The Marsh Hawk (28 page)

“We dare not go far,” he said, gesturing seaward. “That's an ugly flaw on the make.”

“Believe me, we shan't,” Jenna returned. Though if he were looking for an invitation to repair to the Hall, he could forget it.

“Jenna,” the vicar said, stopping her beside the yellow vignette that featured sunny shades of cinquefoil, cowslips, and butter-and-egg plant under a bower of sculptured privet. “May we have a truce? Things cannot go on as they are between us.”

“Truce, truce! All I hear is
truce
—first Simon, now you. Well, there it is! We're definitely at war here.”

“Jenna—”

“Don't ‘Jenna' me, Robert Nast. How cruel you are. How dare you pretend to be my friend all these weeks when all the while you were involved in Simon's madness? How did you expect me to react to that? You lied to me!”

“I didn't lie to you, Jenna. I kept a confidence for a friend.”

“Aided and abetted a . . . a thief!” Jenna hurled at him.

“Simon is my friend, Jenna. I'd hoped you were my friend as well. I told you all along that you needed to speak with him. That was the only counsel I could give without betraying his confidence. You had no compunction about betraying mine, did you?”

“I didn't really betray it as a retaliation—not consciously, in the way you imply.”

The vicar gave a bitter laugh, and continued along the lane.

“No, I didn't,” Jenna defended, answering. “Simon and I were having a dustup, and he asked me why I insisted upon holding Evelyn's come-out ball here at Kevernwood Hall instead of in Town, where practically everything was already arranged, and I said because of you. I was angry, and it just came out. I didn't premeditate it, Robert. I'm not my mother.”

“Heaven forefend,” the vicar muttered in an undervoice, then said, “No harm's done. At least only Simon is aware, and he isn't going to betray me.”

“N-no . . .” Jenna stammered.

A surge of adrenaline set prickly gooseflesh loose upon her, and made her miss her footing; she was scarcely aware that the vicar's quick hand steadied her. Guilt shot hot blood to her cheeks, and parched her lips. Not even the sting of the wind bending the hollyhocks' backs could cool the fire in her face. For a moment she toyed with the idea of making another confession, telling him that her betrayal went deeper than he knew. What made her hesitate was that knowing Evelyn was aware of his feelings might keep him away. Still, her hesitation was counter to her purpose; her silence condemned her.

“Jenna . . .” He stopped in his tracks, and turned her toward him. “You didn't.”

“Robert, you may as well know that when Evelyn's come-out ball is over, Simon and I mean to . . . part,” she said, her speech halting. “I haven't done anything maliciously; you have to believe that. Oh, I know you think I've vengefully betrayed your confidence, but the truth is . . . I wanted something positive to come out of all this. Believe what you will, but that was my only intent.”

“Good God!” the vicar moaned. His hands fell away from her arms, and he seemed to sway in the wind like the hollyhocks.

“Do you still want that truce?” Jenna said dourly.

“
I
don't matter anymore,” he murmured, “but not so you and Simon. Don't leave him, Jenna. It will destroy him if you do.”

“He will never forgive me for seeking your counsel instead of his—of not trusting him enough to take him into my confidence concerning something so grave. A marriage can survive almost anything but lack of trust. Besides, it's a point of pride with him. It would always be there, like a wedge between us. It's too late for us, but not for you and Evelyn, Robert. Come Saturday, that Hall behind us will be overflowing with potential suitors for that girl. You cannot just hand her over to some . . . toady, some pink-of-the-ton!”

“And if she laughs at me?”

“Bowl her over! Don't give her the chance.”

“What was her reaction when you told her, Jenna? Tell me the truth.”

“Surprise,” she answered.

“She didn't laugh?”

“Actually, she cried,” said Jenna.

The vicar took his neckcloth back from the wind, and raked his hair with a harsh hand. “I wish you hadn't done this, Jenna,” he said.

“Oh, I don't know,” she replied. “It could very well be the most singularly productive thing I've done since this farcical odyssey began—for all of us.”

Rupert chose a table near the door of the taproom at the Heatherwood Arms to wait for the Bow Street Runner. Nursing the inn's dubious black ale, his face was a study of smug satisfaction. He hadn't been waiting long, but he fidgeted nervously, drumming his fingers on the scarred oak table and twirling his quizzing glass, his eyes darkened to smalt, hooded against the thick fog of smoke drifting in his direction from the patrons' clay pipes.

