The Marsh Hawk (32 page)

“Another confession, eh?”

“I take my calling seriously, Simon. There was nothing else I could do.”

“Nothing but tell me.”

“Tell you
what
?” Robert snapped, taking hold of his arm again. “I had no idea that she'd gunned you down during one of your forays! I learned that bit at the same instant you did, when she burst into the vicarage in hysterics and poured out her heart to me.”

“Oh, and I suppose if I hadn't overheard, you'd have told me?”

“Simon, that isn't fair. You know there are strictures. You know I am under constraint to my calling. That I'm bound—”

“You wouldn't have, would you—not even then? Bloody Hell!”

“Do you hold
nothing
sacrosanct?”

“Not where my friends are concerned. You should know that. You've seen what I've been through because of the twins. Why I never married. Why, until now, I dared not afford myself that luxury, let myself hope for a normal life of my own.”

“You are not a priest.”

“Thank God for that!”

“Simon, please . . .”

“There's no time here now for this!” he replied. Wrenching free again, he strode through the Great Hall, and out into the sultry summer night to find Treacle grazing in the courtyard. Snatching the animal's reins, he charged toward the stables, his limp having become pronounced in his haste.

“What are you going to do?” Robert persisted, sprinting after him.

“I'm going to have a little chat with Marner.”

“Not as the Marsh Hawk! I beg you not. The Marsh Hawk is dead. Let him stay so. Resurrect that brigand and you sign your death warrant, Simon!”

“Just go and get Phelps,” Simon gritted out, raking fingers through his hair. “I know you mean well, Rob, but it's way too late for good intentions. My road is already paved.”

He led Treacle into a stall, and motioned for the groom to tend the lathered animal while he saddled another, a chocolate stallion that answered to the name of Fury. He was about to mount when he noticed the vicar still standing there.

“The devil take it!” he roared, causing more than one animal to reply unattractively. “Will you go back in there and see to Evy? It doesn't take an Oxford scholar to deduce that Marner planted the seed of that disruption earlier. That young rake you just throttled in the garden was James Mortonson, Viscount Mortonson's son. He isn't received in polite society. He certainly wasn't invited here. Marner is behind it somewhere, and it could have been much uglier, if you hadn't had the presence of mind to monitor the situation, and I thank you for that. There's a score I have to settle with the viscount. Meanwhile, I need you to see to it that nothing else occurs while I'm gone.”

“Simon . . .”

“Go to her,” he commanded. “Let one positive thing come from this farce, but first get me Phelps! This ends tonight, by God, however it must!”

Jenna leaned back against the cold leather squabs in the prison coach. The wound in her shoulder wasn't deep; the bullet had only grazed her, and the constable at St. Enoder had doctored and bandaged it, but the pain was dizzying. She couldn't help but wonder, if such a slight wound could pain her so, what Simon must have suffered when her pistol ball ripped through his shoulder. The irony of it all extracted a sorrowful moan from her, for she truly believed she'd gotten what she deserved. That was almost comforting in a ghoulish sort of way, she decided, and she accepted her penance gladly.

Most importantly, the highwayman responsible for all her woes was dead—and she had brought it about, though it was the Runner seated across from her in the austere conveyance whose pistol had felled him. It was over. There would be no more haunting the Cornish wilds in moon-dark, no more bloodlust for revenge, no more fear that she would be caught and bring disgrace upon her father's good name. That had already happened. Her worst fear had become reality.

Somehow, all this paled before the aching emptiness inside for the loss of Simon. How she longed for the comfort of his arms, the consolation of his love—the love she had betrayed and lost, if not then, surely now. Would he even know what had happened to her? Well, of course he would. Eventually. She was in no hurry for that. She had ruined Evelyn's come-out ball. He would never forgive her for it.

Her eyes glazed over with unshed tears. She was still the watering pot, and he was still the cause. No. She would not cry. But when she reached to brush the tears away, a hollow clanking called attention to the heavy iron manacles clamped around her wrists, and the dratted tears fell anyway—a flood of them. She dissolved in them.

