The Marsh Hawk (33 page)

“I need you to tell me where those stations are, sir,” said the vicar.

“What's he done?”

“Never mind that,” Robert returned. “The coaching stations; make a list. We're wasting precious time. It may already be too late to stop him!”

Rupert had dismissed his driver. He would have no more need of Wilby or the coach. He had booked passage on the
Clairmont
. She would set sail at dawn on the turn of the tide. He would be well on his way to Marner House in the Channel Islands for an extended stay, well out of the coil he'd set in motion and safe from Simon's wrath. He'd had a taste of that, and though he would never admit it to anyone but himself, he knew he was no match for it.

The stew he'd been served was hot and filling, if not palatable by his standards, at Plymouth's Albatross Inn, at the foot of Notte Street, beside the quay. He had begun to relax. No one would seek him in such a rustic dockside establishment, and he wasn't likely to run into any among the ton here, either. If not comfortable, he felt safe, despite the way the patrons eyed his Town togs and ornaments.

The inn was a respectable establishment, run by a husband and wife who catered to travelers like himself. The room he'd taken for the night was clean and adequate. He was smart enough not to have chosen one of the dubious havens for brigands and wharf rats that dotted the waterfront. Yes, all was well—or so he thought until Robert Nast's kid riding glove streaked across his face, knocking a spoonful of stew into his cream-colored, satin-clad lap.

“What the deuce?” Rupert cried. Vaulting to his feet, he scudded his chair out behind him. A rumble of dark mutters rose from the patrons, most of whom rose also, but kept their distance.

“You will give me satisfaction, sir,” the vicar demanded.

“I don't even know you!” Rupert snapped, dabbing ruthlessly with his serviette at the greasy stain spread across his pantaloons. “I have never had the pleasure.”

“Vicar Robert Nast, sir, and, yes, you have, one afternoon not long ago in the Earl of Kevernwood's orchard. I fired a warning shot over your head as you fled the place after accosting his betrothed. Kevernwood is a friend of mine.”

“Ahhhh!” Rupert exhaled. A tremor of recognition sparked in him. So, it was the vicar who had fired on him? He hadn't gotten a look at the man then; he had been too busy escaping. But it made sense. All the ton knew of the closeness between Simon Rutherford and the vicar of Holy Trinity at Newquay. A lopsided grin broke his scowl. “Ah, yes, the legendary Vicar Nast—of course,” he mused. “And just what have I done to you, sir? I should think it would be Kevernwood calling me out. Has he gone soft, then, sending a vicar to fight his battles? Was that wise, I wonder, considering your bungling ineptitude when last we met?”

“I don't fight Kevernwood's battles, Marner,” the vicar returned, “I fight my own. In your haste to bring Kevernwood low, you slandered an innocent young lady who is very dear to me. You shall answer for that on the dueling ground. Choose your weapons, and the field.”

“The St. John chit he's been diddling?” Rupert blurted. “But I don't know why I'm surprised at that. It's what you do, after all, isn't it—redeem the fallen? I'm afraid I cannot accommodate you, sir. There isn't time. I've booked passage on the
Clairmont
, you see, and, alas, you've caught me quite alone, without a second. Neither have you one, as it seems.”

Before the vicar could reply, a group of seamen strolled alongside, doffing their caps collectively.

“Begging your pardon. Did I hear you say you were a friend of Simon Rutherford, sir?” said the tallest of the group to the vicar, though his steely-eyed squint never left Rupert. He was a weathered-looking man of middle age, whose swagger more closely resembled a limp. Rupert didn't know the man.

“I did, sir,” Robert Nast replied, taking the man's measure.

“I'll stand for you, then,” he offered.

“Impossible!” Rupert cried, incredulous. “You, sir, are no . . . no . . . gentleman. It won't do. You don't suit.”

