The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter (24 page)

“Dear Dorothea,” Walter said, “my address is on the posters and handbills. I'm sure Turpin has connections who have informed him of Elizabeth's whereabouts. I didn't try to hide the fact. Actually, I did quite the opposite, to flush him out, which is precisely what happened.”

“How clever. Then I assume you'll greet him with a welcoming party.”

Walter reached for his snuffbox. “You assume correctly.” He sniffed a pinch up each nostril. “I shall hunt the hunter.”

“You are so wonderfully devious, my lord.” Dorothea clapped her hands. “By this time tomorrow you'll have the fiend in Newgate, where he belongs.”

“Or even better,” Walter said, smiling at Elizabeth, “he'll be dead.”

***

Walter's coach rattled through a street, deserted save for a handful of laborers. St. James's Park was nearly adjacent to Great George Street, an easy stroll, but Dorothea had insisted on riding.

“We shall be safe inside the carriage,” she had said. “No one can get in to cause mischief. And you”—she motioned toward Elizabeth—“cannot get out.”

Squeezed between Dorothea and Patience, Elizabeth sat with her back pressed stiffly against the cushions. She wore a cream satin dress over paniers. Her hands were clasped tightly together, warmed by a white velvet muff, but she couldn't control the chattering of her teeth. Accompanied by two dozen men, Walter had already left for the Mall. As soon as dawn arrived and Rand finished his ride, he would be captured or killed.

And I am the bait that draws him to his doom. Not a willing betrayal, but just as bad.

Once the carriage entered the Mall, Elizabeth tried to grope back into the recesses of the past, to touch the emotion that Lady Jane had felt the moment she removed her necklace—the moment she knew she would betray Ranulf. If Elizabeth and Rand were not connected with Jane and Ranulf, why did she experience such panic at the very thought of that centuries-old betrayal? Panic, yes, and an overwhelming despair.

She yanked herself back to the nonce. She must not face that abyss or she might splinter and become trapped forever between the past and the present. She might even become as mad as His Majesty, babbling incessantly, making no sense at all.

The Mall was little more than a grand alley, wherein royalty had played the game of pall mall. Elizabeth couldn't see Lord Stafford's men, but she knew they were stationed behind the trees that flanked both sides of the road—four towering columns of trees, their spidery branches tangled against the horizon.

When Rand appeared, Walter would allow him to ride all the way to the entrance of St. James's, where Walter himself waited. Then he and his henchmen would surround Rand.

The highwayman comes riding,
Elizabeth thought.
Death comes riding.
She could scarce believe that Rand had picked such a vulnerable place to rendezvous. Couldn't he have anticipated Walter's treachery? Suddenly, for no apparent reason, a man who lived by his wits had shown himself uncharacteristically witless. “I'm not Zak,” Rand had said atop Westminster Bridge. But he was just as reckless. Rand planned a duel with Death, not Stafford, and Death must always win.

Dorothea rapped her gloved knuckles against the carriage window. “Yonder lies St. James's Palace.” She pointed toward a red brick building with pale stone edgings. In the uncertain light, the gate-tower was a chiaroscuro of smoke and charcoal.

“I wonder if the king is in residence,” she continued, when Elizabeth failed to comment. “Perhaps, at this very moment, he is drooling about the halls or shouting obscenities at some buffle-headed maid.”

They passed Green Park, whose flower beds provided wisps of darkness against the spacious lawns. The carriage turned into St. James's Park. Opposite the park was Buckingham House, but for once Elizabeth didn't care about history. Her fingernails bit into her palms as she pictured Rand's body being shattered by a dozen lead balls. She tried to imagine a life without her beloved. Lady Jane had carted Ranulf's body for five years, then willed herself to die so that she could lie alongside him. Could “Bonny Bess”
do the same?

St. James's Park was only a half-mile long. The sun had not yet risen, so the copses, statues, and grazing deer were indistinct blurs. A large lake the color of graphite rested in the park's center.

