Chapter Twenty
Greyson was having a hell of a morning until he spotted Letitia standing in front of the clock shop, staring into the window.
The tightness in his muscles eased, and his mind, preoccupied with Black Knight business, relaxed.
If he was being honest, every time she was nearby, his disorderly world straightened.
The sky grew bluer. The clouds fluffier and whiter.
The birds chirped more melodiously. He could go on, but he didn’t need to convince himself.
After what they shared at Club Knight and the other night in her chambers, he knew how connected they were, how right they were together.
Letitia needed convincing. Or perhaps she didn’t feel what he did?
No. He didn’t believe that for a moment.
He understood she wanted to spend time with her son instead of going to Gunter’s with him.
Yet he had the strangest feeling she wanted to avoid him.
Feeling disconcerted, he walked up and down Bond Street on both sides until he came upon a hothouse.
He went inside and ordered two dozen red roses to be sent to Letitia that afternoon.
He hoped she would understand their significance.
Red rose petals had spread across the bed and the floor the night they made love, the night of the masquerade ball.
He hoped that night meant as much to her as it had to him.
He wrote on the card that would accompany the flowers:
My Dearest Letitia,
Roses for the lady who holds my heart in the palm of her delicate hand.
Greyson
When he returned to Danbury Hall, a letter awaited him.
He frowned at the handwriting he recognized as Knight’s, along with the seal belonging to the Duke of Tremont.
He wondered how Knight managed to be a husband to his new wife while running Club Knight, leading the Black Knights, and, of course, being the Duke of Tremont.
And how did the duchess feel about it? It gave Greyson hope when it came to Letitia and making her his wife.
If she’d have him. He realized he was stalling about reading Knight’s note.
Nothing good ever came of receiving a note from him.
And once he’d read it, he knew he was right. Knight had heard a rumor that a group of protesters was planning to march to Carlton House that night in protest of the upcoming executions of the Pentrich Rebellion leaders.
It was one of the reasons Prinny created the Black Knights, to defuse situations by stopping the protestors at the outset before any bloodshed occurred.
Greyson knew Knight paid significant sums to spies spread throughout England, reporting on any rebellions rising up.
But somehow, Knight hadn’t gotten word of this one before the people formed.
Once the good people of England gathered in protest, carrying whatever crude weapons they could find, the Black Knights would find keeping the peace difficult.
Prinny wanted peace in England, but the task was difficult.
Before he went up to his chambers to change, he said to Henderson, “Please send a footman to the mews and have Whisky brought around. I’m going out, and I don’t know when I’ll return.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He hurried to his chambers to change into riding clothes.
He tucked a loaded pistol into each jacket pocket and hoped like hell he wouldn’t need them.
But anything could happen, and it was best to be prepared.
His assignment was to keep the peace and protect the royal family. Not always an easy thing to do.
Dalton helped him with his boots, frowning the entire time. His driver Reed, the groom Stevenson, Henderson, and Dalton knew of his secret work with the Black Knights. He needed their help on occasion, especially Reed and Stevenson. But tonight, he was taking his horse, not the unmarked carriage.
When he was ready to go, Dalton said, “Be safe, my lord.”
“Always,” he replied, then exited, descended the stairs, went out the door, and mounted Whisky.
It was nearing four in the afternoon, and the streets were crowded with horses and carriages as the ton made their way to various parks throughout London.
Hyde Park was the most frequently visited, and unfortunately, he needed to pass right by the entrance, which was why he was on horseback.
He could weave his way around the slow carriages and riders.
Finally, he arrived at Club Knight, dismounted, tossed his reins to the stableboy, and hurried to the back door. After knocking the secret knock, Cooke let him inside. “Good, you’re the last to arrive.”
“Everyone is here?” Greyson couldn’t believe all the Black Knights had returned to London from their assignments.
“Yes.”
They made their way down to the lower level. The closer they got to the room, the louder the voices grew. Inside the room, Cooke shut and bolted the door, and Greyson took his usual seat in the circle.
Knight stood and began pacing the room, looking anything but happy.
“Drink your brandy and I’ll make this quick.
The protesters are five miles west of London.
If we hurry, we may intercept them and persuade them to return home.
If the Dragoons, the yeomanry, or infantry regiments reach them first, there will be bloodshed and arrests. We need to prevent this.”
“Where are the Dragoons who were joining us temporarily?” Greyson asked.
“I sent them to Carlton House.”
“Good.”
“Any questions before we saddle up?” Knight asked, stopping his pacing and looking each member in the eye. When no one spoke up, he said, “Good.”
They filed out of the room, up the stairs, and out the door to the front of Club Knight, where each of their horses was waiting. Greyson mounted Whisky.
“Ride with me, Greyson,” Knight said. “The rest of you pair off. We need to blend in and avoid drawing attention. You saw the map. We’ll meet at the grove of trees I pointed out, two miles from here.”
There was no need for words as the men rode off in pairs in different directions, looking like two gentlemen taking a late afternoon ride.
Greyson and Knight were the last to leave, taking the busy London streets in plain sight, straight through fashionable Mayfair.
The entire time they rode, Knight was silent, and Greyson wondered what the duke was thinking.
Did he worry about his wife if he never returned?
Something Greyson had never worried about until he met and fell in love with Letitia.
Well, he did occasionally worry about his family, but he knew his cousin, Jacob Morton, would step in and care for them.
Thirty minutes later, they met the rest of the Black Knights in the grove of trees outside London proper. “Greyson, you’ll ride in front with me,” Knight said. “Cooke and Sweeney, take up the rear. When we approach the marchers, let me do the talking.”
