Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade (20 page)

For the first time, the captain appeared to experience some perturbation at the thought of his demise.

“I don’t want her there, Grey,” he said. “You know what it’ll be like.”

“Yes, I do,” Grey said quietly. “No, you don’t want her there. Do you wish me to see her? Explain, as gently as I can—”

“I’ve explained, and not gently,” Bates interrupted. He grimaced. “That only made her more insistent. She says that she can’t stand the thought of me dying alone in a crowd of people convinced that I’m a disgusting pervert. She says—” His voice thickened momentarily, and he paused to cough heavily into his handkerchief, in order to cover the lapse. “She says,” he continued more firmly, “that she wants someone to be there who knows why I’m really dying, and what I really am. Someone for me to look at from the gallows, and know.” He looked at Grey, a faint smile on his lips.

“I don’t know what you are, Grey, and I don’t care. But you do know what I am, and the truth of why I’m dying here. You’ll do.”

Grey felt as though someone had suddenly snatched the chair out from under him.

“You want me to attend your hanging?”

His tone must have contained some of the incredulity he felt, for the captain gave him an impatient look.

“I’d have sent an engraved invitation, had I time,” he said.

Grey wished he’d brought an extra flask for himself. He rubbed a knuckle slowly down the bridge of his nose.

“And you expect that I will accede to these—you will pardon my characterizing them as peculiar, I trust—requests…why?”

Bates smiled crookedly.

“Let’s put it this way. You swear to see Susie safe to her brother in Ireland, and to see me safe to wherever I’m going—and I undertake to see to it that Hubert Bowles never sees your name in my handwriting.”

Grey blinked.

“Saying what?”

Bates raised one fair brow.

“Does it matter?”

It took the space of one breath for Grey to come to a conclusion regarding the possibilities.

“No, it doesn’t. Done.” He paused for an instant. “You trust my word?”

“Officer and gentleman,” Bates repeated, with a tinge of ruefulness. “Besides, I haven’t a great deal of choice in the matter, do I?”

There seemed no more to say after that. He nodded, considered offering his hand to Bates in farewell, and thought better of it. Then something else occurred to him.

“One last question, Captain—if you will allow me?”

Bates made an expansive gesture.

“I’ve all the time in the world, Major. Until Wednesday, that is.”

“I respect your determination to safeguard the names of any associates still at large. But perhaps you will tell me this: are any of them Jacobites?”

The blank surprise on Bates’s face was so patent that it would have been laughable under other circumstances.

“Jacobites?” he said. “God, no. Why would you think that?”

“The French
are
involved,” Grey pointed out. Bates shrugged.

“Well, yes. But it isn’t always religion with the frogs, no matter what old Louis tells the Pope, and the Stuart cause is deader than I’ll be on Wednesday. Louis’s a merchant at heart, and not about to throw good money after bad. Besides, he never wanted James Stuart on the English throne, and never expected him to take it—just wanted the distraction, while he got on with quietly pocketing Brussels.”

“You know a great deal about what King Louis wants.”

Bates nodded, slowly.

“And you know what I want, Major. We have our bargain. But if Mr. Bowles should be moved to seek one of his own…” He quirked a brow, and Grey saw a nerve twitch in his jaw. “He’s got four days left.” But it was said without hope.

Grey bowed and put on his hat.

“I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

He had nearly reached the door, when he stopped and turned for a moment.

“I’ll send the brandy Tuesday night.”

P
ercy Wainwright was expected to return from his journey on Wednesday. Grey thought of sending him a note, of asking for his company, but didn’t. He did know what it would be like.

Chapter 14

Place of Execution

G
rey had always thought the roar of a mob to be one of the worst sounds possible. Worse than the howl of a hurricane or the clap of thunder that follows in the wake of nearby lightning. And the mob itself every bit as random and as lethal as other forces of nature. The only difference, Grey thought, was that you would not call a mob an act of God.

He spread his feet a little, to keep his footing against the waves of people who were lapping up the slopes of Tyburn Hill, and kept one hand on his sword hilt, the other on his dagger. He’d considered for some time whether to wear his uniform or not, but at last had decided that he must. Soldiers were not universally popular, by any means, and it was not unknown for a maddened crowd to turn on them. But if the point of his presence was to give some reassurance to Michael Bates, then he must be recognizable. To which end, he’d worn uniform, chosen a spot as near to the gallows as he could get, and held it grimly against all comers.

He hoped the brandy had arrived in time, but there was no way to tell. He’d gone direct to Tyburn, rather than follow the cart from Newgate as many spectators did. By the time it rumbled into view, the three prisoners in it were so plastered with mud and filth that they might have been bears, bound for a baiting.

And a baiting it was.

