling to their feet, pushing the outraged and still squealing Lucille Althorpe out of the way.

Emory’s dark eyes held Anna’s for a final helpless moment, then he turned and bolted through the door, slamming it shut just as the Beefeaters drove home the points of their pikes, chipping off chunks of the wood and gilt.

Anna had begun to limp painfully after them but was quickly overtaken by her brother, who curled an iron hand around her upper arm.

“Not so fast, young woman!”

“For pity’s sake, Anthony, let me go!”

“Anna? Anna is that...dear God, is that
you
?”

“Anthony, I beg you! Let me go!”

Stunned to discover it was his sister dressed in a tinselled mask and wearing little more than a veil, he actually started to loosen his grip. Indeed, she might have been able to twist the rest of the way free had not another ominous figure dressed all in black loomed up beside her and taken a firm hold on her other arm.

She whirled around, fully intending to lash out with the gold letter opener she had picked up off the regent’s desk, but at the last possible moment she recognized the severely cold eyes and squared jaw of Winston Perry, Marquis of Barrimore. Her arm fell limply to her side, concealing the weapon in the folds of her skirt as he reached up and summarily removed the jewelled vizard.

His expression, if it was possible, grew even harder and colder when he confirmed who it was he had unmasked.

“Please,” she cried. “Please, you must let me go after him.”

Barrimore glared. Beneath the mask, her face and throat had been coated with a layer of theatrical oil laced with silver dust so that it sparkled with a million tiny pinpoints of light. There were tears welling in her eyes and a steady stream of soft pleas on her lips, but he only tightened his grip and pressed his mouth into a grim line. “I’m afraid I cannot do that, Miss Fairchilde.”

Wessex strode up beside them. “Indeed, madam, you are in nearly as much trouble as the elusive Mr. Althorpe and you may be sure all the tears in the world will not spare you a moment’s sympathy.”

Anna was not even aware her tears had begun to spill down her cheeks, nor did she hear the questions her brother started hissing in her ear. She was barely able to grasp the fact that between them, Anthony and Barrimore were all but carrying her as they followed Ramsey and the guardsmen through the outer anteroom and into the octagonal vestibule. She was dimly aware of the startled faces that turned to stare but her fears, her concerns were all for Emory. Carleton House would be a small fortress tonight with a hundred guards in attendance outside to discourage uninvited guests and a hundred more inside to insure the regent’s priceless possessions did not stray into an oversized pocket. An unarmed man dressed in green leggings would not have an easy time of eluding capture.

At the vestibule, they were directed by a cluster of excited, gawking guests down a narrow servant’s access concealed behind a swath of curtains. Anthony was forced to release her arm and hang back as the width only allowed for two people to descend at once, and at the bottom of the stairs, he hurried two paces ahead to lead the way down a short corridor toward what could only be--judging by the smell and the three sprawled servants they passed along the way--the kitchens.

As large as would be expected in a house that regularly entertained guests by the scores, the kitchen was teeming with servants, cooks, maids--all of whom were rushing frantically to finalize the preparations for dinner. It was impossible to pass through them, although they could readily see where Emory and the pursuing Beefeaters had done so. Trays lay splattered on the floor; a servant stood nearby wailing, her frock covered in leek soup.

“This way,” Barrimore said, pulling Anna along the wall toward yet another door. Anthony held it open while they passed through and the first thing that hit them was a gust of cool wind from outside. A short flight of stone steps took them up to a rear drive where deliveries were made. Beyond that were the buildings that contained the stables, carriage house, and laundry.

Every square inch of empty space in between was taken up with carriages belonging to the guests. Shouts and neighing horses pointed out the most likely route Emory had taken with the guardsmen, who numbered more than a dozen now, and Colonel Ramsey chasing close behind. Anthony plunged into the sea of horseflesh and polished ebony, but Barrimore elected to remain under the flickering light of a coach lamp.

