Fire at Midnight (2 page)

He inspected the ornate signet ring he wore. “The informer also caused the ship and goods of Sebastién Falconer, a French smuggler, to be seized by Customs. Meeting up with him in his present mood would result in a worse fate than even I could arrange for you.”

“—James?” Her own voice sounded far away. Her mouth felt as if it had been filled with wool.

“Have no fear; your brother will join you in heaven soon enough.”

She mumbled, and when he leaned down to hear her words, she spat on him, the stream of saliva hitting him squarely in the face. Victor stepped back with an oath, shaking with rage.

“I will allow you that,” Victor ground out as he mopped his face with a silk handkerchief. “I have the intense satisfaction of knowing you will soon be dead.” He yelled and pounded on the cell door, and the face of an attendant immediately appeared. “Where is the usual turnkey?” Victor demanded.

“He’s well into his cups by now,” the young man replied in a bored tone. “I can turn a key same as any man.”

When the attendant stepped back, Victor brushed past him. The staccato rap of boots filled her ears, then faded. The attendant had not moved to follow Victor out of the cell.
Why?
Rachael tensed, her heart pounding.

Groaning, she felt the urge to retch as her stomach suddenly rebelled against the strong drug. The need to purge the contents was bad enough; now she had the added worry of why the attendant had remained.

“Rachael Penrose?”

He stepped forward with a rusty ring of keys in his hand. Placing a lantern on the stone floor, he hastily unlocked the fetters holding her.

“I’m a friend of Tarry’s,” he said as he eased her into a sitting position. “My name is John Wyatt. We’ve not long before the rightful owner of these keys comes looking for them. I have a carriage waiting at Bedlam Gate.”

The shackles fell away. Rachael winced, rubbing where the irons had chafed and bruised her flesh.

“Come, we must get you out of this place,” John urged.

A wave of dizziness swept over Rachael, and she swayed. She could not lift her head without feeling as if she were under water. Shadows in the room shifted like specters; the floor seemed to be moving as well.

“You’re strong, Miss Penrose, or you would not have survived this hellish place.” Rachael felt his arm around her waist, felt him lift her to her feet.

The door to her narrow cell seemed miles away and Bedlam Gate even farther. But for the first time in days hope had eclipsed endless terror.

Warn Tarry. Save James.

The welcome lights of a coaching inn limned the black horizon. John urged the horses forward, desperate to elude the men following. He’d been a fool to believe he’d whisk Rachael through the gates of Bedlam without being observed by one of Brightmore’s minions. The evidence of his folly took the form of the two riders who trailed them on the deserted road. Inside the carriage, Rachael huddled in a corner, unresponsive.

John was the stable master’s son on the Morgan estate. He had witnessed Victor’s attack on Tarry and the theft of the letter. Morgan had asked him to follow his assailant, hoping the man might lead him to Rachael. The thought of his own young wife or sister in Rachael’s predicament was enough to spur him into action.

The inn was all that stood between them and an encounter with assassins. Located on the main road to London, the busy inn saw the bulk of travelers going to and from the city. At least a dozen carriages were being attended, even at such a late hour.

He guided the horses into the midst of a throng of conveyances, jumped to the ground, and opened the carriage door.

Rachael jolted awake with an inarticulate cry, wide, glassy eyes holding no hint of recognition. She shrank against the wall of the coach and looked around in confusion.

“What have I gotten myself into, Tarry?” John muttered.

At the mention of Tarry’s name, Rachael stirred. “Tarry?”

Pity washed over John. Tarry had described Rachael as a striking beauty, but he might not recognize her now.

Starvation and maltreatment had etched the delicate bones of her face in sharp relief, her blue eyes were haunted, and her porcelain complexion had a bluish translucency. Dirt and clinging bits of straw matted her long, sun-gold tresses. Her petite form, slender to the point of thinness, gave her an ethereal appearance.

With a sinking heart, he realized he could not hide Rachael inside a public inn. Not in her condition. He doubted she could manage to walk even a short distance.

“Do you remember me?” he asked. “Tarry sent me.”

She shivered and closed her eyes. “I had a bad dream.”

“That’s two of us,” John mumbled as he doffed his cloak and spread it over her, gently tucking it under her chin.

When he leaned out the carriage window to view the roadway, he saw one of their pursuers dismount and enter the inn. The other man had already begun searching for the carriage among the vehicles assembled outside. John snatched the carriage curtains closed.

“They don’t dare attack us while there are witnesses about,” he said with a bravado he did not feel. The men had only to wait until he became desperate enough to risk the open highway, or until no witnesses remained in the yard.

John leaned across Rachael and swept the curtain on the opposite window aside to view the surrounding carriages, now fewer in number. One fine, lacquered specimen sat parallel to theirs, separated by a few yards.

He threw open the compartment door and hopped down. As he approached the handsome vehicle, he had a brief glimpse of the man and woman inside before the driver slammed the door shut. The woman adjusted the velvet draperies to afford them more privacy.

John removed his tricorne and rapped sharply on the polished surface of the door panel. He waited, and when there was no response, freed the latch and yanked open the door.

With stunning speed, he found himself spun around and pinned with his back against the coach door. He stood face-to-face with a tall, dark-haired stranger whose wide-set, deep green eyes seemed to miss nothing.