The Horse Guards—which housed the king's personal soldiers—was a tall building located at the park's southern edge. As they circled to a stop beside a stone wall, Elizabeth battled down a feeling of helplessness. Flanked by Dorothea and Patience, she would not be able to alter the future by so much as a whisper.

Through the carriage window, she watched the sky lighten. Clouds swooped low, like hawks marking their prey. The air smelled of coal smoke and waste, and near the stone wall, of dampness bred too long in ancient places.

Dorothea removed and replaced her gloves, toyed with the window shade, and repeatedly cleared her throat. “I cannot tolerate this,” she groaned, pushing open the door and stepping from the carriage.

Almost immediately, she addressed the coachman. “Go see what is happening.”

The coachman dutifully set off toward the park's entrance.

Dorothea circled the carriage. She peered up at the Horse Guards, focusing on its distinctive clock turret. She walked along the park wall and kicked at a discarded purse. Then she stalked back to the carriage, yanked open the door, and glared at Elizabeth. “I'll wager your lover never even shows. He knows how badly we want him.”

Elizabeth shed her muff and stood, her heart pounding. “Let us watch for him together.” She stepped past Patience.

“Stay right where you are,” Dorothea warned.

“But how will he know I'm here? If John cannot see my face, he'll get suspicious. He might even run away.” Nonchalantly, Elizabeth extended her leg to the topmost step.

“I mistrust you in open spaces.” Dorothea slammed the door, barely missing Elizabeth's shin.

Rather than give Patience the satisfaction of witnessing her distress, Elizabeth sank onto the seat and gazed out the window. A handful of exotic ducks dotted the lake. Otherwise, the park appeared deserted. Atop the rocks, a lone pelican rested. It looked as forlorn as Elizabeth felt.

Finally, the coachman returned. “Beggin' yer pardon,” he said breathlessly, “but 'e's comin'. 'Tis the 'ighwayman fer certain, enterin' the Mall.”

“Damn and blast! I'll miss all the excitement. Oh, I do hate not to see him.” Turning, Dorothea surveyed the carriage as if weighing her options. “Patience! Don't let Miss Wyndham leave. I don't care how you restrain her, but if she escapes, it will go hard on you. Do we understand each other?”

Patience bobbed her head. Dorothea bounded across the lawn, escorted by the coachman.

How close is Rand now?
Elizabeth wondered.
Halfway down the Mall? I must warn him.

“Ye'd best behave. I'll obey me orders even if I have t' chop yer legs off.” Intent upon her charge, Patience didn't see the carriage door swing open.

“Good morrow to you, Bess.” Rand saluted her with the muzzle of his pistol.

Patience wasn't the least bit intimidated. She let loose with a stream of obscenities.

“Stop it,” Rand ordered. “If you'll shut up, I'll not hurt you.”

Patience inhaled, preparing to scream her bloody head off.

Rand knocked her across the chin with his fist. She grunted and collapsed against Elizabeth's shoulder.

“Damn! I dislike hitting a woman, but I warned her.” Rand held out his hand. “Come along, Bess. We haven't much time.”

Elizabeth stood. Patience drifted to the floor.

“What if she awakens?” Lifting her skirts, Elizabeth stepped over the inert form. “Shouldn't we tie her up?”

“Not enough time.” Rand swung Elizabeth down, then pulled her through a door cut into the park wall.

While running past the Horse Guards, following the curve in the wall, she peppered him with questions. “How did you get here? Lord Stafford's coachman said he saw you. How did you slip Walter's trap? How can you be in two places at once?”

“Shepherd's is close by. My cousin Tom is on a business errand. If you recall, Tom looks like me. Any moment now, Stafford will discover he's made a dreadful mistake and will be forced to apologize profusely to my cousin.”

They reached Birdcage Walk, which skirted the park, before they heard an ear-splitting scream.

“Patience,” Elizabeth cried. “The woman you clobbered,” she explained.