The noise rose, hungry, at sight of the prisoners, and a hail of rocks and debris arched out of the crowd—most of it falling back onto said crowd, distance preventing the missiles from reaching their targets. Cries of pain or protest were swallowed by the immense thrum, menacing as the sound of a hornet’s nest.

He felt it in his bones, and along with it, an echo of the terror that must afflict those who were its focus.

The minister who walked behind the condemned cart was heavily splashed with mud himself, though his grim face was still visible through the smears. A final bombardment of rocks drove him back, clutching his Bible to his chest as though it might be a literal as well as spiritual shield.

“Crush the mon-sters! Crush the mon-sters!” The chant was coming from a group of gaily clad prostitutes, who had linked arms against the surge of the crowd and were throwing their bodies to and fro in unison, in rhythm to their chant. A rival group was brandishing ill-spelt placards denouncing
Efemnit CUNTS!
He recognized Madame Mags, resplendent in black taffeta and gold brocade, and a number of her girls. Luckily, they were all much too busy enjoying themselves to notice him.

Other chants, of much more offensive content, poked rudely through the noise of the mob. Most of the rocks, he saw, were being flung by women—not prostitutes: housewives, barmaids, servant girls, with faces made ugly by hate under their respectable caps.

The prisoners were being helped down from the cart, a few of the sheriff’s men pushing back the crowd with sticks and halberds. The men scuttled for the steps, as though the gallows was a place of sanctuary. Doubtless it was.

Now he could make out Bates, a stocky figure in the center, shoulders back, head up. The colors of the Horse Guards uniform were just visible beneath the coating of filth.

The slender youth on the right also wore uniform; that must be Otway, and the small, hunched man in ordinary clothes no doubt Jeffords. A rock struck Bates in the chest and he staggered back a step, but then caught himself and stepped firmly forward, teeth bared at the crowd in what might have been a grin or a snarl. The response was a fresh shower of dung and shouted vitriol. Some criminals came to their end at Tyburn in glory, accompanied by fiddlers and flowers; not sodomites.

Grey shoved between two ’prentices who tried to squeeze in front of him, and elbowed one of them in the side hard enough that the youth squealed and pulled away, cursing. He could see Bates’s gaze roaming over the crowd, and against his better judgment, waved his arms, shouting, “Bates!”

By a miracle, the man heard him. He saw the sharp eyes fix on him, and something like a smile beneath the mud and scratches.

He felt a stealthy hand at his pocket and grabbed at it, but it was a small hand, and the would-be pickpocket—a child of seven or eight—wriggled free of his grasp and dived into the crowd. He was barely in time to keep the child’s accomplice from making away with his dagger while he was thus distracted, and by the time he was able to place his attention on the gallows once again, the executioner was moving the men into place beneath the dangling nooses.

Otway screamed, a high, thin sound barely audible over the crowd. Nonetheless, the crowd caught it and took it up, wailing melodramatically and catcalling, as Otway struggled and kicked in terror, wild-eyed as a spooked pony.

Grey found his fists clenched hard on the hilts of sword and dagger. For God’s sake! he thought, in agonized impatience, can you not die like a man, at least?

Thin white bags were placed over the prisoners’ heads, the nooses adjusted; the minister walked slowly behind the men, reading aloud from his Bible, his words inaudible. Everything seemed to move with the horrid slowness of nightmare, and Grey suffered from the sudden illusion of having forgotten how to breathe.

Then the traps were sprung and the bodies fell, ending with a hideous jerk. Cheers and screams rose from the crowd. Otway hung limp, his neck broken clean. The other two were dancing, knees churning the air for purchase.

Grey looked wildly for the neck-breakers, the men who would—for a price—seize the legs of a half-hanged man and pull to hasten his death. He had paid for someone to perform this office for Bates, should it be necessary. But no one ran forward, and he saw the Newgate guards watching contemptuously, spitting, as Bates twirled and jerked upon his rope.

He didn’t think. He battered his way through the people before him. The guards, surprised, saw his uniform and let him pass.

One of Bates’s flailing feet struck him in the ear, the other in the chest. He jumped, clasped the frenzied, muscular thighs with his arms, and clung like death, his weight pulling him down toward the earth. The parting of Bates’s neckbones vibrated through him like the twang of a stretched rope, and he tumbled into the mud below the gallows.

Chapter 15

A Delicate Errand

A
t his mother’s door, he bade farewell and thanks to Captains MacNeill and MacLachlan, two officers of the Scotch Greys who had rescued him from the mob at Tyburn.

“No but what I’m sure ’twas kindly meant,” MacNeill said to him, for perhaps the fourth time. “But to risk your life to send a pederast to hell a moment faster, man? Havers!”