“Please,” she cried. “You do not understand. They are trying to kill an innocent man.”

“Most of the cells in Newgate are filled with innocent men, Miss Fairchilde,” he answered dryly. “And most of them die, swearing their innocence with their last breath.”

“But Emory
is
innocent. I know he is.”

“I am sure you do else you would not have been so completely blinded to your responsibilities to your family as well as your loyalties to your king.”

“Emory Althorpe’s loyalties are as true as your own! All the time he has been in France he has been working for king and country, spying for our government. Why do you suppose he took such a dreadful risk to come here tonight?”

“Then why will you not listen to me! Emory Althorpe was hired by Lord Wessex--nay,
blackmailed
--into pretending to be a pirate and mercenary in order to spy on the French! He did his job so well, they came to him when they were formulating their plans to rescue Bonaparte off Elba. He sent a dispatch to Wessex--a dispatch Lord Wessex claims he did not get.” She went on, relaying as much as she could remember of the conversation in the Blue Velvet Room, then in utter desperation, she blurted everything she could remember of the past week, beginning with her walk on the beach that fateful morning when she had found Emory half drowned and unconscious. She went on to explain that he had awakened with no memory of what had happened to him, that he had kidnapped her off the street in Torquay, yes, but only in order to buy himself some time to find Lord Wessex. After nearly being killed by the Corsican assassin, she had come willingly with him to London because she believed he was telling the truth.

“He has the proof locked in a strongbox on board his ship, and if he is prevented from fetching it, not only will he be unjustly convicted of treason, but Lord Wessex--if
he
is telling the truth--will never know the identity of the real traitor in his cabinet, the man who must have intercepted the original messages and replied with forged dispatches of his own. Moreover, they will not be able to stop this new plan to help Napoleon escape, if, indeed, it has not taken place already.”

Out of breath, her defiance rapidly losing way to defeat, Anna did not notice the sharp look Barrimore cast her way. “What do you mean? What new plan?”

She wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks, smearing the tears and silvered oil, not hearing Barrimore’s question until he asked it a second time.

“I do not know the details, sir; neither does Emory, but he believes there may be a clue somewhere in the papers on board his ship. The assassin--Cipriani--was demanding that Emory return a letter he stole. I don’t know. Perhaps there is something in it, something that reveals the plan or identifies the spy. I do know he was prepared to go to great lengths to insure Emory did not leave Torquay alive. He would even have killed me, had Emory not overpowered him and shot off his hands. Why would he do so unless he was afraid Emory would discover their plan in time to stop them? Why would Lord Wessex swear he neither received nor sent any dispatches unless he truly did not see them, and if so, then there
must
be a traitor in the war cabinet who must be equally desperate to capture or kill Emory Althorpe. Who would have had access to the dispatches? Who would have known the proper codes?”

Barrimore was not sharing her enthusiasm for solving the mystery. He was, however, still staring at her in mild astonishment. “Did you say...he shot off the assassin’s hands?”

Barrimore glanced out across the sea of carriages, his cold eyes tracking the dozens of lanterns that were swarming in and around the rose gardens. “And you say Althorpe has incriminating documents on board his ship?”

She nodded. “The
Intrepid
. She sits in Gravesend with her crew locked in the hold under arrest.”

“Then we may assume this is where your Mr. Althorpe will go if he is lucky enough to elude capture tonight,” Barrimore said thoughtfully. “It is certainly where I would go in his position, and with all due haste before Wessex arrives at the same conclusion and sends a regiment of dragoons in his wake.”

He expelled a gust of breath and, after a moment, took up Annaleah’s arm again and led her around the outside of the vast courtyard until they came to the front row of coaches. Without saying a word, he chose one with a brace of stout horses in harness and unlatched the door.

“Get in.”

Anna hesitated. It was not the berline, and by the crest on the door, did not even belong to Barrimore. “What are you doing? Where are we going?”