“Oh, aye, I can see how you might conclude that,” the man returned levelly as he passed a glance over his attire. “But you can't always judge a man by the cut of his jib, so to speak. Why, at first look, I actually took
you
for a gentleman! Allow me to introduce myself, I am Lieutenant Nathaniel Ridgeway, Earl of Stenshire, at your service, lately mustered out of His Majesty's Royal Navy, where I had the pleasure of serving alongside Simon Rutherford at Copenhagen.” He clicked his heels and swept his arm wide. Dismissing Rupert, he turned to the vicar. “Any one of us would gladly stand second for you, Vicar Nast,” he said. “My shipmates here and I are just come from Ivybridge Retreat, on Dartmoor, one of the military hospitals Simon's built for us casualties of war. By your leave, I'll be pleased to make your arrangements.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the vicar with a nod and a handshake. Rupert paled. There was no way around it now; the burden of supplying a second was put squarely upon him, and it was clear that no one in that establishment would rise to the occasion, much less protest the legality of a duel. He sized up the vicar. No threat there. What would
he
know of dueling? What weapon would he be accustomed to using from his pulpit? He smirked. A rapier perhaps, on an outside chance; the man certainly had the figure for it. But Rupert's gambling instinct told him pistols were the better choice, judging from the ineptitude Nast had exhibited on the occasion of their last meeting. Yes, pistols it would be.

“Since I'm sailing on the morning tide, we shall have to settle this locally,” Rupert decreed, “On the Promenade, just before dawn. With pistols, sir?”

The vicar nodded.

“The innkeeper owns a fine brace of flintlocks,” Ridgeway put in.

“My second will have to examine and approve them, of course,” Rupert added.

“As will mine,” replied the vicar.

“You'll need to
find
a second first,” the lieutenant sneered, addressing Rupert. “And that might just be a mite difficult for you in these parts.”

“I shall manage, have no fear,” Rupert assured him haughtily.

“No fear whatever,” the lieutenant chortled. “My friends here will accompany you on your search, just to be sure you don't happen to lose your way. They know the lay of the land hereabouts, and if there's a pink-of-the-ton to be found, they'll know where to locate him.”

Rupert spread his frockcoat tails and started to resume his seat, but Ridgeway's hand on his arm arrested him in the ridiculous pose.

“You don't want that, 'tis cold” he said, gesturing toward the plate of stew. “And most of it's in your lap anyway.” A nod to his companions snapped them to attention. “Best get on with the arrangements,” he said, moving aside as the others led him away.

As the men ushered Rupert out of the inn, the lieutenant took his place at the table, and motioned for Robert to join him.

“A word, if you will allow,” he said. “We, too, have arrangements to make.”

Robert sank into the chair across the table. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I'm afraid I hadn't thought this out. You rescued the moment.”

“Is he dead?” Ridgeway whispered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Simon. Is he dead?”

The innkeeper's wife interrupted them before Robert could reply. He was grateful. He needed time to weigh his answer to that question. If the man was referring to Simon as the Marsh Hawk, he marveled that the news might have spread to Plymouth so swiftly.

“Thank ye for not startin' anythin' in 'ere, sir,” the middleaged woman said, with a nod in the lieutenant's direction as well. She was tall and slender, an intimidating presence standing arms akimbo between them.

“There will be no trouble,” Robert promised. “Our . . . differences will be settled far afield of this establishment, and privately.”

“Bring the vicar a plate of stew, May,” the lieutenant charged, “and see that we aren't disturbed.”

“In one of the salons, then?” she suggested, jerking her head in the direction of a hallway beyond the ale barrels. “It's goin' ta fill up in 'ere soon now.”

“Aye, and bring a couple tankards,” Ridgeway called after her as she turned away. He rose from the table and motioned for the vicar to follow. “Come,” he said, “the air has ears.”

The salon they chose was decently appointed for a wharf-side inn; the last in a row of five rooms, it was well out of earshot of any of the patrons. Robert was uncomfortable nonetheless. The conversation promised to be controversial at best, and Rupert was staying at this inn, after all.

“He's going to be occupied for a good while, sir,” said the lieutenant, as if he had read Robert's thoughts. “That's been arranged. I asked you a question before we were interrupted: Is the Marsh Hawk dead? I need to know.”

The vicar hesitated. He knew now exactly what Lieutenant Ridgeway was asking, and he knew how he had to answer. Simon was out of it. The whole circumstance was, at least as he saw it. Simon's golden opportunity to
stay
out of it, to give up his alter ego and claim a life of his own before his luck ran out at Tyburn, was within reach for the first time since the Marsh Hawk was born.

