The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler

Thirty-Seven

B

rock’s jittery mount reflected his own internal workings. This was not his regular horse. With no time to lose, he was forced to use one from Ginny’s stables. Kimpton and the baron pulled alongside him. “We’ll cross at Blackfriars Bridge. Maudsley supposedly has a boat called White Dove.”

“Sounds as if you’ve been speaking to my wife,” the baron said, not without pride.

Any way he considered it, Brock feared time was short. The silence pounded him in sync with their horses’ hooves on the cobbled roads.

The moon disappeared behind a bank of clouds, and with the depth of soot that hung over London, it was impossible to see. The air grew thick with more promise of rain. The horses’ clopping hooves sounded unusually loud on the winding street of Fleet Street. Tugging his hat low, Brock hunkered deeper within his cloak, a disguise. It was aged and carried the distinct smell of the stables. Ginny’s butler had thrust it at him as they left Maudsley House. The closer they approached the Thames at Blackfriars Bridge, the more Brock’s mien grew more watchful. This part of town was infinitely dangerous. So far, however, the only other disturbance Brock had discerned blared from a tavern one or two streets over.

Despite the absence of cutthroats, he felt several pairs of menacing eyes burrowing sharply at his back. He pulled his aged cloak tighter about him, silently thanking his friend for insisting the need to cover their evening wear. Talking was not an option. Their upper-crust accents would mark them quicker than the shine of their boots. Which was why they’d trudged through a puddle of mud before mounting their horses outside Maudsley House. Couldn’t do much about the grand horseflesh they rode, however.

They kept up a moderate trot. The fetid stench grew more and more pungent toward the bridge. As did the Romanian chant, rumbling louder, its effect so stark, it felt as if the ground beneath Brock pulsed.

“Good evening, Brockway, Kimpton, Wimbley.” Griston appeared from the dark like a specter, blocking their forward momentum. He sat atop a large bay with one hand on the reins, the other hidden within a pocket of his cloak.

“Excellent, Griston. We are on the trail of my granddaughter.” The baron’s voice boomed in the night, overtaking the lapping waves of the shore below. “Join us, sir. All hands on deck, as it were.”

Had the baron not heard them say that Griston’s man was seen in the house? The man did not have his wife’s composure or wit.

Griston swayed in his saddle then righted himself, looking at Brock. “I believe I can be of assistance,” he said, his gaze altering slightly, somewhere past Brock’s shoulder. He pulled out a flintlock, lifting it in Brock’s direction.

A fear unlike Brock had ever known pumped through his veins. Looking over his shoulder was not an option. He froze, as did his horse. As did Kimpton and his horse.

“I say, sir—” the baron stuttered.

“I shall kill you.” The menacing proclamation came from Brock’s right. An accent he recognized from the Faulks’ garden earlier that evening. “Your fate is cemented—” Griston’s gun discharged without warning in a deafening blast, cutting the man’s words short. He fell to the ground in a mass of undignified refuse.

Brock’s horse bolted, nearly felling him along with the stench of gunfire. He grappled to rein in control of his mount and his erratic pulse, catching sight of the man on the ground. His straight light hair showed silver under the sliver of moonlight, his boots reflecting their shine. His coat was of an excellent cut, except for the dark spot now spreading across the chest, and there was nothing about the man that Brock recognized.

Griston tossed his gun atop the dead man. “I caught him carrying the child,” he said. “Follow me.”

“Lady Cecilia said the man that tried to take her worked for you,” Brock bit out. He had no reason to believe a word Griston said.

“The man was a turncoat.” No inflection varied in Griston’s monotone. As he was their only hope to find Harlowe and, by God’s grace, Irene, they followed.

He led them across the bridge into Lambeth, to Southwark, and to Rotherhithe. He pulled up at the dock. Brock made out White Dove on the side of a schooner. “Maudsley’s rig?”

Griston pointed past the White Dove to a well-turned-out two-mast brigantine. “No. The Woodlark.” The four of them dismounted. Griston pulled out a second pistol. “I take it you’re armed.”

“Of course,” Kimpton said.

Griston held out his palm, indicating the wood-slatted path. “After you.”

Brock wasn’t so easily convinced. “We’re just going to follow you? Onto a boat? How are we supposed to know this isn’t a trap of some sort?”

“You make a fair point. I am no longer armed, but it’s your privilege whether or not to believe me.” Griston called, “Ahoy there!”

Brock’s insides struck hard against his ribs.

A small, wiry man appeared portside. “Hey now. What’s this about? Ye can’t just storm me ship with no call.”

“Where’s the captain?” Kimpton demanded.