“Impossible. I hit her hard enough to keep an ordinary person unconscious for hours.”

“Patience is anything but ordinary.”

“True enough. She looked as bluff as bull beef. Never fear, Bess. The horses are close by, just beyond the gate.”

Halfway up Birdcage, they veered out Queen Anne's Gate. The maid's screams followed them.

“Christ,” Rand swore. “She'll wake all of London.” He hoisted Elizabeth atop Greylag, then mounted Prancer.

“'Tis a difficult seating,” Elizabeth murmured, squirming in the saddle and catching up the reins. “I wish I had my boots and breeches.”

“Damn me for a bird-wit! I should have brought them.” He looked doubtfully at her petticoats and voluminous skirts. “If we should become separated, we'll meet in Dover. On the beach, below the castle. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“If Stafford catches me, I'll hang. If
you're
captured, you must say that I forced you to flee at gunpoint, that I threatened to shoot if you did not comply.”

“All right. Walter might not believe me, but he does not like to be made the fool.”

Rand dug his heels into his stallion's flanks and began galloping along the narrow streets.

Elizabeth raced after him. Sparks flew from Prancer's iron-shod hooves. They clattered past Westminster Abbey and along the Thames. Custom houses loomed dark and silent. Upon the Thames itself, boats stirred and groaned and slipped into the current. The river's scent filled Elizabeth's nose. Above the water, patches of fog hovered like hesitant ghosts. To the east, the sun burned a crimson hole through the clouds.

Suddenly, the clatter of other hooves mingled with their own. Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder and saw several riders galloping toward her, their arms upraised, their hands brandishing pistols.

Rand pulled farther ahead. Elizabeth crouched over her mare. “Faster, Greylag, faster!” she urged.

A musket ball whizzed past her ear. Greylag's mane lashed her face and stung her eyes. From the various docks, dogs yapped. Elizabeth dared not look back. The entire world might be chasing her.

Rand swiveled in his saddle. “I love you,” he said, the wind whipping at his words. “I always have and I always will.”

Elizabeth slammed her heels into her mare, who responded with a powerful surge. The Thames lapped at the embankments. A patch of sunrise splintered the clouds and flashed scarlet upon the water.

A milkmaid at a crossroads leapt out of the way. Milk splashed from her pails onto the cobblestones. “Cork head!” she screeched. “Clod pate! The devil take ye!”

The devil shall not take me,
Elizabeth thought desperately. She would not let Walter or his fellow vermin capture her.

She tried to keep up with Rand, whose trail resembled that of a serpent's. The river disappeared, reappeared. Greylag skittered round a corner, then raced on. Through blurry eyes, Elizabeth saw occasional fields and orchards… fewer houses… they were leaving the city. Escape actually seemed possible—

Greylag stumbled over a loose cobblestone. Elizabeth tilted sideways. Dropping the reins, she grabbed at Greylag's neck, which was slick with perspiration.
No! Please, God, no!

Desperate, Elizabeth kicked the stirrups free, hoping to better grip the horse's barrel with her legs. Then she felt her feet tangle in her billowing skirts.

Greylag, still game, kept on going. Elizabeth did not.

“I've had all manner of interesting patients, some of them quite mad.”

Through the pounding of her head, Elizabeth recognized the sonorous voice of Doctor Arthur Purefoy.

“Some years ago I treated a prominent lord who believed himself to be a turkey hen. He made a nest of straw in his coach. Except for a brief luncheon and the evacuation of his bowels, he sat there, atop a veritable dozen of eggs.”

“I trust the gentleman didn't lay the eggs himself.” Walter sounded sardonic.

“What happened to the prominent lord, Dr. Purefoy?” Dorothea's voice. “Did you cure him?”

“No, Mrs. Wyndham. Eventually his wife, an accommodating woman, removed the eggs and replaced them with chicks, whereupon his lordship strutted about, clucking delightedly.”

