Chapter Twenty-One
I never thought I’d see a painting more unsettling than medieval depictions of the Last Judgment.” Alexander stared dumbfounded at the wooden triptych in the castle’s former Great Hall. The picture on the left showed a young Clifville being visited by what Alexander assumed was the ghost of Arthur and the Lady of the Lake. Instead of handing him Excalibur, though, they were offering him the state crown of King George I and the Stone of Scone, the ancient rock used in the coronation of Scottish kings. Evidently, phantom Arthur possessed superhuman strength, as he had seemingly no trouble hefting the huge slab of sandstone. The entire illustration had a biblical feel, almost like an image of the Annunciation, when the angel appeared to Mary and announced her pregnancy with the Christ child. It was also the most prosaic of the three panels.
The tableau on the right was exceedingly gruesome. It depicted recognizable members of King George’s court and parliament succumbing to poison. There was a tangle of limbs, blood seeping from mouths and eyes, lolling and discolored tongues, and mottled flesh. Clifville strode triumphantly through the chaos, swinging an ornate sword and randomly maiming the dead and dying.
The center was not completed but was fully sketched out. Clifville stood triumphantly in the middle, wearing a full suit of armor, his head bare. In one hand, he held Georgina’s helmet. Parts of it had been painted in, including the colorful eyebrows, while other aspects remained simple charcoal lines. The effect was rather chillingly dreamlike—a half-realized, nightmarish fantasy.
Clifville clutched the coronation spoon in his other gauntlet with his metal-covered foot grinding into the severed head of King George II. The likeness of the monarch was disturbingly accurate, made more unsettling by the graphic effects of a deadly toxin. The sovereign’s eyes were bloodshot and more protruding than normal. Spidery veins, the color of mauve, covered his face. His tongue was a marbled purple and black.
“Whenever I closed my eyes in the dungeon, that picture haunted me. To think that Clifville spent years creating such gruesome images.” Pendergrast shuddered theatrically, and Alexander was glad that his friend seemed like his normal self. But Alexander also knew all too well that humor could mask pain. Pendergrast might be making the same quips as before his kidnapping, but that did not mean his captivity hadn’t affected him deeply. Alexander would make sure to spend time with his friend after this, checking up on him, even if Pendergrast outwardly seemed fine.
“This painting makes no sense,” Georgina tapped her finger against her chin as she contemplated the first panel. “Even if Arthur existed, he’s Welsh or maybe English. He wasn’t Pictish, so why did the earl include the Stone of Scone?”
“That is the aspect of this monstrosity that you choose to quibble with?” Pendergrast turned slowly toward his cousin.
Georgina visibly bristled. “Well, Lord Clifville is a historian.”
“A deluded one,” Alexander pointed out. “After all, he does believe that he is the heir to the Round Table—which we have oddly not yet seen.”
“Yes, but even with Lord Clifville accepting that fallacy as the truth, if he adhered to the rest of the legend, it would not make sense to use a Scottish rite in something meant to be exceedingly English. I do realize that Edward I stole the Stone of Destiny in 1296 and installed it in Westminster under the Coronation Chair, but it still seems poor symbolism when Lord Clifville could have drawn Excalibur or the Holy Grail or—”
Jack cleared his throat. “Pardon me, my lady and my lords, but this mightn’t be the best place for debate.”
“He is right, Georgie.” Pendergrast limped to his cousin’s side and slowly raised his arm to sling it around her shoulders. “When Clifville last visited me, the bastard said, and I quote, ‘You must decide now if you will join my side, as I will claim my kingdom in five days hence.’ And that was three turnips ago.”
“Three what ago?” Alexander asked.
“Turnips,” Pendergrast said as if it was common to mark the passage of time with root vegetables. “Since I had no writing implement, I created a pile of them instead of tally marks. Hopefully, I was correct in estimating the length of a day—since he kept those bloody torches burning day and night when darkness didn’t cause me to spill my secrets. So by my turnip count, that only leaves us less than forty-eight hours to reach London. And we’re three normal travel days away from the capital.”
“I could go by horseback,” Alexander said, “but that means I couldn’t take the triptych with me.”
“It would be exceedingly difficult to be granted an immediate audience with the king without it. Both of us have a reputation for frivolity,” Pendergrast said, showing an unusual glimmer of seriousness and an even more rare kernel of introspection. “I doubt anyone would believe that boring old Clifville is plotting a mass poisoning. How he became a favorite of the king, I shall never know. George II is notorious for not liking book learning.”
