* * * *
With great trepidation Bethia climbed out of the hackney
coach at the landing where boatmen waited to carry their
passengers across the river. It was even worse than she had imagined. Not only was the water dark, but a light mist was
curling up from the river, like the ghostly fingers in her
nightmares.
The words she had said so blithely to Digory now came
back to haunt her. I want to find out who I am. I want to
know what I am capable of.
So easy to say when she was safe in his arms, but now
the time had come to test her mettle. If she stepped into the boat that was now bobbing gently before her, she would be entering the world he had been telling her about—the world
where a man’s courage and cunning determined his fate,
not the title affixed to his name.
It was not bravado that made her take the boatman’s
hand and allow him to help her down into the boat, because
her terror did not abate in the slightest. Indeed, she felt
more and more sick with each stroke of the oar.
But deep inside her heart was the knowledge that she
could not do anything else. If it were necessary to save her
husband’s life, she would even cast herself into the water.
In comparison, a short ride in a boat was merely a minor
obstacle to be overcome.
By the time she stepped once again onto dry land, she
was so proud of conquering her fear that she plunged right
into the crowd, allowing it to sweep her along to the main
pavilion. From that point on, however, she was on her own,
and she dared not hesitate lest her fears overcome her reso
lution.
Circling the pavilion, she set off down the walk that led
in the general direction of the gazebo where she was sup
posed to meet her cousin.
Even the young bucks who were already half drunk and who were accompanied by half-naked females apparently
recognized from the purposefulness of her walk that she
was on her way to a rendezvous. Other than calling out rib
ald remarks as she hurried past, they did not attempt to ac
cost her.
Turning down the last path that should have led to the
folly, she found herself instead in a cul-de-sac that held
nothing but a stone bench. With a cry of dismay, she turned
to retrace her steps, only to find that her way was blocked
by a man in a scarlet domino.
“Ah, my dear sister-in-law, how delightful you look this evening—so pale and wan and ethereal.”
Bethia had expected one of her cousins, but when the
man removed his mask, she recognized instead the notori
ous Earl of Blackstone.
“Cat’s got your tongue? What a pity.” He leered at her
and took a step forward, but Bethia held her ground, afraid
to let him suspect just how terrified she really was.
“I have brought the money,” she said, holding out the
bag.
He waved his hand negligently. “There is no rush. I have
decided that I shall first claim a kiss or two—just a taste of
what my bastard brother has been getting.” Extending his
arms, to prevent her from darting around him, he moved
even closer.
Too late Bethia realized just how naive she had been.
Little Davey had been right—unforeseen things had a horri
ble way of spoiling the best of plans. And as he had tried to point out, her plan had not been terribly well thought out in the first place.
Somewhere wandering around in the crowd—probably
already at the gazebo where she was supposed to be—were her husband and Little Davey.
But unless she managed to force her way through the shrubbery, Lord Blackstone had her trapped. And if she
screamed or tried to call for help, her cries would be lost
among the many shrieks, squeals, and raucous laughter she
could hear around her.
Which meant she had only her wits to depend on, and
they did not seem at all adequate to the task.
If her husband were here, he would say it was proof that she did not belong in his world. Of course, if he were here,
she would not be in any danger from the wicked earl, who
was coming ever closer.
She was about to take her chances with the bushes, when
two shadowy forms entered the cul-de-sac. The moonlight
was strong enough for her to recognize her husband and
Little Davey, both of whom were considerably larger than
the wicked earl.
Unaware that they were no longer alone, Lord Black
stone said, “Come to me, my pet.” Before he could grab
her, Little Davey caught him by the back of the neck and
lifted him half off the ground.
“We decided to join the party,” Digory said. “Although
if I had known who the host was, I would have forgone the
pleasure.”
Bethia edged her way past Little Davey and threw her
self into her husband’s arms.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No,” she replied.
Little Davey shoved the earl forward, and he stumbled,
but caught himself before he fell. When he turned around to
face them, he had a gun in his hand.
“Surprised to see me back in England?” he said, his
voice mocking.
“A bit,” Digory replied. “I had hoped you’d drowned
after you jumped overboard.”
“It’s not that easy to kill one of the devil’s own,” the earl
said. “I was hauled out of the sea in a fisherman’s net. I am sure there must be some cosmic significance in that.”
“You would have done better to have stayed out of En
gland,” Digory said. “But the odds are good that there’ll be
a place for you on the next ship sailing for Macao.”
“I fear I must decline your kind invitation to travel,” the
earl said with an insouciant smile. “Having sampled the
pleasures to be found in foreign lands, I find I much prefer England.”
Something was wrong here, but Bethia did not know
what it was. The earl should have been at least a trifle in
timidated, but instead he was acting as if this were all nothing more than a game.
“You will excuse me if I say that none of us are particu
larly interested in what a blackmailer likes or does not
like,” Digory said. “And if you think your pistol will pro
tect you, may I point out that you cannot kill the three of us
with only one shot.”
