Page 23 of The Lady and the Secret Lord (The Duke’s Men #3)

P hoebe’s attempted escape was short-lived. The count might need a cane, but his burly assistants were swift and brutal. She had stumbled over her skirts and gone down on an uneven stretch of cobbles. Her hands had taken the brunt of her fall, the delicate kid of her gloves no protection against the stones. One of her captors had lifted her and slammed her against a wall before he’d hauled her up by her elbows and dragged her back to the count. The hem had separated from her muddied skirts in the fall. One knee throbbed painfully, and her palms, scraped raw in her fall, stung. The only weapon she could think of to grab was a handful of small loose stones. She made herself close her stinging palms around them. Her captors dragged her through the bollards into the shadowy alley.

“Foolish girl,” the count remarked.

Then, miraculously, a brilliant yellow carriage pulled up at the end of the alley, as if they were back in Mayfair. Her cousin Henry jumped down, and looped his reins around one of the bollards. Phoebe stared, unable to make sense of his arrival, her heart torn between hope and fear. The count gestured to his men, who stepped back into the shadows, not far away, while he stepped forward next to Phoebe.

“Hello, cousin.” Henry strolled through the bollards in his usual amiable way, as finely turned out as if for a drive in the park with his greatcoat giving him a fashionable breadth of shoulder, and his boots polished to a gleam that shone even in the dusk. He looked very out of place, and Phoebe realized he was not part of the count’s scheme.

“Hello, Henry, what brings you here?” she asked. He looked puzzled about it himself. Had he come alone?

“Hello, Count.” Henry frowned. “I say, what are you about? Not the thing to bring a lady to this part of town.”

“Marchmont,” said the count. “You mistake the matter. I merely encountered Lady Phoebe and offered her my assistance. A message from that runner you hired misled her. She came here looking for her brother.”

“Oh, right. Well, then I must thank you.” Henry swung his puzzled gaze to Phoebe, and his eyes widened at her appearance. “No need to look any longer, cousin. Andrew is alive and safe.”

“Henry, you saw him?” Phoebe started forward before a movement in the shadows checked her. “How? Where?”

Henry blinked at her, obviously trying to arrange his thoughts. At last, he said, “Mrs. Kendall told me.”

“What good news, Lady Phoebe.” The count shifted his cane to his other hand and gripped Phoebe’s arm in an unforgiving hold. He was, after all, a big man for all his smooth ways. She sucked in a breath, but stood steady. “Marchmont, you may have noticed that there are no cabs about. I’ve offered to take Lady Phoebe up the river in my boat. You caught us just on the point of leaving.”

Henry frowned at the count’s hand on Phoebe’s arm, and squared his shoulders. “Don’t trouble yourself, Count. I have my rig here. Happy to take Cousin Phoebe with me. Can go straight to Marchmont House. Come along, Phoebe,” he invited.

At Phoebe’s side the count tensed. Henry’s appearance on the scene was clearly not part of his plan. She had one cousin, at least, who had not betrayed her. The count wanted her to go with him. If she resisted now, would his bully boys attack Henry? Would Henry be dragged to the river? Could he get away?

“My dear, you’re probably enjoying this, aren’t you?” the count said. “What lady does not enjoy having two gentlemen vying over which of them gets to serve her? Marchmont, she thanks you, but as I have the prior claim, I think we’ll be on our way.”

“No,” said Henry.

“No? Marchmont, don’t be foolish, let Lady Phoebe decide.”

*

Robin sprinted down the first opening he came to between wharves. Bolton must have a boat waiting. Looking back along the shore, he saw a wherry at the base of the Swan Stairs, a lantern on its stern throwing light over two men hunched on the aft bench. Two was an unfortunate number, but the men were drinking, and one of them enjoying a pipe, the smoke of it wafting to Jones on the breeze. The wherry’s bow rested on the mudflat, while the length of the boat floated in shallow water, its oars aslant, ends in the water. It was those oars, Jones wanted. Without both oars, the boat could not be used.

