The Prince of Midnight (49 page)

He took a deep breath, pulled down his hat, and remounted Mistral.

Just at the moment he reined the horse left, Nemo found something to interest
him to the right. The wolf crossed under Mistral's nose, dragging the lead
across the horse's chest. Mistral arched his neck and danced in protest of the
contradictory signals. S.T. forcefully urged him right, and Mistral took the
impulsive cue in full seriousness: the horse shifted his weight back onto his
haunches as he'd been taught and pirouetted with his forefeet in the air.

On a battlefield it would have been a magnificent move: in a stable yard it
made the woman scream and the ostlers lunge, and suddenly everyone seemed to be
converging; staring, shouting and pointing and waving their handbills.

They recognized him. One moment he'd been just another traveler in the
bustling yard; the next he was the highwayman.

S.T. put his hand on his sword. But he didn't draw it, not in a crowd of
townspeople. The rope tightened around his fist as Nemo flew into a fury,
sensing the threat and the excitement, snarling and lunging the length of his
lead, flinging his full weight against S.T.'s arm. S.T. wrenched the lead
forward, dragging the furious wolf back, driving Mistral toward the arched gate
amid the commotion.

Bystanders who'd moved into his path to block the quarry suddenly lost their
courage as Mistral plunged ahead. But Nemo's repeated leaping attacks sent
shocks of contrary force against S.T.'s body, a hundred pounds of flying wolf
enough to throw his control into disorder.

Mistral reared in alarm. S.T. felt him flailing, tipping under the unbalanced
load. A sea of people seemed to surround them. In a split second between
allowing Mistral to fall and holding Nemo, S.T. flung himself forward onto the
horse's neck and released the lead.

Mistral came down on his forefeet. S.T. slewed around in the saddle to call
Nemo, desperate, his chances evaporating by the moment as ostlers and postilions
stretched to seize his bridle. The wolf made a wide swing, snapping and
snarling. The shrieking spectators shrank back, and in that instant S.T.
collected Mistral, looked forward and saw his path blocked by an empty phaeton
as a crowd of boys dragged it across the arched entrance. He didn't think; he
put his spurs to the big horse and drove on, mind and body and heart all focused
on the dark opening above the vehicle that was freedom.

Mistral made two galloping strides, all he had room for, and launched into
the air. Light became shadow; S.T. leaned back with the impulsion, flying, an
instant of unnaturally slowed perception in which he saw the seats of the
phaeton below Mistral's shoulders and the black loom of the arch like a grasping
hand above—and then they were down, with a heavy jar and a splash in the puddle
under the arch.

Another bound took them into the street, with S.T. reining back, asking
Mistral's best and getting it, going from fulj gallop to collection and turn in
three strides. He saw Nemo come racing out from beneath the phaeton. For an
instant he thought they would make it; he shouted to the wolf and leaned back
over Mistral's neck—but then Nemo's head jerked backward. The wolf flipped, spun
by the dragging lead as it jammed under the phaeton's rear wheel.

Nemo went sprawling on his back in the mud puddle. S.T. reacted in a frenzy,
barely aware of the gathering tumult in the street, spurring Mistral back toward
the arch as the wolf scrambled up and threw himself forward. One of the
postilions jumped up over the phaeton and grabbed the rope. With Nemo straining
after S.T., the boy knotted the end of the lead around a wheel spoke.

S.T. rode into the arch, driving the postilion back with a wild swipe of his
sword. He leaned down, trying to cut the rope with his broadsword, hindered by
Nemo's confused circling, trying vainly to free the wolf even while the crowd
sealed his path to liberty; trying and trying as Mistral's hooves echoed with
the shouts inside the arch; trying still as the trap closed, as Nemo abandoned
his belligerence and attempted to jump up and lick S.T.'s hand; as someone took
a hold of Mistral's bridle, as pistols and a fowling piece leveled from the
crowd . . . still leaning over, his arm slack, his sword suspended, burying his
face in Mistral's mane.

For the first time in his life, S.T. was imprisoned. It could have been
worse, he knew that much. Far worse. The Quakers who ruled Kendal kept a gaol as
neat as their prosperous town; they brooked no taunting or throwing of dead
cats, and neither were they pleased by singing of chants in support of the
prisoner. S.T.'s arraignment and detention were uncommonly peaceful.