“The Marsh Hawk died on the road to St. Enoder, Lieutenant Ridgeway,” he said steadily, on an audible breath.

“And how fares Simon?” the lieutenant replied without batting an eye.

“Simon is very much alive, sir, and at this very hour, I presume, at Newgate Gaol, trying to liberate his bride, who was inadvertently caught in a trap set by the viscount to ensnare him.” That the lieutenant knew surprised Rob, and he hesitated. “Do the others know as well?” he asked.

Ridgeway shook his head. “No,” he said. “I do, because when the Marsh Hawk first rode, I helped him out of a tight spot. But after everything Simon has done for them, there isn't a sailor in the Royal Navy who wouldn't crawl through fire for him.”

The innkeeper's wife served them then, and after she left them to their fare, the vicar recounted the entire coil to the astonished lieutenant, making no connection between Simon and the Marsh Hawk, however. There was no need. The two men understood each other well.

“And so,” the vicar concluded, “tomorrow will tell the tale.”

“Are you skilled with the pistol, sir?” the lieutenant wondered. “Marner didn't seem to think so.”

“Marner observed my holy side,” he said with a wry smile. “I fired a shot across his bow, so to speak. I'm actually a better shot than Simon is; he'll vouch for that himself. My aim has saved his skin on more than one occasion over the years. It was expedient at the time I fired on Marner to let those present think otherwise.”

“Well, if the blighter drops you on the Promenade tomorrow, he won't live to brag about it,” the lieutenant assured him flatly. “You can bet your blunt on that.”

Simon stormed out of Newgate Gaol and snatched his horse's reins from Phelps, who was waiting mounted outside. It had not gone well. For the first time in his life, his title hadn't benefited him. He may as well have been a dipped beggar in the Fleet, for all the clout his earldom carried in that infamous place.

“Don't say it!” he warned the valet, mounting his snorting stallion.

“I haven't said a word, my lord,” Phelps defended. “But, by your leave to do so, permit me to say that you're going about this wrongly.”

“Phelps, I am half mad with this,” Simon returned. “They don't believe her, and she is denied representation by counsel. Under the law, she must speak for herself. Bloody hell! She's achieved her goal, by God, but she's going to die for it unless I can think of some way to prevent it.”

“Was she seriously hurt, my lord?”

“I don't even know. They wouldn't let me see her.” Though his hair was still tied back with a ribbon, it was mussed from the two-day journey on horseback, and he raked through it with both hands, as though he sought to keep his brain within the confines of his skull.

“Where do we go now?” the valet probed.

“Bow Street. I want to get these hands on this Matthew Biggins individual who put her in that hell there.” Simon made a wild gesture toward the prison.

“Surely not like
that
, my lord?”

“Like what?”

“My lord, they'll lock you up for vagrancy. You haven't shaved. Your hair is . . . unkempt. You look as though you've slept in your togs. Don't you think you ought to freshen up a bit at the town house first? You haven't eaten or slept . . . Begging your pardon, my lord, but you look like a wild man.”

“I'm going to lose her, Phelps,” Simon moaned. He thumped his breast with a scathing fist. “
I
should have avenged her father for her. She wouldn't be in there if I had. I should have said ‘the devil take the deuced ball' and addressed our differences. I should have swallowed my pride—my stupid, bloody pride! I
love
her, Phelps!”

“My heart goes out to you, my lord, but you aren't thinking clearly. This isn't like you, sir. You need to regroup and take stock. Nothing will be served by storming the bastions of Bow Street like a madman in the dead of night. How far did such tactics get you in that gaol just now?”

“I . . . love . . . her!”

“I know, my lord.”

“I'm going to have to go after Marner for this, you know that. He's got to answer for Jenna—and the rest.”

“I know, my lord.”

“But not until I get her out of there!”

“Then come to the town house and let me tend you. I'll draw you a nice hot bath, and dress your queue. Why, Fury's tail there is more neatly groomed. Then, after a stiff brandy and a hot meal, you'll sort it all out, my lord.”