“I wonder if His Majesty thinks he's a chicken. Have you attended
him,
Dr. Purefoy? Is he as clapper-clawed as they say?”

“Ah, Mrs. Wyndham, the stories I could tell.”

Elizabeth opened her eyes to discreet slits. Judging by the shadows, it was late afternoon, though it was impossible to be certain since the sky was obliterated by a dreary rain. Incense pots burned pastilles, saturating the room with a strong, pleasant scent. Dorothea, Walter, and Dr. Purefoy were seated at a table. The physician was middle-aged and corpulent, his nose broken-veined, his complexion marked by either venereal disease or smallpox.

“Did I tell you about the time at Windsor when His Majesty, dressed in a nightshirt, happened upon the Prince of Wales and his younger brother?”

“No, Dr. Purefoy, but I'm breathless with anticipation,” Dorothea said, pouring coffee from a silver urn.

Even the weak light was painful, thought Elizabeth. During her fall from Greylag, she had struck her head on the cobblestones, and she wished Dr. Purefoy would not speak so loudly. Every word was a hammer blow to her brain.

But he had already launched into a spirited account of the incident. “Old George said to young Frederick, ‘Oh, my boy! I wish to God I might die, for I am going mad.'”

Flourishing his gold-knobbed cane, which along with his black wig and pompous expression were necessary accouterments of his profession, Purefoy continued. “One of the king's physicians, Dr. Baker, tried to lead His Majesty from the sitting room. Whereupon, the king grabbed Dr. Baker by the throat and pinned him against the wall. Nearly strangled the poor chap.”

“Mercy!” Dorothea exclaimed.

“His Majesty's actions bring to mind an interesting dilemma,” said Walter. “Whether force can be used on a king, or whether you must allow him to kill you if it pleases him, rather than commit treason by restraining his illustrious person.”

Elizabeth's eyelids drooped. She knew Dr. Purefoy had bled her, but she remembered little else, save that Rand had escaped. Even through her haze of pain, she had heard Walter bellowing his rage and frustration.

“Many physicians treat His Majesty,” Purefoy said, “but some of their remedies are nonsensical. One physician insists on immersing the king in hot baths when everyone knows how unhealthful water is. I recommended shaving the top of His Majesty's head and blistering it to remove the poison in his brain. And indeed, when that remedy was applied, His Majesty immediately improved.”

Elizabeth struggled to stay awake. The potion Purefoy had earlier administered made her feel so drowsy.

I must escape,
she thought.
Must. Find. Rand.

***

“Two o'clock and a fine clear night, and all's well.”

Elizabeth heard the call of the watch outside her window. Save for the sound of coal shifting in the fire grate, her room was silent. An oil lamp burned, illuminating Patience asleep at the table, her face resting on her arms.

Head spinning, Elizabeth inched upwards. Gritting her teeth, she touched the dressing Purefoy had applied to the side of her head. Pray to God the doctor didn't recommend shaving and blistering for anyone other than the king. A lock of hair, tangled but securely fastened to her scalp, reassured her.

“All right, Bess,” she whispered. “Think.” She knew that she had fallen from Greylag and hit her head. She didn't know how she had been returned to Great George Street, but that wasn't important. Rand was important. His whereabouts. He had said they'd meet in Dover. Had he said it this morning? Yesterday? Three days ago? Perhaps at this very moment he waited for her on the sands below Dover Castle.

I must escape!

The maid's sudden snores provided an excellent opportunity, as did the lack of guards at the doorway. Since her debilitating injury, Walter had dismissed them.

In
Castles of Doom,
quiet but determined Lady Guinevere had given lust-crazed King John the slip by climbing out of a tower window. By comparison, Elizabeth's escape would be effortless.

She edged her calves over the side of the bed. Her legs felt remarkably leaden, but she eased herself successfully off the mattress. Overcome by a wave of dizziness, she slouched back until the spell passed.