Several yards of exposed shingle gleamed wetly below him in the fading light. He looked for a place to drop down. When he found it, he stripped off his coat, white shirt, and boots. He lowered himself over the embankment, landing softly, his feet sinking a bit into the rock-strewn mud. He recovered and stood in the shadow of a jutting piling, quieting his breathing. From the refuse on the shingle, he pried up a dark wine bottle crusted with barnacles. Then he slipped into the water. It was cold enough to make him catch his breath, but he moved with a swift gliding stroke. The lapping of wavelets on the shore covered the noise until he came to a deeper shadow within reach of the near oar.

The two men in the wherry talked on, pausing now and then, with heads cocked toward the stairs. Out in the river’s main channel, a long barge went by on the incoming tide with lanterns lit. As the men on the barge called out and the men in the wherry answered, Jones struck. He lifted the near oar free of the gunwale, slid it into the water, and glided back up the river, the barge wake rippling the water around him.

He emerged from the river and stood the oar upright. Water rolled down his chest and cold puckered his skin. He needed one more distraction to make the stairs. He chose a moment as one fellow took a swig and the other tamped his pipe, and hurled the bottle he’d pried from the mud. It hit the water beyond the boat with a satisfying splash, and both men turned to the sound. Jones dashed up the stairs with the oar, and pressed his length against the bricks.

A frozen tableau met his gaze. Henry Marchmont, his face chalky white, stood on the river side of the bollards, holding out a shaking hand to Phoebe. Phoebe, her back to Jones, was pinned to Bolton’s side by his grip above her elbow. In two places, one on each side of the wall, a lumpy misshapen shadow hinted at the presence of Bolton’s hired fists. Jones saw no weapons.

He stepped out of the shadows. “Bolton, the lady wishes to go with her cousin.”

The misshapen lumps in the shadows stirred. Bolton pivoted, swinging Phoebe around, hard. Her back slammed against the wall.

“Oh, I say,” Henry cried. “No need for that sort of thing. No need at all.”

Bolton’s gaze flew to Robin, furious and then merely contemptuous. “Jones, how convenient of you to appear and in such a state. You anticipate my plans, I think.”

“It’s time to change your plans, Bolton. Too many people know about your business now. Game over. You lose.”

Bolton laughed. “You don’t understand who you are dealing with, Jones. People underestimate a man with a cane. They think a feeble limb means a feeble mind. Your interference is nothing. A mere setback. My business needs only a new name, a new location. It will thrive again. There will always be a need for the services I provide, whenever a family wishes to remove an unworthy heir from their midst.”

“But there is no unworthy heir in this case. You were misinformed about the boy Andrew. He’s not a bastard as your informant, who reads no Latin, wrongly supposed from that old letter. The unfaithful wife and her bastard child were ancient Romans.” It was a small thing, but Jones could see that Bolton felt its impact. The man did not like to be found wrong on any point.

“But you are someone’s by-blow, aren’t you Jones? A man who counts for nothing in London. You and that entire absurd police force of yours have not the wit among them to bring me down.” A sly cast came over Bolton’s features. “You might even be one of my by-blows.”

There it was, the old slur, the thing about Robin’s past that he had resisted knowing from the moment he understood that he and his mother were alone in that London street. He had wondered for years what sort of father abandoned a wife and child. Bolton had named the precise fear that Robin had never spoken, not even to Wenlocke, that he, Robin, might be a bastard, and that his father refused to claim.

He looked at Phoebe, and it didn’t matter. He could see her clearly now. She wore no disguise, only her fierce love for her brother that made her willing to stand up to Bolton, her gloved hands clenched, her posture one of unflinching readiness. Robin straightened. He was who he was, a detective. He needed no other rank and no name of distinction to stop a murderer.

“You’ve slipped, Bolton. You’re making mistakes that can’t be covered up. Those you command will see you going down, and there is no loyalty in rats. They will slink back into their hidey holes when you are taken.”

“Who’s going to take me? Not you, not some no-name copper with an imbecile fop at his side.”

“You forget, Lady Phoebe.”

A brief flash of confusion showed in Bolton’s face. His eyes shifted, but he did not turn to her. He shrugged. He plainly did not consider Phoebe an opponent, but Robin guessed that Phoebe was waiting to act. There was no way to tell her what to do, and she had no umbrella, but she was a determined woman.

“A good jest, Jones, but we must bring this amusing little interlude to a close. I have a steam packet to catch.”