MacLachlan, a dour man of few words, shook his head in agreement.

“Still, I should like to get a good grup o’ yin or twa o’ the rascals,” MacNeill went on with gloomy relish. “I’d teach them to ken what they’re aboot!”

Grey was not sure which rascals MacNeill meant—whether pederasts, or the yahoos in the crowd who had tried to drown him in a puddle. It didn’t seem worth inquiring. He tried to press a bit of money upon them to drink his health, but was starchily informed that both were Presbyterians and abstainers, whereupon he thanked them once again and limped inside.

His cousin Olivia, massively pregnant, was edging down the stairs. She stopped when she saw him, and put a hand to her mouth, eyes wide with horror.

“John! What’s happened to you?”

He opened his mouth to explain, and thought better of it.

“I, er…I was run down by a coach in the street.” He pressed against the wall to let her past, realizing too late that he was leaving filthy smudges on the wallpaper. Olivia peered at him with concern, then called to the butler.

“Brunton, go and fetch a doctor!”

“No, no! I’m fine, quite all right. I’ll…I’ll just…have a bath and go to bed.” He was about to escape past her and up the stairs, when the door to the drawing room opened and Percy Wainwright came out.

His brows shot up at sight of Grey, but he said nothing, merely turned on his heel, went back into the drawing room, and reappeared almost at once with a glass of wine, which he thrust into Grey’s hand.

“I’d come to talk with you and Melton about the regiment,” Percy said, eyeing him with a concern equal to Olivia’s. “But I shall come again another day.”

Grey shook his head, mouth full of wine, and swallowed.

“No, stay,” he said hoarsely. “Hal’s coming?”

The front door opened and his brother came in, stopping dead at sight of Grey.

“Yes, I know,” Grey said wearily. “Go talk to Wainwright, will you? I’ll be down in a moment.”

Hal ignored this, and came close, frowning at him.

“What the devil happened to you?”

“He was run down in the street by a coach!” Olivia leapt in, indignant on her cousin’s behalf. “Did they not even stop to see if you were all right, Johnny?”

“You were run down by a coach?” The countess, drawn by the hubbub, appeared at the top of the stairs, looking alarmed. “John! Are you all right?”

Grey rubbed his brow. A fine reward for his good intentions, he thought bitterly.

“I’m quite all right,” he said, speaking carefully, because his lower lip was split and his jaw swollen. The teeth on the left felt loose, but would probably be all right. “No, they didn’t stop. I doubt the driver saw me. It was a mail coach,” he added, in a moment of inspiration, and saw the lines between his mother’s brows relax a bit, though she went on looking worried.

She was by this time at the foot of the stair, examining him in detail, and while he was touched by her solicitude, he really wanted nothing more than a stiff drink and a bath, and said so.

“Yes, a bath,” the countess agreed, wrinkling her nose. “And burn those clothes!”

This sentiment was put to a popular vote and unanimously passed. Meanwhile, Brunton, who had actually been paying attention, quietly manifested himself beside Grey, removed the glass of wine from his hand and replaced it with a glass containing Scotch whisky, a liquid whose restorative qualities Grey had learnt to appreciate while at Ardsmuir. He leaned against the wall—what were a few more smudges, after all?—and inhaled a mouthful, closing his eyes in thanks.

Meanwhile, attention had shifted to Hal, who was explaining that he was not stopping, as he was summoned to a meeting at Whitehall, but had merely paused on his way there in order to deliver Percy Wainwright’s commission papers, now officially countersigned and sealed with the Royal seal. These he produced with a flourish and handed over to general applause.

Percy flushed up like a peony, to Grey’s amusement, and bowed to the company, papers held to his chest.

“I thank you, my lord,” he said to Hal. “And I’m sure I will hope to be a credit to you and to the regiment.”

“Oh, you will be,” Hal said, smiling. “If it kills you.”

There was laughter at Percy’s faint look of alarm, and his concern faded into an answering smile.

“You think I’m joking, don’t you?” Hal said, still smiling. “Ask my brother. In the meantime—congratulations, sir, and welcome to our company!” He bowed briskly, and with a wave of farewell, strode out to his waiting coach.

“You’ll track mud everywhere, John,” the countess said, returning her disapproving attention to Grey’s state. “Do step into the drawing room and take your clothes off; I’ll send Tom down to take care of you.”

“I’ll keep you company.” Percy, tucking his commission papers away in his coat, opened the door for Grey, who limped through, clutching his whisky. What with one thing and another, lust was the last thing on his mind at the moment, but he was nonetheless glad to be alone with Percy, if only for a short time.

“You know,” Percy said, closing the door and eyeing him. “I begin to be convinced that you do this on purpose, to avoid my company.”