The Runner seemed unmoved. He hadn't spoken a word since they'd left St. Enoder. His contempt for female highwaymen was evident. His scathing looks were hard, and his resolve unbending. She made no attempt to soften it by way of explanation: that she wasn't a highwayman, only dressed like one to get close enough to do what the law would not, bring her father's murderer to justice. Her strategy was sound; it had worked too well. The thatchgallows was dead. Her father was avenged. But in the end, the strategy had damned her.

Her mind reeled back to the moments before she was shot. Her memory was still fuzzy, but there was . . . something. A woman's voice. Yes. She had heard a woman's voice from the coach that came after. She'd only caught a glimpse of her in the feeble light of the carriage lamp as she poked her turbaned head through the coach window. There was something familiar about her: that turban, that hideous chartreuse turban. How well she remembered her mother's reference to it now.
Lady Jersey
. Could it be? She'd been late for the ball. Of course! Another moan escaped her. Jenna could only imagine her mother's reaction to Lady Jersey's arrival in a taking over the events of the evening. The picture wasn't a pretty one, and fresh tears threatened.

Jenna had never felt so frightened and alone. But fear had always emboldened her, and her sobs were due more to anger than despair. That, however, wasn't to last. From what she'd gathered from the banter since her capture, despair would come when she reached the infamous Newgate Gaol.

The ball went on until the wee hours, much to Robert's chagrin. Rancor roiled in him at Simon's supposition that Rupert Marner was behind Evelyn's earlier unpleasant experience. It set his blood boiling, though one would never know it from the chivalrous way he conducted himself, taking the place as host in Simon's absence. Nonetheless, he was straining at the tether when the guests finally, mercifully, began to take their leave.

Lady Jersey was in her element, doing what she was famous for—playing the role of hostess in Lady Hollingsworth and Jenna's absence. The herbal tisane of skullcap, chamomile, and verbena prepared by Cook, whose skill with herbs was legendary, had rendered the dowager inert, and with Molly to administer subsequent doses, she slept soundly confined to her chamber in supine oblivion.

Soon everyone was gone. Evelyn smiled demurely as she passed Robert on her way upstairs to bed, or had he imagined it? No, the blush in her cheeks was genuine enough, though he dared not invest in it . . . yet. Instead, he offered her his warmest smile and most dutiful bow in return, and as soon as she was out of sight, steered Lady Jersey into the study, marveling that the woman's turban was still clinging tenaciously to her somewhat scraggly coiffure.

The woman sank wearily into the wing chair she'd occupied earlier, and waved him off with a hand gesture as he lifted the sherry decanter from the drop-leaf table.

“No! No more,” she said. “Whatever this is, I would appreciate that you speak it quickly. I am quite done in, Vicar Nast, and I am definitely not at my most powerful at present. I long for my abigail to prepare me for a good night's sleep, so please be brief.”

“I'm dreadfully sorry to detain you, but it's important. My lady, before you arrived, there was an unfortunate to-do here. A young rake made . . . improper advances toward Lady Evelyn, and had to be evicted from the ball.”

“Oh, dear man!” she breathed. “How dreadful! Is there no end to the calamities this night?”

“Some ugly things were said,” Robert continued. “The young scapegrace had the mistaken notion that there were improprieties between Simon and Lady Evelyn, and thought to take advantage—”

“Balderdash!” she erupted.

“Yes, I know, but—”

“I know who the St. John twins are, Vicar Nast,” Lady Jersey interrupted.

Stunned, the vicar stared, and chose not to reply to that. How she could know and not the entire realm with such a juicy ondit in her keeping, he couldn't fathom.

“Men make bargains with men, dear boy,” she went on drolly, speaking to his silence, “ignoring the pure and simple fact that women overrule them. I know the Duke of York quite well, you see, and that mistress of his, Mary Anne Clarke, who never was known for her . . . discretion, and I am well able to make two and two come out to four, if you take my meaning. It's all quite straightforward, when one reasons it out.”

“And, you've never . . . voiced your opinion in that cause?”

