The Spider's Touch (2 page)

It could not be easy, Hester reflected, to see a gentleman who was his inferior in every way—whose prospects had been worse than his own—be suddenly elevated to such a  high-ranking peerage, when he must now be deferred to in all things. Overnight their relative position had changed, and Lord Lovett now found himself waiting on a gentleman he might otherwise never have noticed. But his lordship’s attendance on the new couple was more likely due to his desire for Isabella than to any need to court her husband.

If Hester’s cousin, with her golden curls and carefree laugh, had attracted the gentlemen as an unmarried girl, she did so doubly now as a married lady with a fortune and an influential peer as her husband. Gentlemen flocked about her, competing for her notice, a chair at her levee, and the privilege of escorting her out in the evening. As she had happily predicted, she and Harrowby had become one of the most envied couples in town.

As the carriage rumbled around the corner into Cornhill, Isabella was the first to remove her mask. She made a great show of it, turning her back to Lord Lovett and asking him to untie the knot. Harrowby, seated next to her, could have done it more easily, but Lord Lovett obliged, leaning forward and sliding his arm about her waist to drop the mask into her lap. Isabella turned her head to thank him just as he moved forward, and her lips nearly brushed his cheek. She gave him a provocative smile and bit her lower lip. Lord Lovett seemed unsurprised, but with a warning lift of his brow, he shifted his gaze to Harrowby and moved back against his bench.

“It was a sign!” Sir Humphrey’s eager interjection startled them all. “I tell you, Lovett, it must have been a sign.”

Isabella’s swain gave a heavy sigh, but his eyes betrayed a patient amusement.  “Yes, yes, dear fellow. I am certain you must be right. The mark on that brat was surely a sign that an extraordinary catastrophe is about to befall us. But must we contemplate it today? We should be changing our habits this very minute for Court.”

“No, no! You misunderstand me, my dear Lovett!” Sir Humphrey clasped his knees and leaned forward to talk around Hester. “I do not speak of a catastrophe at all, but of something glorious.”

“Well, whatever it is, I wish you would—”

Lord Lovett’s irritable response was cut off. Shouting and screaming came at them from somewhere up ahead.  “What the—”

“Beware, my lord!” The coachman’s cry reached them, just as the horses halted. Then, they started to back, the harness jingling as they tossed their heads in distress.

Hester and her companions gripped their seats. Isabella screamed as a door was thrown open and a stranger peered inside. Behind this rough-looking man, a raucous crowd had filled the street in front of the Royal Exchange. Some of their rioters had blocked their coach, while the others attacked pedestrians.

“Hey! There’s gentl’men and ladies in ‘ere!” The ruffian who had opened their door called out to the mob behind him. Then he reached inside to make a grab for Lord Lovett, who was closest to the door.

At first, Lord Lovett did not resist, but said in a reasoning tone, “Here, my good man! You mustn’t frighten the ladies. I shall have to ask you to let us pass.”

“Ye can go—” the man’s breath reeked terribly of gin— “just as soon as ye drink a toast to his Majesty’s health.”

“Blast you, fool!” Harrowby, who had remained cautiously silent up until this point, expressed his outrage. “Where do you think we’re going? If you do not let us pass this very instant, we will be late for his Majesty’s drawing room.”

Lord Lovett added quickly, “Yes, I’m sure you mean very well, but we must be going. You can take our wishes for his Majesty for granted.”

He had been trying to release himself from the ruffian’s hold, but the man refused to release him. “It’s not the Cuckold that we’re drinkin’ to,” he sneered. “It’s to our darling, him what’s over the water.”

From the other side of the carriage, Sir Humphrey gave a gasp. “Lovett! What have I—”

“Will you shut your mouth and let me handle this!”

Giving Sir Humphrey a vicious glance, Lord Lovett tried harder to free himself, while Harrowby sputtered, “Why, you—! I’ll have you taken up for sedition! How dare you speak of his Majesty like that! Where are my footmen? Why don’t they seize these ruffians?”

The footmen were nowhere in sight, but Hester heard the sound of slaps and fists on flesh, and an occasional encouraging cry from their coachman, which told her that the men were engaged in their defense.

Lord Lovett had got command of his temper again, and he cut through Harrowby’s speech to say reasonably, “You see what the consequences could be? If I were you, I should run, before the militia comes to round you up.”