Greyson once again rode alongside Knight. “Do you think they will listen to reason?”
Knight looked over at him. With his mask covering his deformed face, it was hard to read his thoughts.
“If their leader is a reasonable man, possibly. No doubt they know the consequences of marching to Carlton House. Even if Prinny told the Dragoons, the yeomanry, and soldiers to keep it peaceful, anything can happen. It only takes one person to start bloodshed.”
The sound of chanting and clanking weapons grew louder as a crowd of perhaps fifty men came into view. Knight raised his hand to halt the Black Knights and sent them fanning out to block the road. The protesters stopped and prepared to fight.
“My name is Knight, and I serve the Prince Regent. We come in peace. Who leads this march?”
A tall, large, middle-aged man stepped forward. He was dressed as a sheep farmer. “I am.”
“As you can see, we aren’t soldiers. But if you continue to London and Carlton House, you will encounter soldiers, opposition, and possibly bloodshed and arrest. Are you willing to risk this?”
“Yes.”
“If you continue on your path, some of you could hang. Doesn’t that cut at the very reason you are marching today? In hopes of saving three souls from death.”
Several of the men in the front conversed, and then the leader said, “Why should we believe you?”
“Many of the rebellions during the past several years have led to bloodshed, imprisonment, or hanging. The Prince Regent is tired of his good subjects in England being led astray by radicals hiding behind their print. Return to your homes. Marching to the entrance of Carlton House will be seen as a threat to the royal family. Please, I beg of you, don’t continue your quest. You want to save three men from hanging.
Doing it this way will only add to that number. It won’t accomplish what you want.”
Again, several of the men talked among themselves. Some seemed agitated, others weary, and some determined to see this through.
“May we speak privately?” the shepherd-farmer said to Knight.
“Yes.” Knight dismounted and handed Greyson his reins. The two stepped to the side of the road and spoke quietly.
It was then that the sound of foot soldiers bearing down on them was heard, led by their leader on horseback. The soldiers arrived, swords drawn. The leader yelled, “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Wright. Put down your weapons and go back where you came from, and no one gets hurt or arrested.”
Knight approached the Lieutenant Colonel.
Wright leaned down, and they spoke quietly.
Greyson noticed that as the conversation unfolded, several young lads in the middle of the protesters were getting antsy.
No doubt eager to continue their quest. Young, wet-behind-the-ears lads who wanted to prove themselves, no matter the cost to others.
“Knight!” Greyson bellowed and jerked his head toward the lads.
Knight approached the leader of the protesters, and they exchanged words. Knight had turned to his horse when a lad rushed him with a shovel.
“Knight!” several Black Knights yelled.
Knight turned and ducked out of the way of the shovel, then wrestled it from the boy’s hands. “Do you have a death wish, lad?”
But it was too late. That one lad and his bad choice caused the infantry to rush forward, and weapons clashed.
Greyson and the rest of the Black Knights dismounted and ran forward to stop the fighting.
Unfortunately, when the confrontation ended, several people on both sides were injured, and the Lieutenant Colonel had the protesters’ leader arrested.
Convinced the remaining men would be returning home, the infantry soldiers left, leaving the cleanup to Knight.
During the skirmish, Greyson ran toward one of the protesters to keep him from stabbing a soldier with his pitchfork.
It was a much to save the soldier as it was to save the lad from the hangman’s noose.
He’d sworn an oath to keep the peace and he would do everything in his power to keep his word.
But as he shoved the soldier aside, the pitchfork was already in motion.
The lad’s eyes widened in shock as a searing pain pierced Greyson’s thigh, and he collapsed to the ground.
The lad, no doubt, fearing for his life, pulled the weapon out and ran, leaving him on the ground, breathing through the agonizing pain radiating down his leg.
Blood quickly soaked his tan riding breeches.
Retired Captain Sweeney reached him first. “Christ! What the hell?” he yelled as he removed his cravat and used it as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. Greyson gritted his teeth to keep himself from screaming. The pain was so intense that the world swirled around and around, then faded away.
The next thing he remembered was waking up in a strange room, on a strange bed, with a physician working on his thigh, which burned and stung at the same time it was tingly and numb.
“Wh-what are you doing?” he said in a raw voice.
“Easy, Viscount. I’m the duke’s physician, and I’m trying to save your leg. I’ve cleaned your wounds. Had to pick out dirt, grass and rust first. Now I’m packing the puncture wounds. You were lucky the pitchfork didn’t go deep enough to hit bone.
Had he said trying to save your leg? He tried to lift his head to see his leg, to no avail.
“Be still.”
“I want to see my leg.”
“You can later. Right now, I need you to stay still and keep off it. You’re under bed rest for the foreseeable future. And let us hope infection doesn’t set in.”
“Where am I?”
“Tremont Manor. I’ve done all I can for now.
” He removed a brown bottle from his valise and using a dropper put some into a cup.
The doctor helped Greyson raise his head.
“Drink this. It will curb the pain and help you sleep. What you need is sleep and rest to heal and fight infection if it happens upon you.”
Greyson drank the entire contents of the cup, knowing the doctor put laudanum in it to help him with his pain.
“Rest. Do not, under any circumstances, get up from this bed.” The physician placed the spoon and laudanum on the bedside table. “I’m sending a nurse to keep watch over you. She will have instructions.”
“Thank you, I think.”
“Don’t thank me until we know if your leg can be saved.”
Once again, those words. Sweat broke out on his brow, and he couldn’t move his arms or anything as he drifted into an unnatural slumber in which he dreamed of being bitten in the leg by a huge, vicious dog.