The Marsh Hawk (41 page)

“I see my lady has been freed,” the Runner observed.

“Yes,” said Simon, “thanks to Lieutenant Ridgeway, who brought the pistol on just in time. She was given a pardon. Nate, didn't you explain all this?”

“I did,” Ridgeway replied, “but the blighters refused to see reason.”

“The deceased was a
Runner
, my lords,” the official clarioned. “I shall require more than the word of two earls who are obvious collaborators. I shall want—no,
demand
—proof, gentlemen, and in the meanwhile—”

“I-is that?” Jenna interrupted, gesturing toward a blanketed mound at the foot of the landing.

“Good God, Nate, how could you leave him there to greet her?” Simon railed.

“They wouldn't let me move him,” Ridgeway defended.

Jenna couldn't take her eyes from the corpse. Her head was spinning. Exhaustion and her badly healing wound sapped her strength without this new press. Simon was still tethered to the bailiffs. Why wouldn't they let him go? It was all perfectly plain. Why couldn't they see it?

“Meanwhile,” the Runner was saying, “you're off to New-gate Gaol till we've sorted this muddle out.” He cleared his voice. “Simon Rutherford, Earl of Kevernwood, I arrest you in the name of the Crown, for the murder of Matthew Elmore Biggins.” He nodded to the bailiffs. “Take him away,” he commanded.

Jenna found her voice and screamed. Rushing to Simon, she threw her arms around his neck and clung fast.

“No!” she shrilled. “Simon, no!”

“For God's sake, see to her, Nate,” Simon thundered. They dragged him away, her hold on him notwithstanding.

Ridgeway took her in hand. She was too weak from the ordeal of Newgate, and this horrifying new development coming on the heels of their reconciliation, to prevent him. Though her fingers grasped with all their strength, Simon slipped away. And she screamed again as the bailiff's rough hands propelled him through the open doorway.

“You're in charge here in my absence, Nate,” Simon called over his shoulder, as they hauled him down the steps. “Take care of her!”

Jenna strained against the lieutenant's grip. Was he speaking? Who were all these unfamiliar people—all these servants gaping at her, and at the shrouded corpse? She didn't know a one. What was she doing in this strange man's arms? Simon was gone. They were taking him to that awful place she'd just come from, and her last conscious thought was that she would never see him again.

The kindly housekeeper, who introduced herself as Mrs. Wells, took charge of Jenna in Simon's chamber once she regained consciousness. After the surgeon examined her and instructed the housekeeper in the makings of an ointment for her wounded arm and rat bites, the woman filled a French porcelain hipbath with lavender-scented water and helped her into it. But would she ever wash away the stench of Newgate Gaol, or purge it from her nostrils? Not even the reeking odor of scorched, water-soaked wood and bedding seeping from the gutted chamber across the way could overpower it.

When she asked after Ridgeway, Jenna was informed by Mrs. Wells that the lieutenant had gone out straightaway once he'd delivered her to the master suite and the doctor's care, promising to call upon her as soon as he returned. But the surgeon dosed her with a sleeping sachet, and she drifted off the minute she crept between the sheets in Simon's enormous bed.

The sun was sliding low over the London skyline when she woke to a light tapping at her chamber door. A plump little maid in attendance who answered to the name of Nell hurried to answer, and admitted Lieutenant Ridgeway and Mrs. Wells, whose protests echoed along the corridor as they entered.

“I shan't disturb her long,” the lieutenant insisted. “His lordship has asked me to act in his stead. That is all I am about here.”

“Did you know she was bitten by rats in that place?” the housekeeper shrilled. “And now the master's shut up in it!” She burst into tears then, and he swept her into the adjoining sitting room and sat her down on the chaise.

“We don't want to upset her ladyship,” he soothed. “It's unfortunate about her incarceration, but his lordship is well able to fend for himself, I assure you. In his present state, heaven help the rats.” She almost smiled at that, and he gave her hand a reassuring pat. “Now then,” he continued, “shall we go back in? I've come to put her ladyship's mind at ease, not to drive her farther into the dismals.”

