He only hoped Lade’s superstitions would serve when he read a copy of the handbill and realized that his fellow Jacobite Mr. Brown was none other than the Viscount St. Mars. But—should they not—Gideon had collected enough evidence from Lade to see him hanged.
The next morning, after a night of thought, Gideon handed Tom a folded sheet of paper and told him that he needed him to ride into London to put a notice in
The Daily Courant.
While there, he was to arrange for the news-sheets to be posted to him on a regular basis.
Seeing Tom’s curiosity, he said, “That notice refers to a set of lost papers that have been found in the possession of a deceased gentleman in Kent. It directs their owner to inquire for a Mr. Mavors at the Catherine Wheel in Southwark in four days.”
“Mavors? Who’s he?”
“Mavors is a Latin form of Mars. If the Duke of Bournemouth knows his Latin—which we have to assume he does—he should come at the appointed time to meet me.”
“You don’t mean you’re riding into London!”
“Only into Southwark. They’ve never seen me at the Catherine Wheel, which is why I’ve chosen it for the rendezvous. And don’t worry, I will go disguised.”
Gideon watched Tom struggle to suppress his protest and was relieved when he did. He would have to come to the same realization that they could not afford to play it safe, if they wanted to find his father’s murderer and clear his name.
After Tom had left, Gideon had to fight off a sharp attack of loneliness. A hopeless voice inside him told him that what he should do was get drunk and take Lade’s wench to bed. He would feel a bit better for feminine comfort, and he was unlikely to get it from the lady he’d wanted to make his wife. Try as he would, he could not keep an image of Isabella in his mind. The closest he could come was a hazy vision of a tiny waist and the ghostly sound of a teasing laugh, hardly the memories to console him when what he needed was support. Mrs. Kean’s kind words, uttered in their brief encounter, had done more to calm him in his moments of desperation. He could summon
her
face, with its intelligent eyes and sympathetic smile, with no trouble at all. He wondered whether she still believed in his innocence.
Impatient with himself for letting his mind wander again, he tried again to conjure Isabella’s face. He had to keep her before him, had to hold on to his love for her, or that last argument with his father, the one that had led to his father’s death, would have had no meaning at all. That was one possibility he could not contemplate.
He hoped by now that Mrs. Kean had convinced Isabella that the charges against him were false. If not, he must find his father’s killer in time to convince her himself.
But, for the meantime, a generous dose of debauchery was the only comfort he would be allowed.
In the end, he did not call for Katy. Instead, when night came, he asked Avis to saddle his mare. He had another yearning—to see his home again. And he needed to discover if he had an ally in the Abbey.
Tom had informed him of Philippe’s role in getting his father’s pistols. Gideon wanted to thank him. He also knew that Philippe could be a valuable source of information. In his impudence, the valet had always known his master’s most intimate business. It remained to see whether his loyalty could survive an even greater test, now that his master had been declared outside the law.
The night’s ride home was faster than his last. He and Penny were now both familiar with the drovers’ trails. As they covered them at a spanking pace, Gideon resolved to use his days to learn all the twists and turns of the roads and paths between his new home and London. That was what highwaymen were said to know. It was what made it easy for them to get away when other horsemen set up in pursuit. If he was to keep his gentleman-of-the-road cachet with the host of the Fox and Goose, he would do better to learn a highwayman’s skills.
As he rode, Gideon welcomed the freedom of being on his own, outdoors and away from Tom’s ever-pressing worry. No matter how much he valued Tom’s loyalty, Gideon both wanted and needed to feel that nothing could hold him back or weigh him down. If he was going to survive this forced concealment, he had to break loose from the
mores
that had governed his life—honesty, openness, and politeness, and all the restrictive behaviours that had made him an inhabitant of a world that rejected him now. If he had lost one kind of freedom, he must have another to take its place.