“Ah, but you see, like all successful gamblers, I have an
ace up my sleeve.” Concealing his gun under his domino,
the earl raised two fingers to his mouth and let out a pierc
ing whistle.
There was a sound of hurrying footsteps, and a slight, fair-haired man appeared. Actually he was little more than
a boy, probably about her own age, Bethia estimated.
“Ah, there you are, James,” the earl said. “Let me intro
duce you to these charming people. Mr. and Mrs. Rendel, may I present my dearest friend, James Bartholomew, the Marquess of Baverstock.”
The young man grabbed her husband’s hand and began
to pump it up and down. “Oh, I am so delighted to meet
any friend of dear Geoffrey’s. You must be very proud to
know him. I myself shall always be in his debt. He saved
my life once in Italy, you know, and my pocketbook on too
many occasions to count. The Reverend Mr. Wooddale and
I count ourselves most fortunate to have had him as our
companion, for you would be astonished how many truly
abominable people are to be found in all those foreign
countries. Their only purpose in life appears to be separat
ing innocent travelers from their money, and I freely admit,
the Reverend Mr. Wooddale and I were both truly naive
when we embarked at Dover for the Grand Tour. But once
we met Geoffrey, he was able to guide us around all the pitfalls and protect us from the card sharks and others of their
ilk. Is he not a truly wonderful person?”
“And now if you will excuse us, James and I have plans for the rest of the evening,” Lord Blackstone said. “But be
fore we go on our way, I believe you picked up something I dropped, did you not, Mrs. Rendel?” He held out his hand.
“No,” Digory hissed in her ear, “he will take the money and still betray us.”
But Bethia gave the earl the leather pouch containing the
£3,000, even though she feared her husband was correct.
“If you wish to have further intercourse with me,” the
earl said with a smirk, “James and I are sharing rooms at
the Albany.”
* * * *
“Do you realize how foolish you were to go alone to
meet a blackmailer?” Digory asked as the hackney coach
rumbled back over the bridge.
“I thought it would be one of my cousins.”
“Ah, you thought it would be a man who had already
tried repeatedly to kill you. Well, that certainly explains
why you felt it was safe to sneak out to meet him.”
“You needn’t be sarcastic. I have already come to see the folly of my ways.”
“Then why did you give Geoffrey the money after I told
you not to?”
“Perhaps because I am desperate enough to clutch at
straws; perhaps because—oh, it doesn’t really matter,”
Bethia said. “I am too tired now to argue any more. I admit
I was wrong to come, wrong to keep secrets from you, and wrong to pay off a blackmailer. It is all my fault. From start
to finish, everything is my fault.”
“No, I am to blame for getting you into this predicament
in the first place. I should never have married you.”
It was not his fault, but Bethia found she was indeed too
tired to debate the matter any longer. All she wanted was to
be home in bed with him.
Or better yet, back in his cottage in Cornwall where they
could ignore the rest of the world.
* * * *
As the days went by, Bethia discovered a sad truth about
blackmailers. “Lord Blackstone is acting very peculiar,”
she told her husband when they were alone in bed. “He
comes to all the balls, but he does not dance. It sometimes
seems to me that all he does is look around the room until
he sees us, and then he smiles and departs. Is it my imagi
nation, or have you noticed it, too?”
“It is not your imagination.”
“But why is he doing this?”
“He wishes to remind us that he has power over our
lives. And doubtless it amuses him also to play with us the way a cat sometimes plays with a mouse before killing it.”
“Well, he is making me very nervous. How long will he
keep this up?”
“Until he needs more money. When his luck at the table turns, we can expect to receive another note. And doubtless
he will ask for more the second time, and still more the
third time.”
“Will we never be free of him?”
Her husband was quiet for a long time. “If you tell Cavenaugh what is happening, he will be happy to arrange for an
unfortunate accident. A fatal accident.”
For a moment Bethia actually considered doing just that.
Then she was overcome with shame and guilt that she had even briefly thought about doing such a wicked thing. “I do
not think protecting our reputation is worth a man’s life.”
“Nor do I,” her husband said. “So we had better hope
that Cavenaugh never notices what is going on, because he
might handle the problem without consulting us.”
* * * *
Wilbur Harcourt was in the worst predicament in his life.
Very little stood between him and a cell in the Fleet. He
had no money, and his landlady had stripped him of all his
possessions that could be sold. Or at least she thought she
had.
The first thing he had done when he had recovered
enough to get out of bed, was hide assorted articles under
his bed, pushing them back into the farthest corner, where
she would not see them.
If she had been any sort of housekeeper, she would have
discovered them, but she was in truth a slattern and a cheat,
charging him an exorbitant amount for a very slovenly job
of cleaning.
Unfortunately, although he was able at least to go out in
public, he had insufficient means to leave London, and as
his landlady reminded him every day, the tipstaves were
after him.