From outside drifted the sound of an off-key baritone, struggling through a ballad. Patience snorted and sputtered, but didn't awaken. Elizabeth tiptoed past the table. Her balance was awkward, and while she tried to be stealthy, her legs responded erratically. One foot left the softness of carpet for bare wood. A board creaked. Heart in her throat, she froze and stared at Patience. Lamplight played across the maid's small eye socket while yet another snore wheezed through her lips.

At long last, Elizabeth reached the door. The knob felt cold in her hand. She turned and pulled. Nothing happened. Desperate, she tried to yank the door open.

“Damn,” she breathed. “Locked.” She should have known. If her mind hadn't been so fogged, she would have known.

What now? Think! Patience carries the key between her breasts. I don't want to grope around in there!

Trying to conjure up an alternative solution, Elizabeth slumped against the door. She spied the poker beside the fireplace, near a stack of wood, and sighed with relief. She would whack Patience over the head, rend her bodice, then extract the key.

Once again Elizabeth tiptoed past the table. Reaching the fireplace, she grasped the poker.

“What're ye doin'?”

Elizabeth whirled. Face thrust forward like an angry bull, Patience was on her feet.

“Give me the key!” Elizabeth hoisted the poker.

Flexing her fingers, Patience approached. “Get back in bed 'fore I throw ye in.”

Elizabeth swung the poker. Patience grabbed it and wrenched it from Elizabeth's hands. Off balance, she staggered and fell. Scrambling to her feet, she scooped up one of the logs.

Weapons in hand, the two women circled each other.

“I'm not giving up and you don't dare hurt me,” Elizabeth said. “Lord Stafford will pike your head if you do.”

“When ye buggered off last time, I took the scold. This time I'll make certain ye stay put.”

“The only way you can stop me is to kill me, and if you kill me you'll be dismissed.”

“'Tis worth the price!” Patience shouted, swinging the poker at the log.

The shock of impact reverberated along Elizabeth's arms. Pain stabbed her brain so suddenly and powerfully, she was momentarily blinded. Dropping the log, she stumbled toward the table, hoisted the coffee urn, and threw it. The urn bounced harmlessly off the far wall. She hurled the cups and saucers, even the tray, but Patience dodged them all.

Walter bolted into the room, followed by Dr. Purefoy.

“What's going on here?” Walter demanded, dropping his ring of keys into the pocket of his silken dressing gown. In lieu of a wig, his shaven head was covered by a turban.

“She tried t' kill me!” Patience screeched. “I was only per'tectin' meself.”

Walter's eyes narrowed. “Do you have an explanation for your behavior, Elizabeth?”

“I should not be kept prisoner, especially since I am innocent of the first abduction and did not instigate the second. John threatened us with a pistol, which
she
can verify.” Elizabeth pointed at Patience. “When John was far ahead and I could have halted, your men shot at me, forcing me to continue my ride. I am not at fault and should be allowed to come and go as I please.”

Dorothea swept inside, while a half dozen servants peeked through the door. “What has happened?” she cried.

“Your daughter was trying to escape,” Walter replied, his gaze still fixed on Elizabeth.

“Surely not! Why would she do such a thing?”

“I could administer another sleeping potion,” Purefoy offered. His wig, hastily donned, was off-center. His head bobbed and the cascading curls brushed one shoulder. “Her actions prove how sick she is, how irrational—”

“Nonsense!” Walter scowled at the physician. “She knows precisely what she's doing!”

“Are you questioning my expertise, sir?” Purefoy assumed his most authoritative stance. “Need I remind you that I have a degree of Doctor of Medicine from Marischal College, Aberdeen? Furthermore, I am a member of the Royal College of Phys—”

“I don't care if you're a member of the Royal College of Asses, and I don't require a list of your bloody credentials. All of you! Get out!”

Dorothea hesitated at the doorway. “Elizabeth isn't herself, my lord. Her head suffered a nasty crack. Please don't judge her too harshly.”