He knew the man the moment he entered. He was dressed in typical Runner attire: a plain black frock coat, stuff breeches with dark stockings, buckled shoes. The man knew him as well, though they'd never met other than through correspondence. They had arranged a signal. The Runner, one Matthew Biggins, was to wear a red flower boutonniere. When he entered, Rupert was to order two pints of ale and repair to one of the salons, which he had paid for in advance. After a discreet interval the Runner would join him there, where they could speak as privately as one could at the Heatherwood Arms.

“Your letter wasn't too clear, sir,” Biggins said, working bulbous fingers around his tankard. “As murky as this ale here, it was, to be sure. We'd best get to it.”

“Keep your voice down,” Rupert cautioned. “These walls are sheer as gauze, and we can ill afford to be overheard.”

“Aye, sir,” the Runner whispered. “You say you know the identity of the Marsh Hawk. Just who might that be, then? There's many a Runner would like that feather in his cap.”

“You'll see soon enough,” Rupert returned. “I've a plan that will put an end to his escapades for good and all.”

“So you've said, but I'm going to need a bit more before I commit to it, sir. You're going to have to tell me who you suspect, and why.”

“I'd rather not say just yet,” Rupert hedged.

“Then I'm afraid I can't help you, sir,” the Runner said. Squeezing his paunch past the table, he lumbered to his feet.

“Wait!” Rupert barked, caught between a shout and a whisper. “Since you insist . . . Simon Rutherford, the Earl of Kevernwood, is the Marsh Hawk, and I don't just suspect the man, I
know
. He held up my coach and assaulted me not a sennight ago on my way to the Highlands.”

“What?” the Runner cried. He erupted in boisterous laughter despite Rupert's pleas to keep his voice down. “Are you addled in the bean box? Kevernwood is a war hero. The ton idolizes the man. Why, he's built two hospitals for veterans since he left the service. You don't want to let any one of them hear you speak against his lordship, or they'll likely plant you a leveler, viscount or no. No wonder the land guards laughed you out of Headquarters.”

“The guards hereabouts are fools, Biggins; they're protecting the man. Can't you see that? Kevernwood built those hospitals with money he robbed from the ton on the highway at gunpoint!”

“There's bad blood between you,” the Runner observed, shaking his head. “Word's out in Town that he stole your intended, that he bested you in a duel, and that you didn't exactly take being bested in a gentlemanly way, if you take my meaning. Now, if I'd known about
that
I'd have hauled him in—and you along with him. Dueling is against the law. But accusing him of highway robbery . . . you'll never make it stick. Have you got any proof of what you're accusing? Because, if you don't you're going to be the ton's latest laughingstock.”

“I have no tangible proof,” Rupert said. “That's where you come in. I will soon have enough, with your help. I'm going to set a little trap for Kevernwood. We're going to catch him red-handed.”

“You're going to have to,” Biggins blurted. “He's got to have the goods on him when he's caught for me to make an arrest. He can go about all masked and gotten-up in highwayman gear, even hold up a coach at gunpoint, like he did to you—to settle a score, I have no doubt—if he's of a mind, but if he doesn't actually steal anything, we can't touch him.”

“You just leave that to me.”

“Mmm. I think you're a bedlamite is what I think, but since I've come all this way, let's hear this crack-brained plan of yours.”

“Saturday next, Kevernwood is holding a come-out ball at his estate in Newquay for that little chippie he's been seen with all over town. Half the ton is scheduled to attend—”

“And you expect him to stage a robbery in the midst of
that
—right under the noses of the ton?” Biggins interrupted. “Hah! Why would he trouble himself to take to the highway when he's got half the wealth in England right in his own ballroom?”

“No, you nodcock! I'm planning to offer him another shot at me.”

“Now, why would he take it, sir? You've just said he already accosted you once. What else has he got against you?”