They allowed him to keep Nemo in his cell, and even authorized two daily
walks for air and exercise for both S.T. and the wolf. Nemo was muzzled and S.T.
shackled for these expeditions, a mortification that would have been unbearable
if not for the townsfolks' friendly attitude. Escorted by two constables and the
wolf, S.T. walked the length of the high street, stopped at the King's Arms and
visited Mistral, and walked back, returning the frequent civil salutations with
a genteel nod. His apparent popularity might have been somewhat more gratifying
had S.T. not known that his thousand pound prize was to be awarded to the whole
town of Kendal, and the city fathers had agreed to use the plunder to convert a
town house into public assembly rooms for the entertainment of the good citizens
at cards, plays, and balls.

He didn't doubt they'd attend his execution with the same enthusiasm—but that
awaited the county assizes and his trial.

It all seemed fitting, in its way. He was a favorite even in his downfall, a
properly dashing fellow who didn't give a fig for his circumstances. S.T. knew
how to play the part. He'd played it for years.

For three weeks he waited, until a constable came one morning and said there
was a gentleman to see him. The tardiness of the summons was unsurprising. Upon
his arrest, S.T. had sent a letter to his father's elderly lawyers soliciting
the favor of their counsel. Since they'd already looked upon him askance when
he'd only been the disreputable heir to a dwindled estate, he hardly expected to
find them enthusiastic about defending a prince of the highroad. But he'd an
added intent: he wanted Nemo and Mistral provided for. He had worried over that
the most, lying on his cot at night and staring at the ceiling, stroking Nemo's
head as the wolf lay on the floor next to him.

The only person he trusted to take care of them was Leigh. That much she owed
him. He'd thought on it long and hard, tried to imagine her so cold as to give
his full name to the Crown's authorities . . . and wasn't certain. But he had no
one else. He'd already committed Sirocco to her care when he'd slipped back to
the Roman ruin that night and traded horses, sending Chastity and Sweet Harmony
and Dove to Heavenly Sanctuary on the black to entrust themselves, also, to
Leigh's practical good sense.

He believed in her. He tried and tried, and could not imagine that she would
betray him.

Not Leigh. She did not have dishonor in her.

So now she was going to find herself appointed executor of the last will and
testament of Sophocles Trafalgar Maitland, and heir to a wolf, a horse, assorted
half-finished paintings, a ruined castle in France and bank accounts in fifteen
towns scattered all over England—if the Crown didn't seize the funds as forfeit.

Remember me
, he thought.
Just remember me now and then
.

When the constable came, S.T. reached in his pocket for the folded scrap of
paper where he'd written down all the banks, allowed himself to be handcuffed,
spoke firmly to make Nemo stay, and followed the man outside the cell. He'd
expected to meet the solicitor in the constable's office at the gaol, but
instead he was taken outside, escorted by both officers, across the street and
into an alleyway past stables and garden gates, and finally down the steps into
the servants' entrance of a substantial home.

The cook and scullery maids all lined up, wide-eyed, as S.T. and the
constables passed through the kitchen. "Mind you don't be catchin' flies on yer
tongue, Lacie," one of the constables growled, giving the youngest maid a
friendly cuff.

She dropped a curtsy. "No, sir, Mr. Dinton! No' me, sir!"

S.T. glanced at her as he passed. He smiled from the corner of his mouth. She
giggled and curtsied again, and Cook hissed an order to get back to work.

The constables clumped up the narrow stairs with S.T. between them. They met
a stern-faced housekeeper on the landing. "This way," she said grimly, and
opened the door to a comfortable library. The street-side curtains were drawn
shut, the red brocade allowing only a sliver of daylight through, but a fire
blazed in the hearth and a generous set of candles lit the room.

"Mr. Dinton and Mr. Grant are to wait across the way, in the small parlor."
the housekeeper announced.

"What—and leave 'im here alone?" Dinton objected.

"You are instructed to chain him to the table," she said, her nostrils
flaring as if merely repeating the order offended her. She waited until the
muttering peace officers had seated S.T. and locked his wrists together around
the table leg.

"I only want to make a will," he murmured. "I don't see what all the kickup
is about."

The housekeeper looked down her nose at him and ushered the constables out,
closing the door with a thump. He heard their footsteps cross the hall, and then
another door shut. The housekeeper's shoes clicked away.