“Clifville has helped the king acquire rare antiquities and also lent His Majesty a sheen of Englishness,” Alexander said. The German-born ruler’s entire reign had been beset with claims that he and his father should not be on the throne, but rather the Stuarts living in exile in France. The Stuarts were technically next in line, but their Catholic beliefs had made them untenable candidates for Protestant England. But the Jacobite Uprising of ’45 proved that not all agreed. “King George doesn’t have to bother himself with learning the history of our shores. He can just have Clifville drone on. But his reliance on the earl will make him more reluctant to believe our claims.”
Alexander rubbed the handle of his cane as he stared up at the wooden triptych and tried to determine how best to transport it. The middle section was three feet wide by six feet tall. The other panels were the same height but half the length. The pieces wouldn’t fit in saddlebags, although Alexander could fasten them to the back of his carriage.
“I’ll have to drive my curricle back to London,” Alexander said with more confidence than he felt. “It’ll be the ride of my life, but I’ll make it.” Alexander’s political interests lay in stopping the slave trade, improving prison conditions, and ending cruelty to animals. He cared little whether a Stuart or Hanoverian king sat on the throne, but he certainly did not want Clifville commencing a bloodbath.
“Jack and I can carry the painting from the castle,” Tom said.
“Are you certain?” Georgina asked. “Percy said that neither of you have eaten well in days.”
“I’m accustomed to hefting objects much heavier, my lady. And there is an exit to the outdoors on the other side of the great hall. Lord Percy and I were dragged through it when we were first brought here.” Tom nodded his head to the far end of the long, cavernous room, still half shrouded in shadows. Dawn had begun to seep through the narrow windows, but it hadn’t yet penetrated the gloomy space.
Jack and Tom folded the triptych and then grabbed opposite ends. Alexander took the lead, keeping his pistol at the ready. The massive castle seemed all but abandoned, especially in the wee hours of the morning with the servants tucked away in their wing. But the threat of violence still swirled around them. Pendergrast—who had Jack’s gun in his hand—trailed behind with Georgina lending him support.
As they drifted as noiselessly as possible through the crumbling stronghold, more and more pearly pink light illuminated the ancient space. One beam suddenly bisected the room, lighting the one thing that had been missing.
A very, very gaudy replica of the Round Table.
It was painted in the same style as the triptych but with more fantastical images of Lord Clifville slaying wyrms and villainous storybook knights. In the center, he proudly held a golden goblet, most likely intended to be the Holy Grail.
But Alexander knew the decorated piece of furniture wasn’t what elicited the sharp gasp from Georgina. It was her helmet, boldly displayed next to the purloined coronation spoon. Alexander watched as Pendergrast released his grip on his cousin’s arm and made a shooing motion with his hand.
“Go. Go save your helmet.”
Georgina dashed to it, then stopped. Bathed in the rosy glow, she should have looked ethereal. But the serious expression on her face as she inspected her precious find marked her as what she was. A preeminent scholar. Very carefully she reached for it, cradling it against her body.
From a distance, Alexander watched. He wanted to share her joy, but he didn’t feel invited. She didn’t want a sportsman by her side, but a fellow antiquarian—one who would understand this treasure without explanation. This was Georgina’s moment, and Alexander had no wish to intrude.
Pendergrast, however, had no sensitivity to Georgina’s quiet, personal triumph. He limped forward and snatched the coronation spoon. “We best take this, too. Coupled with the painting, it’s undeniable proof of Clifville’s villainy.”
“The sun is climbing higher,” Tom warned. “There didn’t seem to be too many servants here, but they will start stirring soon.”
Alexander hustled the group forward, listening for any footsteps other than theirs. They moved without incident through the rest of the Great Hall and its hodgepodge of rusting armor, which Clifville must have purchased from impoverished aristocrats. Everything had a hint of desperation to it, even the moth-eaten ermine cloak and a collection of ancient-looking goblets.
As they pushed through the heavy wooden door and spilled out of the castle, Alexander thought they’d reached safety. But a hulking figure stood against the bright wash of the morning sky, the barrel of his gun glinting in the emerging sunlight.
It looked like Lord Clifville had another, menacing accomplice: Lord Malbarry.
“Two large coaches are barreling down the road!” Lord Malbarry shouted over the thundering hooves of his own mount and Alexander’s latest team.
It was a good thing that Malbarry had turned out to be investigating the theft of the coronation spoon rather than being part of Clifville’s maniacal schemes. Despite his bulk, the man had proven to be a swift rider as he checked the road ahead for dangers.