“He ain’t ’ere. I’m the first mate. Me name’s McGee.”

Brock studied Griston’s flat expression, his perceptivity clawing at him. On sure feet, Brock hurried after Kimpton and Wimbley to the boat.

Kimpton reached the short, toothless man and shoved him against the bulkhead, his forearm against the man’s throat. “Your prisoners, McGee. I won’t ask twice.”

McGee lifted one arm and angled a crooked finger to a narrow companionway. “At the bottom,” he croaked out. “Turn right.”

“My thanks,” Kimpton said. “The baron here will keep an eye on you.”

The baron yanked out his pistol and trained it on McGee’s temple. “Take your time, gentlemen.”

A notch of respect for Wimbley rose in Brock as he hurried down the stairs after Kimpton, a prayer on his lips. They made the designated right, coming to a halt in front of a door bolted from the outside. Kimpton pulled out his revolver and readied it; Brock followed suit.

Kimpton glanced over his shoulder. Brock nodded, then Kimpton slammed back the bolt and kicked in the door. The space was nothing but a dank hole, the floor covered in damp straw. A lamp that hung in the corner did not leave much for illumination, only reaching out four feet or so.

Glacial shards lacerated Brock with fear. The putrid smell knocked him against the wall, clearing the fog from his head. He spotted a mud-encrusted, barefoot child cowering in the corner. If it hadn’t been for the patches of glowing white peeking through the filth, he would have missed her completely. “Irene?”

“Lord Brock?” She flew across the room, hurling her tiny body into his arms. “I knew you would find us. I knew it. I knew it.”

“Blimey,” another child’s blasphemous voice breathed with awe.

“Harlowe?” Kimpton said to the room at large.

“Dead.” Irene’s husky tremor was a quiver through her entire body. Brock squeezed her tighter against his chest. Even caked in muck, he detected the faint fragrance of her floral soap. “He asked about… about… oh, Lord Kimpton, I couldn’t tell him about Corinne. I just couldn’t,” she ended on a whisper.

Brock spotted Harlowe’s torso covered in rags and stretched along one wall the same instant Kimpton dropped to one knee.

Kimpton pressed two fingers against his neck. “He’s alive, my dear.” He stood and lifted Harlowe over his shoulder. “Let’s go home.”

“Come along, James. You can stay with us,” Irene said.

Brock remained silent, unable to bear disabusing her of the impracticality.

Back on land, Brock followed Kimpton to the horses. There was no putting Irene down; she wasn’t wearing shoes. The kid, James, took one look at the horses, said, “Blimey,” and now cowered behind him.

The first thing Brock noticed was the quiet. No Romanian-chanted mantra filled the air, faint or otherwise. The second…

“Where’s Griston?” Kimpton said.

Brock’s eyes narrowed in a swift survey. “Gone, it appears. We’ll deal with him later. Where’s the baron?”

Wimbley’s heavy booted steps clattered down the wood planks. “Clapped that fool, McGee, in the hold and bolted him in.”

“Good.” Kimpton shifted with the burden on his shoulders. “I’ll catch a hackney. Despite Harlowe’s considerable weight loss, I don’t think my horse will handle both of us back to Mayfair.”

James darted around Brock. “I can help ye, yer lordship.” With an ear-piercing whistle, a cab trundled up.

“Good work, young man,” Kimpton told him. He turned to Brock. “See to my horse, would you?” Then he disappeared inside.

Brock look down at James. “Do you ride, son?”

James’s eyes widened in horror.

“Right, then. You’ll ride with the baron.”

“See here, Brockway. I’ll, er, take my granddaughter. The boy can ride with you,” the baron blustered.

Brock started to respond, but Irene cut him off. “No,” she said. “I shall ride with Lord Brockway, Grandfather.” She addressed the boy. “James, would you care to try sitting in the saddle? Lord Brockway will carry the reins the entire time. You will be quite safe. I assure you.”

Irene’s confidence humbled him. Losing Rachel had maimed him in ways he hadn’t realized.

“You will obey your elders, young lady.” The baron reached for her. “Now, come to me—”

She reared back, almost clipping Brock’s chin.

“You heard her, Wimbley. Lady Irene is a take-charge young woman. She knows what she’s about.” He looked at the boy. “Do you wish to try to ride? The lady is right, no harm shall come to you.”

“Blimey,” James whispered again.

“How are you faring, Miss Lambert?” Ginny studied her daughters’ governess. Little color had returned to her cheeks, so she was still considerably pale.