But the man was too drunk to listen. He took up the cries, coming from farther up the street. “High Church and Ormonde! No ‘wee German lairdie’ for us!”

“A Stuart! A restoration!”

Through the opposite pane, Hester saw members of the mob breaking the windows of a house. The stock jobbers in the street were being attacked. She winced, as a young man was beat on the head with a rake. Others were stripped of their coats, while cries filled the streets. The mob cheered the Duke of Ormonde and King James, and cursed the Quakers, Whigs, and King George.

Today was the Duke of Ormonde’s birthday, but never had there been a celebration like this. His Grace should have been honoured this morning by private visits to his house, but no birthday but a royal one should ever be celebrated publicly in the streets.

Some men from the militia tried to break up the crowd, but they were quickly surrounded and beaten, too. Whoever had the courage to support King George was running to take cover.

“Where are my footmen?” Harrowby shouted again. His voice cracked on the final word. “Here, you! Coachman! Give them a taste of your whip!”

“Yer not goin’ anywhere, till ye drinks to the health of King James. Let me hear ye!  Ormonde!  No King George! Give us King James III!”

Lord Lovett gave a desperate shove, freed one hand, and reached for his sword.

As the man dived again and nearly dragged him into the street, Sir Humphrey shrieked, “Ormonde! No King George! King James III!”

The rioter had nearly managed to pull Lord Lovett from the coach. Hester and Isabella grabbed his coattails and struggled to hang on.

“High Church and Ormonde!” Sir Humphrey bleated again.

At last the man heard him through his drunken fog. He released Lord Lovett so suddenly that he fell backwards, landing on top of Hester, who had been pulling harder than the rest.

“That’s more like!” The man gave them a great big grin. “Now let me hear ye all say it— No, wait! I’ll get ye a tankard so ye can toast his Grace and our rightful king.”

He turned to stagger away, and in that moment, Lord Lovett recovered his footing. He quickly banged on the roof of the coach, slammed its door, and shouted, “Coachman, whip up the horses!”

As their driver complied, the coach gave a huge lurch forward. “High Church and Ormonde!” Lord Lovett called back out the window. Sir Humphrey had never ceased his cheering, and now he stuck his round face out the opposite window and cheered even louder. Hester joined them, waving with friendliness to the mob as their coach was allowed through.

One horrible sight after another met their eyes. One man who was brave enough—or foolish enough—to huzzah King George was dragged from his carriage box and soundly beaten. A nonconformist church was set afire.

They had no notion of what had become of their footmen and dared not stop to see if they’d been hurt. No one in the coach spoke or exchanged a glance until they had left the rioters far behind.

By the time they cleared St. Paul’s, Sir Humphrey’s breaths were coming in deep gasps and his eyes were wide. He started to say something, but Lord Lovett cut him off.

“It would seem—” he stared at his friend— “that you were right and I was wrong. I owe you an apology, Cove, and I must thank you for your quick thinking, which has saved me from a beating, if nothing worse.”

Sir Humphrey looked as if he might make a reply, but he was too overcome with emotion. His eyes filled with tears, and he nodded, remaining silent until they dropped him before his lodgings in Jermyn Street.

“Quick thinking, that,” Harrowby agreed, once Sir Humphrey was gone. He was still holding onto Isabella, whether for his comfort or hers Hester could not say. “I only hope his Majesty never gets wind of this.”

“I doubt he will.” Lord Lovett’s amusement seemed to indicate that he had fully recovered from the frightening ordeal. Indeed, he seemed admirably relaxed. “I doubt that anyone in that mob will be eager to report his participation in it, or even what was said. Our  attempts at self-preservation are likely to go unremarked.”

“The confound impudence of it!” Harrowby began to fume again. “How dare they hold up Ormonde so high? I have never heard them cheer his Grace of Marlborough in that scandalous way. Damned Jacobites! Ormonde had better be careful if he don’t want trouble for himself. They shall see what comes of all this treasonous talk. Mark my words, but they will!”

Lord Lovett eased his body against the cushions. In shifting his position, he met Hester’s gaze, where he must have spied a sign of his own reflections, for he gave her a secretive smile. “I am certain you will soon have them quaking in their boots, my lord.”