John twisted to look at the woman peering at him from inside the carriage. Her complexion was unnaturally white, with smears of carmine at her cheeks. She eyed him with amusement as he stared in fascination at her heavily drawn eyes and bold red mouth.

“Relax, luv, he’s barely more than a lad,” she said.

His assailant suddenly released him, and John stumbled. The man muttered something in French as he entered the carriage again, and the woman laughed. John thrust his hat against the door latch to prevent it from closing.

“Wait!”

The door exploded outward, and he backed away as the man sprang from the coach, wearing an expression as menacing as the stiletto he held. He thrust the blade outward, forcing John to retreat.

John held up his hands to show he was unarmed and was dismayed to see that they shook. “I meant no offense. I am in need of assistance.”

The man spoke to his companion, and she extended a gloved hand toward John. He smiled wanly and shook his head at the gold coin she offered. The man raised one black brow in inquiry, a look of annoyance crossing his face.

“My sister and I were attacked by highwaymen,” John said. “Our coach was stolen. She is frail, and the experience has taxed her to her limit. We must get to Newbury. We have a friend there, Tarry Morgan.”

“Hire a coach,” the Frenchman snapped. His eyes narrowed when John appeared surprised he spoke English.

“I thought you might allow us to share yours.”

“Non.”
The response was quick and definite. “I’m on my way north.”

“All the vehicles have been reserved. A coachman allowed my sister to rest in his empty carriage but only temporarily. She is in no condition to sit a horse.” He cleared his throat to squelch the note of desperation in his voice. “I can pay you.”

“How do you know I won’t take your money and slit your throat?”

“You look trustworthy enough.”

A loud cough covered the woman’s amused laugh. The Frenchman pursed his lips as his eyes made a slow arc across the starlit sky.

“The lady offered me charity a moment ago, at your behest, I believe. That is not the action of a killer,” John pointed out. “After our recent experience, I would feel safer if we were not forced to travel alone.”

He could not think of a more suitable guardian for Rachael than the man standing before him. The foreigner had demonstrated wit, quick reflexes, and a charitable nature, no matter that the last quality had been grudgingly revealed.

The Frenchman whispered to his companion, his gaze still on John’s face.

“I say ‘tis a guileless face he has,” the woman replied. “They’ll not be sending one Englishman to do what the Court of the Exchequer could not.”

“Anna!” The Frenchman spoke to her again, this time in a language John did not recognize. He slashed his finger across his throat in a brutal pantomime demanding silence.

“Right you are, luv,” she said. “We haven’t seen proof the girl exists yet.” She chuckled when her refusal to speak in any tongue other than English brought a glare from the Frenchman.

“Let me see this sister of yours,” the man demanded.

“Of course. Follow me.”

J
ohn opened the door and lifted Rachael out of the vehicle, taking care to conceal her filthy, ragged clothing and bruised limbs with his cloak. She stirred and moaned.

The Frenchman sheathed his dagger in a single fluid movement, his face inscrutable as he beheld the slender form in John’s arms. A slight elevation of his brows and faint pursing of his lips were his only outward reactions.

John was anxious to conceal Rachael within the Frenchman’s carriage and stepped forward impulsively to press Rachael into the man’s arms. The Frenchman accepted the burden in a move that was nothing more than reflex. The muscle in his angular, shadowed jaw tightened.

“My sister, sir.”

The Frenchman drew breath noisily between clenched white teeth. His eyes blazed, and for a moment, John feared the man would fling Rachael to the ground.

Instead, he crossed the distance to his own carriage, booted the gaping door open the rest of the way, and deposited her onto the seat opposite his companion, muttering to himself the entire time.

The Frenchman slammed the door panel shut and rejoined John. “I will take you only as far as Newbury,” he said. “Make no mistake, if you cause me any trouble, I
will
leave you both along the roadside.”

John nodded. “I must express my thanks to the coachman who allowed my sister to rest in his carriage.”
If I put my own coach up for hire, they might follow the decoy.

“Two minutes.” The Frenchman braced a well-shod foot against the carriage board, folded his arms across his chest, and scanned the surrounding area while he waited.

John rounded the corner in search of the coach master and almost collided with one of Victor’s men. The man shouted to his accomplice, quashing John’s hope he had not been recognized, and he sprinted away from them, reckless with terror. He would have to act as the decoy. There was no other choice.

John climbed onto the coach box and urged the horses forward with a yell, attracting the Frenchman’s attention. The man’s relaxed posture became ramrod-stiff with suspicion as John gave every indication of preparing to flee.

“Où allez-vous?”
the Frenchman shouted. “Where are you going?”

John pulled the coach alongside the Frenchman. “Take her to Newbury, and ask for Tarry Morgan. Tell him John Wyatt sent you. You will be paid.” He shook the reins free of the Frenchman’s attempt to snatch them and urged the team forward.

Sebastién Falconer entered the carriage, meeting Anna’s bewildered look with a scowl. Drawing aside the velvet curtain, he glimpsed a rider falling out of the shadows in furious pursuit of the coach driven by Wyatt.

He dropped the curtain back into place before turning his attention to the girl asleep on the seat opposite him and sat brooding for a moment before calling the destination of Newbury to his driver.

“Something is wrong,” he said. “I’d leave her with the innkeeper, but this is not the opportune time or place to call attention to myself. We will be paid to take her to Newbury.”