It was this need that pushed him to spur Penny to a reckless run. He rejected Tom’s caution and let her have her head. Together they whipped past trees, through narrow gaps where the bushes nearly met. He put her over dimly seen hedges and deep ditches, feeling the powerful thrust of her hind quarters and the jolts of her front hooves. With the lightest touch of his hands, and whispers of encouragement, he urged her to race to her heart’s content, feeling her exuberance through his legs, and knowing the selfsame need to run. He felt the wind whipping past his face, scented the trees and hops, and the occasional smell that said beast. Grateful to feel pain, he even welcomed the thorns that tore at his knees.
He did not rein Penny in until she stumbled. Then he soothed her into a cooling walk.
With his pulse beating a strong tattoo against her lathered neck, he heard her great bursts of air. They thundered with every beat of her gait and every gasp from his lungs.
Now he felt both exhausted and cleansed. In his wild, dangerous ride, he had felt himself transformed.
Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate,
Too soon dejected, and too soon elate.
Sudden, these honours shall be snatched away,
And cursed for ever this victorious day.
With his broad sabre next, a chief in years,
The hoary Majesty of Spades appears,
Puts forth one manly leg, to sight revealed,
The rest, his many-coloured robe concealed.
Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes,
And screams of horror rend th’ affrighted skies.
Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast,
When husbands, or when even lap dogs breathe their last;
Now meet that fate, incensed Belinda cried,
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side.
Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art,
An earthly Lover lurking at her heart.
Amazed, confused, he found his power expired,
Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired.
CHAPTER 14
The Abbey seemed grave, as if the house mourned the loss of the people who had loved her. The underground passageway felt evil and damp.
He had walked Penny until she was cooled, then, hiding her inside the crumbling ruins, he had used fistfuls of grass to rub every inch of her hide. No need for recklessness or despair would make him neglect her care—unless, in their wild midnight ride, they had both found paradise.
Inside the house, he tiptoed to his suite of rooms, where he hoped to find Philippe ensconced in the small valet’s chamber near his wardrobe. The silence of the Abbey was so complete, Gideon wondered if the constables had given up their watch. Sir Joshua could not expect them to forsake their trades forever to wait for his possible return.
He reached his rooms with one of his pistols in hand. The need to carry it was regrettable, but he could not risk being taken again. And in any case, it was unloaded. For all Philippe’s talents, telling a loaded weapon from a harmless one was not one of them.
A ragged snoring emerged from the valet’s closet. At another time, Gideon would have been amused. On rare occasions he had needed to waken Philippe from his deepest sleep, and he remembered the sound. For now, he was only grateful that his time would not be wasted.
A gentle shake, then a vigorous one, and Philippe opened his eyes.
His startled “
Mon Dieu
!” was quickly muffled by a hand pressed over his lips.
As the Frenchman froze, Gideon whispered a greeting and immediately sensed Philippe’s relief.
“
O Monseigneur
!” As Gideon uncovered his mouth, Philippe sat up and gasped for breath. “You must not frighten Philippe so! I thought milord’s killer had come to murder me, too.”
“Then you believe I am innocent?”
He was glad to hear indignation in his servant’s voice. “But, of course! Who should be certain of
monsieur
’s innocence if it is not his valet?”
Gideon gripped Philippe on the shoulder before turning to light a candle.
Philippe leapt up to assist him, but Gideon made a motion for him to sit, so he returned to the bed and perched himself on the edge. If he was uncomfortable sitting in his master’s presence, in typical Philippe fashion, he did not show it.
He asked, “How did
monsieur
get into the house without being seen?”
Unwilling to share the secret of the passageway with too many people, Gideon temporized, “I know a way. And no one saw me, so I assume we are safe to speak.”
He asked Philippe, “Is James Henry staying in the house?”
“No,
Monsieur
Henry has travelled to London to see
monsieur
’s bankers. He should be back . . . after the others come.”
The tenor in his voice made Gideon react sharply. “What others?”