The marquess’s vanguard skills weren’t the only way he was helping Alexander and Georgina race to London at an impossible pace. If he hadn’t financed the hiring of new horses at multiple coaching stops, Alexander would have been forced to wait to rest his own bays. But his warmbloods were happily munching hay at the same inn where Pendergrast was holed up with Tom and Jack. Alexander was furiously driving day and night to the capital with Georgina sleeping intermittently at his side and Malbarry riding as a scout.
Alexander slacked their pace to one at which he could easily stop the curricle. As they turned the bend, two rumbling carriages thundered into view. At the sight of the lead one, relief swept through Alexander. He knew that livery. It belonged to Tavish Stewart—Matthew’s benefactor.
The coachmen drew back on their reins while Alexander did the same. His sister popped out of the conveyance, closely followed by her husband and Calliope. From the other coach spilled the Wick cousins, Mr. Stewart, and Mr. Powys. All the women wore men’s clothing, although Hannah hadn’t bothered to hide her red mane of hair. Cradled in Charlotte’s arms was a familiar white fluff, while Pan perched self-importantly on Hannah’s shoulder. It was a wonder that they hadn’t brought the monkey, but Alexander didn’t see the impertinent little face among the group.
“I assume that they’re friends of yours, given that your sister and your best friend are among them,” Lord Malbarry said to Alexander in a low voice that wouldn’t carry to the others.
Alexander nodded as he shot the marquess a look. “I didn’t realize that you knew so much about my family and friends.”
A grin that was more grim than pleasant stretched Lord Malbarry’s normally expressionless lips. “My grandfather ensured that I know everything about the nobility—anything to make me useful to the king.”
“Yet His Majesty doesn’t trust you.”
Malbarry snorted in disdain. “My father was a notorious Jacobite and died a traitor’s death, according to the Crown. His Grace is forever hoping to change the king’s opinion of our family, which is why he ordered me to discover what happened to the coronation spoon.”
“Alexander! Georgina!” Charlotte called as she ran toward them. Although a pouf of feathers obscured Fluffus Legatus’s face, the rooster radiated grumpy disdain as he bounced up and down in Charlotte’s arms, his head perfectly straight. “What happened! You look like you haven’t slept in days, and we never heard from you. We were all so worried.”
Alexander and Georgina launched into an abbreviated version of Percy’s rescue and the Earl of Clifville’s treasonous perfidy. While their friends from the Black Sheep gathered around, Malbarry stood off to the side, towering over them like a distant mountain.
“Blackguard! Villain!” Pan screeched as he paced on Hannah’s shoulder, his feathers puffed up.
“Why are there birds here?” Lord Malbarry finally interjected after staying silent for the entire exchange of questions and answers.
Everyone from the Black Sheep turned in his direction. By their expressions, Alexander assumed that they’d somehow overlooked the giant noble. Alexander wondered if the Wick cousins recognized him as the grandson of the man who’d sent their fathers to prison. Judging by their faces, they didn’t. Sophia’s expression was open and pleasant, while Hannah looked… intrigued. Very intrigued.
Swounds.
Hannah most definitely did not realize Malbarry’s identity. Although the marquess had just spoken with a refined accent, he wore rough linsey-woolsey clothes rather than his normal tailored wools and silks. He didn’t look like a lord but rather a hardworking laborer. Alexander debated whether he should enlighten his cousin, but he didn’t know if the reveal would be wise. She had a fiery temper, and a fight would delay their journey.
Hannah stepped up to Malbarry, a broad, welcoming smile on her face that was tinged with more than a little friendly flirtation. “Pan is our constant companion and an excellent partner in mischief of all kinds. Besides, we were taking the chicken, and Pan would not be left at home. He is an exceedingly jealous type.”
“Oh, I see,” Malbarry said, sounding a bit awkward and more than a tad confused. To Alexander’s surprise, red stained Malbarry’s cheeks, but perhaps it was just sunburn from their long, seemingly endless journey. Alexander immediately forgot about the fellow’s potential blush, however, when the viscount did something even more unexpected. He bowed. To the parrot. “Well, uh, pleased to make your acquaintance, Pan.”
The bird was not impressed. “Blackguard.” And then, because Pan was Pan, he started squawking out vulgarities. “Beast with two backs! Beast with two backs!”
There was no doubt. The stiff, normally self-composed man was blushing. Lord Malbarry’s face was as bright as an ornamental tomato from the New World.
“How did you come to help Alexander and Georgina?” Sophia asked.
“He was about to storm Clifville’s castle in search of the coronation spoon,” Alexander said quickly. He had decided it was best to wait to disclose Lord Malbarry’s identity.