“I don’t jest, Bolton,” Robin said. “Dismiss your hirelings. Let the lady go to her cousin. And you’ll have only one bastard copper between you and your boat. I doubt you can get past me.”

*

Phoebe’s heart lurched. It was a brave stance. They were in darkness now except for Marchmont’s carriage lights, and a lantern at the base of the wall about midway down the alley. Jones stood in the faint illumination of that single lantern, barefoot, stripped down to his trousers, which clung wetly to his thighs. He held a long oar in one hand, as if it were a Knight’s lance of old. She had imagined once that he was like a sculpted poster pugilist, but she saw that he was something more. She had not understood who he was. She had thought him unadorned in his plain coat, but now she saw that he needed no adornment. Brown worsted had hidden the true splendor of muscled shoulders and arms and a taut torso. His easy stance concealed a coiled readiness to act. Phoebe shifted the pebbles in her grip, ready to help.

“Count,” Henry pleaded. “Be reasonable, man. Not good ton to hold my cousin. Who will invite you anywhere?”

Bolton laughed. “Marchmont, who will invite you anywhere once that old woman passes, and you and your sister depend on your nip-cheese, sheep-loving father? At least your sister understands how the world works.”

Jones lifted the oar in his grip, cocking it aslant, bracing the base against his foot, his arm extended. “You’ll need this if you wish to make that packet.”

Bolton gave a sharp order to the men in the shadows. Two hulking figures separated themselves from the wall and became visible as toughs with broad backs, heavy boots, and ham-sized fists hanging at their sides. Phoebe knew exactly how brutal they could be.

They would rush him, and she did not like the odds. Jones waited. She lifted her free hand and sent a hail of small stones against the lantern. Both toughs turned. Jones sprang forward, the oar lowered like a shovel, and jabbed the blade of it into the ankle of the man on his left. There was a snap, and the man went down roaring. Without stopping his forward surge, Jones flipped the oar horizontal and jammed it between the bricks. It stuck, making a barrier across the alley.

Beyond the fallen man, Bolton moved, dragging Phoebe with him. Phoebe twisted and dug in her heels, trying to free herself from the grip above her elbow. Looking back, she saw the second man lunge at Jones and stop, perplexed by the barrier of the oar.

A single gunshot sounded, and Bolton’s cane flew out of his grip to clatter on the stones. His hand on her arm loosened. Phoebe shook herself free. Her ears rang with the echo of the shot, but she stooped to pick up the fallen cane. The man coming at Jones, turned and pressed himself back against the wall.

Bolton straightened, and pulled a small pistol from an inside coat pocket. He aimed it at Jones. “You nameless, interfering whelp.”

“Actually, Bolton,” said a deep, amiable voice from the darkness beyond the bollards, “Jones is not nameless. It is true that he has yet to claim his name, one you stole from him years ago.”

Bolton spun toward the voice, and the Duke of Wenlocke stepped from the dark, a fine dueling pistol leveled at the other man. “I think it only fair to point out, that reinforcements have arrived. Police have arrested the fellows in your boat below, and more constables wait behind me. Jones, you see, is well-liked on the force.”

Bolton’s pistol now wavered toward Phoebe. She lost sight of Jones in the darkness beyond the lantern’s glow and fixed her gaze on Bolton.

“Old injury bothering you, Bolton?” Wenlocke’s cordial voice was at odds with his words. “Who was it that you killed in that duel? A cousin of yours? You contrived the duel and fired first, so that you could acquire his property when his young wife and heir were not to be found. That’s what started your business, was it not?”

“She was hot as the tropics for me that one,” Bolton said, his gaze on Phoebe.

“She wasn’t, but you wanted the world to believe that when you slandered her.”

“Old news, Wenlocke, what is your point?”

“Merely a bit of information. You have lost in the end. The rightful heir has been found, no bastard as you wanted the world to believe.” The gun in Wenlocke’s hand remained steady.

Phoebe didn’t see Jones. She sensed that he was close, ready to act. Her gaze wavered slightly. Bolton spun, and Jones leapt. Phoebe brought the cane down on Bolton’s hand. Jones slammed into Bolton. The gun went off, and the two men went down on the stones.