The woman nodded, and he handed her back over the threshold into the bedchamber.

“Is there news of Simon?” Jenna begged. They hadn't closed the door between when they spoke, and the bit about reassuring her had lifted her spirits somewhat.

“No, there is not,” Ridgeway said. “Forgive the intrusion, my lady, but the surgeon has insisted that you remain abed, at least until tomorrow, and I agree. There is other news that I have come to tell.”

“Please sit, Lieutenant,” she offered, motioning toward the Duncan Phyfe lounge beside the hearth.

“Firstly, I have sent word to Kevernwood Hall that you have been released,” he said, taking his seat. “It was Simon's wish that they be informed of that at once on the coast—particularly your mother.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Ridgeway. She must be beside herself with worry.”

“Quite so,” he replied. “There has been a communiqué from the Hall, meanwhile, that you need to be made privy to. It was sent by Lady Jersey—”

“Is she
still there
?” Jenna interrupted. She was incredulous.

“Yes. Simon left her in charge, and the missive was sent to inform him that Vicar Nast is much recovered. Since Simon left me in charge here, I took the liberty of opening it.”

“Recovered? Recovered from what? I . . . I don't understand.”

“Ah! Of course! You wouldn't. Forgive me, dear lady. So much has transpired since I came into this that I'm afraid I tend to loose perspective. That bit might be too distressing for you at the moment, however.”

“No. Whatever has occurred, I should like to know. Please, Lieutenant, continue.” She was almost sorry she'd suggested it by the look of him.

“Very well, since you insist. The vicar engaged in a duel with Rupert Marner, which is where I come into it. I acted as his second.”

Jenna was wide-awake now, hanging on his every word, stunned, the aftereffects of the sleeping sachet notwithstanding.

“Marner and Biggins—the Runner Simon . . . shot—staged the little trap that got you flung into Newgate. Simon came here to London to try and free you at once. Meanwhile, the vicar tracked Marner to Plymouth—”

“Plymouth? Whatever was Rupert doing there?” she interrupted.

“He had booked passage on a ship bound for the Channel Islands. He knew Simon would run him to ground, and he was attempting to escape when the vicar arrived and challenged him on Simon's behalf. Well, that and to defend the honor of Lady Evelyn St. John.”

“Robert was injured?” Jenna was afraid to hear and anxious to know all at once, and exceedingly glad that she had the four-poster underneath her.

“He was back-shot. Marner didn't conduct himself as a gentleman. Acting as the vicar's second, I brought Marner down. He's dead. I would have done so in any case. Couldn't have the vicar with that blighter's death on his conscience.”

“And . . . the vicar?”

“It was touch and go for a time. He was in a coma when I left Kevernwood Hall. Evidently, he has rallied, and is much improved under the Lady Evelyn's care, my lady.”

“Thank God!” Jenna breathed.

“Your mother suffered a mild collapse with the news of your arrest, but she, too, was showing signs of improvement when the letter was sent. I'm confident that my missive to the coast will set her on her feet again posthaste.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Ridgeway. It hardly seems enough. I don't know how I shall ever be able to properly thank you for your kindness . . . to all of us.”

“Simon and I served together at Copenhagen. I was with him when our ship was hit and he went down saving others. I admire and respect what he did then, and what he has done since for the conscripted and commissioned men alike. I am on leave at the moment. I'd just come from one of the hospitals Simon built for us when I connected with Nast. We all owe Simon a great debt.”

“What will they do to him?” she begged, though she feared the answer, and her heart had begun to hammer in her breast in anticipation.

“He goes before the magistrate in the morning.”

“So soon?” she shrilled.

“Calm yourself, my lady, I've come to reassure you, remember?”

“Will they let him have counsel?” she begged.

“No, you know not.”

“What then . . . Will they just . . . just . . .”

“He will be permitted witnesses.”

“And . . . you will speak for him?”

“Ohhhh, yes,” he replied through a guttural chuckle. “I believed Biggins was withholding information that would free you—we both did. Yes, my lady, I shall be there, have no fear. There is only one thing pressing that puzzles me.”

“And that is?”