Hester tried not to laugh, but after all the shock and the excitement, she found it nearly impossible.

* * * *

Thomas Barnes, groom, valet and general man of business, had started to fret at the absense of his lord. If truth be told, he’d been anxious from the moment his master, the Viscount St. Mars, had decided to take himself off to France. They had quarreled mightily about St. Mars’s going alone, Tom refusing to be parted from him, and his master insisting that Tom stay behind.

“I will not have you getting caught sneaking out of the country with me,” St. Mars had said. “They would be sure to hang you. Is that what you want?” Then, with a ghost of his former humour, he added, “And, besides, I thought you did not care for the French.”

Ignoring an obvious attempt to distract him, Tom retorted, “And I thought you said you wouldn’t be in any danger, my lord.”

St. Mars sighed. “Travelling alone, I do not expect to be, but I can hardly escape unnoticed with an army at my heels.”

“I ain’t no army, my lord.”

“A retinue, then. Have we not established that you are my gang of one? I’m counting on you to keep up the pretense with Lade. I want him to think that I have a gang of cutthroats at my beck and call.”

Lade, their landlord at the Fox and Goose, deep in the Weald of Kent, was a Newgate gaolbird, who harboured highwaymen and dealt in smuggled goods, and had to be kept in his place. Neither St. Mars nor Tom had been able to discover whether he knew the identity of the mysterious Mr. Brown and his servant who had appeared over a month ago to take up residence at his inn. Clearly, he suspected St. Mars of something, but not, perhaps, of being the viscount charged with murdering his own father. At least, he had not “squeaked beef,” as he would have said, to get the reward of three hundred pounds that had been placed on St. Mars’s head. Instead, he eagerly pocketed the money St. Mars doled out to rent the Fox and Goose and its servants for his private use. And St. Mars had given Lade to understand that if he ever called down the law on his wealthy guest, then he would feel free to mention his host’s connections with smugglers and highwaymen.

“I need you here, Tom,” St. Mars continued.  “I need you to keep an eye on my belongings, and to take care of Penny—” his beloved horse— “
and
to let me know at once of any reason that I should come back.”

“You
do
mean to come back, don’t you, sir? Before too long?”

Tom had not liked the way St. Mars had hesitated over his reply. The despair that sometimes showed through his careful demeanour had betrayed itself for a moment. “I shall return when I cannot bear to stay away any longer, or when I am needed. For the last, I count on you to let me know. You should open any letter that comes for me. Is that understood?”

“Yes, my lord, but—” Tom had found it difficult to shape the question he had wanted to ask, so he had ended with, “You won’t leave me here too long?”

“If you find it too long, you must write to tell me. Address your letters to my steward, Monsieur Lavalle, at St. Mars. He will see that I get them.”

And Tom had had to be content.

* * * *

Now nearly a month had gone by, and nary a word from his master had come. Tom had thrown himself into improving St. Mars’s quarters in this flea-ridden inn they’d been forced to call home. With a few discreet repairs—nothing too grand, which might have called the attention of the authorities to the house—some furniture ordered from tradesmen in Maidstone, and the hiring of a cook and laundress, he had made the place ready for St. Mars’s return. These lodgings were not so bad for a man like Tom who had slept most of his life over the stables, but they were a degradation compared to Rotherham Abbey and Hawkhurst House, two of the six important properties St. Mars should have inherited upon his father’s death.

If there was one thing Tom had learned in his short time as groom to an outlaw, however, it was the need for secrecy. It was secrecy that kept him close to the inn with virtually nothing to do all day. He exercised Penny and Beau—the horse he had taken for himself from Lord Hawkhurst’s stables—along the footpaths and drovers’ trails throughout the Weald, memorizing their turns and twists, in case he and his master had to flee the King’s Messengers, and learning to think—if he only knew it—something like the highwayman’s accomplice he had become. But no two horses could occupy an experienced groom all of any day, and he found himself with far too much time to think about things that he would rather ignore.

As he was doing this evening, as he brushed Penny down after a long, sweating ride. He caught himself ruminating about the woman who kept house for Lade. A pretty woman, turned harlot after going to gaol for being gulled by a thief. A warm, cheerful sort of female, skilled with a needle, who had spent hours happily working over the silks and satins they had bought for St. Mars.