Miss Lambert touched her head with visibly trembling fingers. “I believe I shall live.” She tried to smile, but it didn’t quite work. Her hand moved to her lap, and her chin dropped to her chest. She seemed to stiffen her spine. Then she raised her head, meeting Ginny’s eyes. “I owe you an abject apology, my lady.”

Her words surprised Ginny. “Whatever do you mean? It wasn’t your fault someone broke in. However much I’d like to place blame, I certainly cannot blame you.”

“Perhaps not. My apology has to do with my attitude, to do with my feelings toward your beliefs in teaching young girls to defend themselves against miscreants and the like. I found the notion improper and unladylike in the extreme.” She shook her head, albeit carefully. “But there is no denying that the safeguarding lessons saved Lady Cecilia’s fate.”

“I would add my apologies as well, Virginia.” The baroness sipped at her tea, looking as if she’d aged a decade just since returning from the Faulks’ ball.

“Thank you.” Ginny rose from her chair, cradling a sleeping Celia. She took her to the bay’s window bench and laid her down gently. Ginny pulled a folded coverlet and tucked it around her. There was no having her sent up to her bedchamber. Ginny couldn’t bear not having her within sight. She glanced at the governess. “Miss Lambert, please feel free to take yourself to bed. There is no need for all of us to remain up.”

“I wouldn’t dream of—”

Ginny put out her palm, interrupting her. “Please, Miss Lambert. I feel confident in believing we’ll have need of your services tomorrow.”

“Of course, Lady Maudsley.”

The silence after her departure amplified the longcase clock’s swinging pendulum, soundly marking the passing time.

The baroness refilled her cup. “Do you suppose your marquis is Irene’s true father?”

One could hope.A slight smile tugged at Ginny. “She certainly has his arrogance.” She let out a sigh. “I don’t know, Mother. I suppose it’s just as well we’ll never know. It might leave Celia feeling bereft if such a difference was discovered. And I would rather not have Celia feeling that way.”

“You’re a good mother, Virginia. I was wrong when I accused you otherwise.”

Ginny looked down at her sleeping child, tenderness clutching her heart, fear of a future without her older daughter, and terror that she might be huddled in a darkened doorway somewhere in the dregs of White Chapel, Bethel Green, or Seven Dials. Any number of places were scary to a young, gently bred girl. Even Mayfair at night if one were all alone.

“What’s that unseemly commotion?” the baroness asked, physically jarring Ginny from the vortex attempting to swallow her.

“Dear heavens, they’re back.” She tore from the room into the foyer. “Papa?” Her father had a ruffian by the collar of his feculent, ratty shirt.

Brock strode in behind, holding a barefoot child covered in mud. Straggly, stringy hair camouflaged her face. Ginny was at a loss for coherency.

“Your granddaughter has no respect for her elders, Virginia. She insisted this”—her father shook the boy in his grip—“delinquent accompany us. She has promised him a home.”

“Irene?”

Her older daughter didn’t speak, only held out her arms. Ginny snatched her from Brock and hugged her with all her might. Holding back her cries were pointless. She vaguely registered Brock ordering baths to be prepared. Slowly, she pulled back, pushing the hair away from Irene’s dirty, tear-streaked face.

“He assisted me with Lord Harlowe, Mama. He’s only six and has no home.”

She met Brock’s eyes, stunned. “You found Harlowe?”

Amusement twinkled in his gaze. “Yes, and I am certain your daughter was instrumental in saving his life.”

“He was quite ill, Mama.”

Ginny nodded, words escaping her. She eyed the boy critically, recognition dawning. “Aren’t you—”

“I’m a changed man, yer ladyship.”

“Dear Lord,” she breathed. “Quite right. Kipling, raise the house. Have Cook prepare a hot meal. In the meantime, prepare a tray of cheese and bread. You may release your prisoner, Papa. He is home now.”

“Lady Maudsley?” Miss Lambert stood at the top of the stairs. “Might I assist Lady Irene?”

Ginny lowered her older daughter to her feet, laying her hand on her head. “Of course. Irene, get cleaned up. There will be chocolate waiting for you.”

“Yes. Mama.” The glare she shot the baron surprised a laugh from Ginny. It felt odd to laugh. “James had better be waiting for me when I return, sir.” Irene, apparently not expecting a response, ran up the stairs to Miss Lambert. Actually ran.

The weight of a pyramid lifted from Ginny’s chest. “Go with Kipling, James, is it?”

He nodded.

“You heard my daughter. It’s a bath for you. Then food.” She watched James’s wonderous gaze survey the hall, following Kipling. And finally, in two steps, Ginny had her arms around Brock. “I expect you’ll need a drink.”

“Yes indeed. That, and an agreement to wed, my love.”