He waited. This seemed a monstrous amount of trouble for a common prisoner
and his disinclined defense counsel.

Another set of footsteps approached the door, ponderous squeaks along the
floorboards in the hall. S.T. leaned back against his chair with his shoulders
straight, feeling tense and embarrassed and determined not to show it.

The corpulent figure who opened the door and thumped into the library was a
complete stranger. S.T. sat looking up at him, waiting for an introduction,
figuring his own identity was obvious enough.

For a silent moment, the stout man gazed at S.T., looking him over as if he
were some object on the market, walking left and right with the floor
complaining at each step. In spite of the fleshy figure, his turquoise silk coat
had the cut of a fashionable tailor, and his neckcloth was spotless linen. He
stopped and stuck out his lower lip, his hands in his waistcoat pockets.

"Care to examine my teeth?" S.T. asked curtly.

"Don't be impudent."

S.T.'s handcuffs clashed as he tightened his fists against the chair. "Then
don't stare at me as if you're some bumpkin at the king's menagerie. I want you
to draw me up a testament before we talk of the trial."

The bulbous eyes lowered. "I am Clarbourne," he announced icily.

S.T. lifted his chin, frowning. He gazed at the proud, immense figure, the
heavy jowls and powerful shoulders. Then it struck him, with such force that he
uttered, "My God!" and threw back his head with a bark of black laughter.
"Clarbourne! Egad, I thought you were my lawyer—and lavishly overdressed for the
business at that."

The Earl of Clarbourne, maker of ministries, favorite of the king and prime
force within the exchequer, appeared to find no humor in the misunderstanding.
His wide mouth drew downward contemptuously. " 'Ware the liberties you take,
sirrah."

S.T. eyed him with suspicion. "What the devil does the treasury want with
me?" He looked up slantwise, breaking into a sly grin. "Perhaps you'd like to
appoint a Highwayman-General to supplement the coffers? I'm perfectly willing,
but I shouldn't think you in need of any amateur help with the enterprise."

Clarbourne regarded him with distaste. "I have come to inform you of your
situation, my dunghill cock." He folded his hands behind his back. "The Crown is
in possession of substantial evidence of the activities of this so-called Prince
of Midnight. Sufficient to hang him a score of times over if it so pleases His
Majesty."

He paused, allowing a portentous silence to fill the room.

"I thank you," S.T. said. "Most kind of you to come all this way to share His
Majesty's view of the matter."

Clarbourne drew a snuffbox from his waistcoat and took a pinch, sneezing
heavily. "Your name is Maitland," he said. He walked to the windows and drew one
of the drapes aside a crack with his forefinger. "Sophocles Trafalgar Maitland,
so says the family Bible which your father's solicitors consulted on my behalf.
Lord Luton confirmed your identity."

S.T. waited, keeping his face impassive.

Clarbourne rubbed his nose and sniffed. "This—person— by the name of James
Chilton, who was so disobliging as to get himself shot . . . there is some
question as to who did the foul deed. I understand that you accuse Luton. He is
so amiable as to accuse you. It is all very boring and inconvenient. At a
trial"—he squinted out the narrow gap—"witnesses would be called. Questions
would be asked. Certain—circumstances—would inevitably come to the public
notice."

"Circumstances?" S.T. murmured.

"I have a daughter," Clarbourne said suddenly.

S.T. went still, gazing at the huge silhouette by the darkened window.

Clarbourne dropped the curtain. "The Lady Sophia." His lip curled. "An
exceedingly silly girl. She has lately been calling herself Dove of Peace."

A carriage passed in the road outside, the clatter of hooves and grate of the
wheels the only sound in the quiet room. Clarbourne chafed his hands behind his
back and then turned slowly to look at S.T. with heavy-lidded eyes.

"Ah," S.T. said softly. "Here's a heat."

"A heat indeed. Lady Sophia is betrothed. The family settlements are of some
consequence. You may not realize that she has been—abroad—for the past year.
Perhaps there would be some confusion at your trial, and girls in whom she has
foolishly confided would mistakenly declare that she has been—elsewhere." He
shrugged. "Perhaps not. I am not a man who likes uncertainty." The earl took
another pinch of snuff. "I do not choose that any trial should take place."