Grey leaned against the mantelpiece with a faint groan, unable to sit down on any of the furniture.

“Believe me,” he said, “I should prefer the company of an organ-grinder’s monkey, let alone yours, to that of the persons I was obliged to consort with this afternoon.”

“Were you really run down by a coach?” Wainwright asked, peering curiously at him.

“Why do you ask?” Grey parried.

“Because I’ve seen people run down by coaches,” Percy replied bluntly. “If you’d been only knocked aside and rolled in the gutter, you’d be bruised and filthy—but you look as though you’ve been beaten within an inch of your life. If you’ll pardon my frankness.” He smiled, to indicate that no offense was meant by this, before going on.

“And if you’d actually been run over by a mail coach, you’d be dead, or close to it. You’d certainly have broken bones. To say nothing of wheel marks on your clothes.”

Grey laughed, despite himself. There was no need to shelter Percy from the truth, after all—and it was dawning on him that, in fact, there were aspects of the situation that he could share with Percy Wainwright that he couldn’t tell even his brother.

“You’re right,” he said, and proceeded to give Percy an abbreviated, but truthful, version of his afternoon’s activities. Percy listened with the greatest attention and sympathy, refilling Grey’s glass when it got low.

“So you were beaten by a mob who objected to your going to the help of a gentleman whom they thought a sodomite—who in fact wasn’t,” Wainwright observed, at the end of it. “Rather ironic, isn’t it?”

“Bates was a brave man, and he died very horribly,” Grey said shortly. “I am not inclined to find humor in the situation.”

Wainwright’s expression sobered at once.

“You are right; I do apologize. I meant no offense, either to you or to Captain Bates.”

“No, of course not.” Grey softened his tone. “And in all justice, the captain himself would doubtless have appreciated the irony. He was that sort of man.”

“You liked him,” Wainwright observed, with no hint of surprise.

“I did.” Grey hesitated. He did not yet know Wainwright very well, for all he was about to become a member of the family. And yet…“Have you ever been to Ireland?” he asked abruptly.

Wainwright blinked, surprised.

“Once. Several years ago.”

Grey considered for an instant longer—but the man could always say no, after all.

“The captain entrusted me with a particular errand, of importance and delicacy. I have promised to see it done, but—well, let me tell you.”

By the time he had finished his explanation, Wainwright’s mobile face was a study: shock, sympathy, curiosity, and—no doubt about it—a desire to laugh.

“You have the greatest talent for awkward situations,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Have you any idea why the captain should have selected
you
for this particular enterprise?”

Grey hesitated again, but answered honestly.

“Yes, I do. He thought I could be blackmailed.”

All humor vanished from Wainwright’s face. He lowered his voice, though they were quite alone.

“
Has
he blackmailed you? You are in danger of exposure if you do not perform his errand?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Grey said hurriedly. “He did not know—that is—no.” Nothing would induce him to utter the name of Hubert Bowles, even if it were possible to explain how he had come to know the man, which it wasn’t.

“It was nothing to do with…that,” he said. “Another matter, which I am not at liberty to explain. But the end of it is that I did agree to perform the captain’s request. I did like him,” he added, half-apologizing. “And yet I cannot leave London at present; I have duties to the regiment, and for me to ask leave would cause a great deal of attention and comment. I must find someone suitably discreet to accompany Mrs. Tomlinson to Ireland—and do so quickly, before her husband discovers the plan or has a chance to injure her further.”

Wainwright rubbed a thoughtful finger below his lip, and glanced at Grey.

“Would you trust me to do it? I am commissioned, but my service does not become effective with the regiment for ten days yet; I presume you could give me leave?” He smiled, eyes dancing. “And I can assure you of my discretion.”

Grey’s heart lightened at once, though he protested.

“I cannot ask such a thing of you. The danger—”

“Oh, I don’t see how you can expect me to resist such an opportunity.” Percy’s smile grew wider. “After all, if there is one thing I never expected to do in life, it’s to abscond with a man’s wife!”

His laughter was infectious, and Grey couldn’t help smiling, though it reopened the cut in his lip. Before he could take up his handkerchief to blot it, Percy had whipped out his own, and pressed it to Grey’s mouth. He had stopped laughing, but still smiled, his fingers warm even through the linen cloth.

“I shall undertake your errand with pleasure, John,” he said. “Though I would appreciate it very much if you can contrive not to be beaten to a pudding again before I come back.”

Grey would have replied, but at this point, there was a discreet knock at the door, which opened to reveal Tom Byrd, a banyan and towel over his arm, who nodded to Wainwright before turning a minatory eye on Grey.

“You’d best undress, me lord. Your bath is getting cold.”