Not even trying to hide her appreciation, Hannah glanced at the marquess. “You look very storm-worthy or storm-ready. Either way.”
Lord Malbarry choked, and then his lips twitched into the faintest of real grins. Before the poor fellow could respond, a gasp arose from Charlotte and Calliope. The two had wandered over to the back of the curricle and had spotted the hideous third panel.
“Is this what Lord Clifville is planning?” Charlotte asked, horrified.
“That… that is my maternal aunt and her husband.” Calliope pointed to two of the prone bodies. For the first time that Alexander could recall, she sounded subdued. “I had tea with her earlier this week, and she mentioned attending a banquet hosted by the king. It is tonight. You’ll never be able to make it to St. James’s before the meal is served. By the time you arrive at the outskirts of London, the roads will be too congested.”
“You’re such a fast rider, Calliope.” Charlotte grabbed her friend’s hands. “You should go and warn your aunt.”
Calliope shook her head. “Even on horseback, I doubt I could get through. If by some miracle, I did, it still wouldn’t work. I may be able to convince my aunt, but not my uncle. He finds me vulgar and prone to excessive whimsy. My aunt will never gainsay him.”
“If only we could stop London traffic,” Alexander said as frustration burned through him.
“Maybe we could send a rider ahead and ask George Belle for help,” Sophia said. “His main stables are on this side of London, and he is there today taking care of business. Belle could map out the best route.”
“Doesn’t he control a large number of London’s hackney carriages?” Georgina asked.
“Yes,” Sophia said.
“Is it a well-organized network with communication between the drivers?” Georgina asked.
Alexander turned to watch her closely. Georgina definitely had a plan.
“Yes. Belle likes his drivers to pass on information to others about traffic situations and places needing carriages. The coachmen have a series of hand signals that Belle developed with my help,” Sophia said.
“Perhaps if all of his coachmen coordinated their efforts, they could halt traffic and provide us passage through the streets,” Georgina said. “It would be a bit like controlling the flow of water.”
“It sounds difficult to coordinate,” Sophia said slowly, “but if anyone could manage such a miracle, it would be Belle.”
“Who shall deliver the message to him?” Mr. Powys asked. “I’d volunteer, but I didn’t grow up around horses, and I can’t ride.”
“I’m lightweight, and I travel fast,” Calliope offered.
“Here, use my steed.” The marquess dismounted and handed the reins to the duke’s daughter. “The stallion is rather fresh and has a few miles left before you’ll need to exchange him for another at a coaching inn. There’s one in Pudingham. Give them my name.”
Calliope nodded and then sprang onto the horse. Lying low over the beast’s neck, she took off at a gallop. She practically melded with the animal, making a single unit.
“Bye-bye! Bye-bye.” Pan cackled the words gleefully until he turned on Hannah’s shoulder to glare with his one eye at Fluffus Legatus, who was still nestled in Charlotte’s arms. “Birdie bye-bye. Birdie bye-bye.”
“Pan has a low tolerance for other feathered beings,” Hannah said wearily. “It is why we put them in separate carriages. Things have not been calm at the Black Sheep with the rooster in residence.”
“If Alexander and Georgina are to invade a dinner at St. James, then they should take Crinitus Legatus.” Charlotte walked back to the curricle. “Chickens have become a necessary accessory for the fashionable set. You might look amiss without one.”
“Are you bamming me?” Alexander asked as amusement trickled through him despite the dire circumstances. “Did my joke actually take root, especially so quickly?”
“Impressively so,” Charlotte said. “Shall I place him in the basket with Ruffian Caesar?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t want him flying out on the curves,” Alexander said.
“I’ll ride with you and Miss Harrington in the curricle until I can hire another mount,” Malbarry said as Charlotte carefully nestled the rooster beside Ruffian Caesar.
When Georgina pressed tightly against Alexander to make room for the marquess, he tried to calm his natural reaction. It would be a crush until they reached Pudingham, and Alexander couldn’t spend the entire time with an overheated body. He needed to be primed for another sort of action entirely. And he couldn’t risk thinking about his attraction for Georgina, not with their relationship doomed before it even began.
He could hurt later when he wasn’t responsible for carrying off the impossible. It would take all of his skill at the leathers—and even more luck—to reach the outskirts of London in time, let alone to accomplish the mad dash through the city streets.
But he’d always enjoyed a challenge.