“You mean, have I never let on that I am aware? I only do to you here now because you are a man of the cloth, and I know how close you are to Simon.”

Another confession. Would there be no end to them?

“Suffice it to say,” she drawled, “that no one will ever hear that tale from me. I respect and admire Kevernwood for what he's done for those two poor children.”

“I should like to get back to the point here,” said the vicar, clearing his voice. He had gotten past one hurdle without having to commit himself or expand upon the issue; it was time to turn the tide before another confidence damned him. “The libertine that took advantage of Lady Evelyn was James Mortonson, Viscount Mortonson's son. He isn't received, and he certainly wasn't invited here. Simon believes Marner is behind this. Exactly what tales are circulating in Town?”

“You obviously know the answer to that already.” She bristled, waving her be-ringed hand again. “
Balderdash
—all balderdash!”

“Yes, but who is spreading it?”

“Simon is right, Rupert Marner has had a good deal to do with what I've heard. I've no more respect for the maw-worm. It's all sour grapes over losing his betrothed to Simon, I daresay. Oh, yes, I heard all about the duel. The ton is buzzing over that. The viscount shan't be welcome at Almack's again—not while I'm hostess, and I plan to be till the place crumbles to dust. Have no fear of that. If it's any consolation, no one believes any of the gossip, you know. Everyone in Town adores Simon . . . and envies poor Jenna.”

“It
is
true then. Marner is behind it. Simon thought as much, but I had to be certain.”

“Why?”

“Where did you say you last saw the bounder?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“We parted company at St. Enoder. He was changing horses at the coaching station. Why?”

“Lady Jersey,” he said, again ignoring her question, “I do so hate to impose, but since you are staying the night . . . may I presume upon you to look after things here until Simon returns?”

“Of course, dear man, but what of you? Aren't you staying on?”

“No, ma'am,” he called, halfway through the study door. “I've stayed too long as it is.”

Robert knew that Simon wouldn't approve of what he was about to do, of course, but he was well beyond caring. In his estimation, Simon hadn't shown the best of judgment in any regard since Jenna bewitched him. She would be his first concern now. Counting upon that, he borrowed a horse from the Kevernwood stables and set out for the coaching station at St. Enoder, since that was the last place Rupert had been seen.

It wasn't a rash decision. Certainly it wasn't something he hadn't thought through; and it wasn't entirely to do with Evelyn, either, though his blood still boiled at the thought of her abasement. What motivated him was that, by the time Simon got around to dealing with Rupert Marner, it could be too late. This was something he could do for his friend, something that would leave no taint upon Simon. There was no other sensible solution in his view, and that it was totally out of character for a vicar to run an aristocrat to ground in order to call him out mattered not a whit to him.

It was nearly dawn when he reached the coaching station—just in time. The stationmaster who had been on duty through the night was just about to give up his post to the day shift.

“I'm not no mind reader, ya know, gov'nor,” the man groused.

“Surely not,” Robert soothed, “but you must recall the direction the viscount took.”

“Well . . .” the man said. Lifting his cap, he scratched his balding head and squinted off in space.

“Yes?” the vicar prompted.

“I'm thinkin', I'm thinkin',” the man grumbled. “You're a mite impatient for a man o' the cloth, 'ppears ta me.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Just
think
, man! Which direction?”

“Do you know how many coaches tool through here of a night, sir?” asked the man, bristling.

“A good many, I imagine, but I'm only interested in one. Surely you remember? It had a device on the door picked out in gold—an Old English letter
M
in the center of a laurel wreath with a crown at the top.”

“Ah!” the stationmaster cried, giving a lurch. “Well, why didn't ya say so? I remember '
im
all right, a regular cockscomb, he was, all got up in silks and frills—shirt points reachin' for the sky, belcher neckcloth, and all. 'Twas Plymouth he was headin' for.”

“Plymouth? Are you certain?”

“Oh, aye. It was Plymouth right enough, with not even a bumbershoot strapped up top, much less a trunk or travelin' bags. He was askin' the whereabouts of coaching stations b'tween here and there. In a devil o' a hurry, he was.”