“Phelps's disappearance,” he said. “I was at Kevernwood Hall when he left with a portmanteau filled with your things. Simon was given leave to supply you with a change of clothing. He was appalled at your state and condition, my lady, and Phelps left to carry that out straightaway. No one has seen or heard from him since, and Simon is concerned.”

“I can't imagine Phelps just going off like this with a task undone, Lieutenant. He would have reported his failure at once. He and Simon are . . . very close.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Was he traveling in one of Simon's carriages?”

“No, my lady, it was a hired coach and four, and Phelps did reach the livery. But then he just . . . disappeared.”

“I'm sure I don't know, Lieutenant,” she said, puzzled. “That certainly isn't like the man.”

“Well, no matter. Don't trouble yourself about it. We'll sort that coil out, one way or another. Now I shall leave you to your rest. Try not to worry, my lady. Know that there is a plan in place.”

“But the man was a Runner. It doesn't bode well, does it?”

“He was a bad Runner, my lady, and he brought his death upon himself.”

“This is all my fault,” she despaired. “How Simon can even speak to me—”

“He loves you very much, my lady. That's all you need concern yourself with. Think on that, and leave everything else to me.”

Simon hadn't been in Newgate Gaol half an hour when he made a startling discovery. From the midst of the madmen and desperate criminals roaming the filth-ridden communal cell, one bedraggled inmate staggered out of the shadows and touched his arm, spinning him around.

“M-my lord?” the barely recognizable voice murmured. “Is it really you? Don't you know me, my lord?”

It was Phelps.

“Good God, what are you doing here?” Simon cried. Having turned a few heads with the outburst, he quickly drew the valet back into the shadowy corner from which he'd come, displacing a few large, hunch-backed rats that had been feeding on moldy food in a discarded trencher.

“I tried to help, my lord, and botched it badly. What of my lady, is she . . .”

“Pardoned,” Simon returned.

“Oh, thank God, my lord, thank God! They were set against her. That's why—”

“All right, old boy, from the beginning, how did you come here?”

“I brought the portmanteau to the magistrates, just as you instructed, my lord, but they told me it was too late, that her time had run out, and she was scheduled for sentencing on the morrow. I told them you were on your way with the pistol to prove her innocence, which was a bald-faced lie, of course, but I thought it would buy you some time. They were immovable, my lord. They laid hands upon me, and tried to throw me out, and I . . . I'm afraid I struck a bailiff, my lord.”

“
You
, Phelps?” Simon blurted, suppressing a smile.

“Oh, yes, my lord. It was rather reckless of me in retrospect, but I mistakenly thought my bold behavior might convince the bounders of my lady's innocence. You did say that you knew I'd think of something. Well, it was the best I could do at the time. I'm so dreadfully sorry I failed you, my lord.”

“Don't give it a second thought, old boy. I wonder why they didn't tell me, or release you with Jenna?”

“Oh, they couldn't do that, my lord—release me, that is. I've been sentenced to six months in this ghastly pesthole. They probably didn't even connect the two issues.”

“Only six months,” Simon chided, “for lobbing one at a bailiff? It's a wonder you didn't get life.”

“I do believe they thought six months would be life for me in here . . . considering my age. I'm committed to proving them wrong, my lord.”

“You won't have to if Nate Ridgeway has his way. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

The valet gasped. “Oh, my lord, forgive me!” he cried. “How have
you
come here? Is it because of—have they found you out, then?” Though he'd whispered the last, before the valet could bring the Marsh Hawk into it Simon covered his mouth with a quick hand.

“Shhhhh,” he warned. “Nothing so simple as that, old boy. Biggins is dead, and I'm the one who killed him. Like I said, we've got some catching up to do. Now then, if we can find a spot that these damned rats have overlooked, I'll tell you all about it.”

Two bailiffs hauled Simon before the magistrate the following morning. It was a different justice than he who'd tried Jenna, one whom Simon didn't know, though he looked much the same, leaving Simon to suspect that the office carried with it an infectious malaise. The man's tight-lipped scowl upon settling himself behind the bench was unnerving.