“Out now!”

Once they were alone, Elizabeth faced him. His breathing sounded as loud and uneven as her own. To support her body, shaking from fear and fatigue, she sagged against the table.

“You bitch! How dare you humiliate me?”

“I didn't mean to. I merely wanted—”

“Shut up! Ever since our first meeting, you've treated me like a bug. I didn't mind. Challenges always intrigue me, but this time you've gone too far.” His face contorted. “I won't be made to look the fool.”

“That was not my intention.” She inched away from the table. The poker remained in the middle of the room. If Walter became violent, she might be able to protect herself. “Even you must admit I've never led you on. From the very beginning I was truthful about my feelings.”

“I don't give a damn about your bloody feelings. You should have thanked God that I even deigned to look at you. No money! No prospects! What did you ever have to offer except a pretty face and body?”

“That's what I despise about men like you.” She felt her temper flare. “Why should I have to bow and scrape just because your private parts are a different shape than mine?”

“What about your highwayman?” Walter grabbed her wrists. “You were happy enough with
his
private parts. That's the ultimate insult, the one thing I cannot tolerate. To prefer a common criminal's cods to mine.”

“I didn't prefer—”

“Shut up!” He jerked her to him. “You've driven me to distraction. I don't desire anyone but you, and I hate it. You've ruined everything.” He pinioned her against his chest. “I was willing to marry you, even after I knew you were despoiled for honest wedlock. That's how far I've fallen. A magistrate who lusts after the mistress of a highwayman!”

“I'm not his mistress.”

“Whore, then.”

“I'm not his whore.”
I'm his love, his only love.
“It wasn't my fault. John threat—” She swallowed the rest of her words as terror stabbed through her.

Walter was
smiling!
His eyes sparked, but a smile that could only have been cast by the Lord of Vermin himself twisted his lips.

“You'll not have a shred of pride left when I'm done with you,” he said, pushing her to her knees.

Her gaze skimmed the edge of his dressing gown. Walter was wrong. Her pride ran deep and left no room for begging. In any case, she had a feeling his lust fed on rebellion. Swallowing bitter bile, she prayed she could endure.

“No resistance, dearest?” Walter crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought you were filled with contumacy. Remember our discourse? Lady Guinevere?”

“Yes. Outside the White Hart, in the fog, the night you were robbed. That was when you first said you enjoyed a challenge.” She touched her fingers to her bandage. “In my weakened state, I am no challenge.”

“We shall see. Lie on your back and raise up your shift.”

“Go to hell,” she said softly.

“Do you prefer the bed?”

“I prefer death, my lord.”

“I think not.” A chuckle rumbled in his throat as he grabbed her wrists, pulled her from the floor, and crushed her against his chest.

She reacted instinctively. Situated beneath the canopy of the forest, waiting for nightfall, Rand had taught her several methods of defense. Now, she yanked her knee up hard into Walter's groin.

His smile finally disappeared. His eyes bulged. Doubling over, he groped beneath his gown, below his stomach.

Elizabeth froze, torn between the urge to flee and the urge to whack Walter with the poker. That indecision, brief though it was, cost her the advantage she had gained.

Only partially recovered, he was on her in an instant, toppling them both with the momentum of his body. The hard floor rose up to meet her back. Pain exploded in her rump and legs, as well as her head. Her arms felt numb.

Still grunting, Walter ripped apart her shift, his nails leaving small gashes across her naked flesh. His hand squeezed her breast and she let out a piercing wail. Then, with the greatest effort in her life, she bit back a second scream.

Walter appeared disappointed, but that didn't prevent his lustful gaze from scouring her body.

Elizabeth shut her eyes. Footsteps sounded in the hallway, soon muffled by the loud beat of her heart. She felt her thighs wrenched apart, felt Walter grind his hips into position.

Suddenly, his hardness diminished. His weight abruptly left her body. Taking one deep breath, then another, Elizabeth opened her eyes.