“There are to be a number of young blades at that ball,” Rupert said through his teeth, ignoring the question. “At least one of them is expected to make an offer for the little ladybird he's been diddling. Damaged goods, I daresay, but fine-looking damaged goods. At least one of those bucks is going to make an offer, I'll be bound, but not of marriage when I get through. I can guarantee it. I've seen to it that a certain young rake, whose reputation excludes him from such events, has received an invitation. 'Twas easy enough to forge. He'd do the job nicely with the little chippie. Oh, don't look so shocked. She might even enjoy it. That aside, I've passed the word that Simon Rutherford means to foist off his leavings upon society now that he's married. My plant might not be the only young buck standing in line.”

“You mean to set him up? Oh, now—”

“Let me put it this way,” Rupert cut in. “I've seen to it that he'll know I was the one who spread the rumor. He'll hear it from someone close to him—someone he trusts. And when his bride—the bride he stole from
me
—gets wind of her husband's lurid adventures with the little chit, I might just have her back. The Marsh Hawk killed her father, you know. Oh, yes! Once she finds out that she's
married
the thatchgallows, I'll have her back, you can bet your mother's last quid upon it. How grateful she will be when she learns that it was I who brought her father's murderer to justice!”

“I get the drift all well and good, but how is this going to prove Kevernwood is the Marsh Hawk? And you say he killed Baronet Hollingsworth? The Marsh Hawk has never harmed anyone, to my knowledge. Besides, I've never heard tell of him targeting military personnel, and old Hollingsworth served in the Colonies. You're going to need tangible proof to back up your accusations in that cause.”

“I'm not going after him in that cause; only in mine. I'm putting it out that I'll be heading for Darby's gambling hell in St. Enoder, with a foreign houseguest—a high-in-the-instep, avid gamester, notorious for carrying more blunt than is prudent to squander in such places. St. Enoder is close enough to Kevernwood Hall for the Marsh Hawk to easily slip out and make an appearance with no one at his blasted ball the wiser. It would be too tempting to let pass by. What better alibi than a houseful of the ton's elite? I've heard even Lady Jersey herself will be there. He'll show all right. We will be waiting for him, and I'll yet see Kevernwood dance the Tyburn jig.”

“
We
? What
we
?”

“Do you speak French?”

“After a fashion. Not fluently by any stretch. Why?”

“It will have to do. Hopefully, you won't have to do much talking. You shall be the Comte D'Arbonville, my very affluent houseguest, and I'll supply all the ‘evidence' you need to tempt the Marsh Hawk. I'll get it all back, after all, once you collar the bounder.”

“You'll never pass me off as a foreigner. I haven't a talent for playacting. You should be soliciting down 'round Drury Lane for a professional. Besides, I'm not plump enough in the pockets to make a show worth robbing.”

“Drury Lane? There isn't time for that, you want-wit!”

“I don't know,” the Runner hedged, rubbing his chin.

Rupert fidgeted during the moment it took for the information to impact the man, wondering if all Bow Street Runners were as dense. It was the perfect plan; why couldn't the gudgeon see it?

“Come, come, man, I haven't all night. Do you want to catch the Marsh Hawk or not? I can easily find another.”

“I want to catch the Marsh Hawk, yes. Not lose my position for falsely accusing the earl of Kevernwood. I've got my reputation to consider, and I think you're daft!”

“You'll see how daft I am come Saturday, Biggins.”

“That's another thing,” said the Runner. “You haven't much time to put all this in place—three days, counting Saturday.”

“Leave the fine points to me. You'll come to the Manor and stay on as if you were the comte. My parents needn't get wind of this. Then, Saturday at dusk, we'll ride the road to St. Enoder all night long if needs must until he holds up that coach. We'll have to get you up in something less provincial, for God's sake. That rig screams Bow Street. You need to look the part.” He raised his tankard. “Well then, it's settled. To our mutual gains.”

“Aye, sir, our . . . mutual gains,” said the Runner, making a halfhearted salute. “But I still think you're bloody daft.”

By Friday morning, Jenna was exhausted, but the house was nearly in readiness. The marble floors had been cleaned and polished to a mirror-bright shine, and neither a cobweb nor a speck of dust could be found. The faded, threadbare furniture had been replaced with fresher pieces from the closed-off upper regions. While they were for the most part painfully outdated, they made a far better appearance than the relics they replaced. At least they couldn't be held up to ridicule, and it wouldn't appear that the Rutherfords were putting on tick. All that remained was to prepare the food and deck the Grand Ball-room out in floral array, which would commence after the dinner hour.