Philippe was visibly disturbed. “I thought
monsieur
might have seen it in the newspapers. I thought that was why you have come. . . . His voice failed. Then, in a mood of resignation, he said, “A messenger came tonight. We are to prepare the house for visitors.
Monsieur
’s cousin, Harrowby, will arrive the day after tomorrow with a party—two ladies and their servant.”
“Ladies? What can Harrowby be about?”
He felt a sudden dread at the regret in Philippe’s eyes.
“It is said that he brings his fiancée. The note said that we are to expect Madame Mayfield and her daughter.”
Gideon felt a kick in his chest. “No—the messenger was mistaken! Or he lied! Isabella would never marry Harrowby.”
“
Monsieur
, there is more. It pains Philippe to tell you, but your
villain parlement
— the House of Lords—has taken
monsieur
’s inheritance away. The papers say that
monsieur
has been accused of treason, but without a trial, you cannot be attainted. Still, it has taken your father’s rights and given them all to Sir Harrowby.”
Throughout his valet’s agonized speech, Gideon listened as if in a nightmare. The Lords could not have stripped him of his rights. He could not be so ruthlessly deprived of what was his.
He had always known Harrowby for his heir, but he had never believed that his cousin would succeed him. Certainly never that he would supplant him.
Harrowby was the older cousin. Gideon had planned to marry and father children who would come between Harrowby and his honours.
Now even this reasonable illusion had burst—and in the unthinkable scenario that Harrowby had inherited while he was still alive.
Unwilling to voice his pain, he could do nothing but go.
As he turned blindly, he felt Philippe’s gentle grasp urging him down onto the bed. He sank his face in his hands and tried to rub away the shock.
The Duke of Bournemouth’s warning resounded in ears. It was true—
he had few friends at Court
. He had only to wonder how much the Duke himself had had to do with these events. If he feared exposure of his own treason, how better to win his own security than to accuse the one man who might have the means to expose him.
“Did you read the accounts yourself? Did no one try to defend me?”
“
Monsieur
, it is said that none of your father’s friends dare to have courage, for they are all under suspicion. They retire to their estates in the hope that they will not be accused themselves.”
There would be no one. With none but Whigs in the government, he would have no one to appeal to. His only hope would be to prove beyond a doubt that someone else had killed his father.
Even then, if the motive had anything to do with the Jacobite conspiracy and his father’s involvement was uncovered, he would still lose his estates. The laws of attainder punished the families of traitors, taking away all they possessed. Those penalties had been renewed under Queen Anne in view of the Pretender’s threat.
How much better a solution had been devised by the Lords. By denying him his summons, they had removed a Tory peer and replaced him with a Whig. Harrowby had always preferred membership in the Kit Kat Club to conformity with his uncle’s opinions. Since he had never stood for parliament or shown a talent for statesmanship, Gideon’s father had dismissed him as a fool and had not been overly concerned with his politics. Like Gideon, Lord Hawkhurst had never imagined being replaced by the likes of Sir Harrowby Fitzsimmons.
Gideon was now forced to wonder if Harrowby had planned this all along. Could he and his father have been deceived by Harrowby’s imbecilic air? They had both thought him harmless, but— What if
they
had been the fools?
Harrowby had made off with his fortune and, if Philippe were to be believed, was about to make off with Gideon’s woman.
A surging anger brought him abruptly to his feet. Philippe, who had been hovering miserably, took a step backwards and anxiously searched his face.
“When did you say they were coming?” Gideon asked.
“They should arrive the day after tomorrow. They will break their journey two times since they are travelling in
Monseigneur’s
coach.”
That would give him plenty of time to plan an interception. Isabella would be made to understand what a terrible mistake she was about to make.
But how had she been persuaded to marry Harrowby?
Gideon had no trouble convincing himself that Mrs. Mayfield was behind this rapid decision. If the Duke had not proposed, she would be eager to secure an earl for Isabella, and Harrowby had always been there in the background, no threat to Gideon’s happiness until he had come into possession of the title.