Alexander should have been steeped in exhaustion. After all, he’d driven hard for two days and two nights. His jaw hurt from clenching it so tightly as he barreled toward curves, judging how fast he could take them. Even with his thick gloves, his hands were rubbed raw, but he’d stopped registering the pain long ago. The muscle aches in his arms had become familiar companions. He was only glad that he still had the strength to yank on the reins. His throat had grown scratchy from yelling commands, but even if rough, his voice was clear enough. His bad leg—well—it was a cramping mess, but he’d suffered worse agony from the surgeries.
Yet despite the soreness and downright pain, exhilaration rushed through Alexander as he dodged yet another farm wagon. The driver yelled, shaking his fist. Fluffus Legatus began his nervous bock ing, inspiring Ruffian Caesar to let loose a string of barks. Georgina shouted an apology above the hullabaloo before the four of them swung around another bend. Out of the corner of his eye, Alexander watched as she now expertly shifted her body to avoid being tossed about. The basket kept chicken and mutt safe, despite the animals’ protestations to the contrary.
His dear Miss Georgina Harrington of the Essex mud pit was a remarkable woman. She’d kept him company the whole time, only dozing in small snippets here and there. He’d loved her stories, even those about antiquity. History through her keen observations fascinated him.
Yes. He could play the scholar for her, but he couldn’t forsake his wildness. But watching her whoop joyfully as they snaked down a windy hillside, Alexander knew Georgina possessed just as much daring as he—perhaps more. Why couldn’t they be both scholar and adventurer? He needed to at least present the idea to her. If she still rejected it, rejected him, then he would listen. But he owed it to himself to be honest about his feelings.
However, racing pell-mell down the road was not conducive to love confessions—no matter how heartfelt.
Three riders suddenly appeared on the crest of a hill: Malbarry, Calliope, and Mr. Belle. When they drew up beside them, Mr. Belle tossed a rolled-up map to Georgina.
“Can you read it?” he asked as she flattened it out.
“Yes—although I’m more accustomed to ancient ones with less road details and more monsters.”
“London itself is the belly of the beast.” Mr. Belle tempered his ominous words with a cocky grin. “But I’ve already slayed it for you. It’s a madcap plan, but it just might work. Lord Malbarry, Calliope, and I will ride ahead to guide you and ensure the roads are properly blocked.”
“Thank you,” Georgina said.
“Are you ready for fun?” Mr. Belle asked Alexander.
“It’ll be a treat racing through London’s streets unhindered.” When Alexander said the words, he realized that they weren’t just false cheer. He wanted to whip through the capital at a breakneck speed with the woman he loved by his side. “Let’s go.”
As Alexander drew deeper into the city, he wasn’t precisely sure what to expect. Then he heard the shouts and the yells. As they burst into an intersection, Mr. Belle’s carriages were blocking two of the thoroughfares. Wagons, other hackneys, and elegant coaches were piled up behind. Men of all social classes milled about the jammed streets, but Mr. Belle’s men held them back. Horses whinnied, and ladies with powdered hair poked their heads from curtained conveyances. Some of them were hurling invectives even worse than the fellows.
In contrast to the chaos on the dammed thoroughfares, the path in front of Alexander was clear. It was odd and thrilling to barrel past the half-timbered buildings with their exposed wooden supports and white plaster walls. At a dizzying speed, they thundered by shops with dangling signs. People poured from the coffeehouses and taverns, eager to watch the spectacle.
Sometimes they were greeted with cheers, other times with jeers, and normally a mixture of both. The whole city had come alive, brimming with curiosity, confusion, and outrage.
Even with Mr. Belle’s men eking out a path for them, Alexander still had to remain alert. Children darted into the streets—sometimes followed by their panicked mothers. A big dog ran alongside them, barking at Ruffian Caesar and Fluffus Legatus. A burly fellow burst through Mr. Belle’s line of men at one intersection and stood wide-legged in the middle of a thankfully large thoroughfare. On a windy back alley, they encountered a bleating goat that almost rammed the curricle. The surly animal even chased after them for several blocks as Ruffian Caesar growled and Fluffus Legatus cowered.
There were dirt-packed lanes and bone-rattling cobblestone ones. They whipped through twisty alleys with sudden sharp turns obscured by the hodgepodge of buildings and charged down fancy thoroughfares with huge townhouses. Alexander led the horses around crescents and over bridges. The curricle crunched through piles of refuse and groaned as it swung past grand statues. Waifs in dirty threadbare clothes waved, and well-dressed ladies in fine gowns gasped. He, Georgina, and their animal companions traversed rich neighborhoods and poor ones, but at every intersection, there was the same jumble of humanity trying to break through.
Triumph roared through Alexander as he and Georgina pulled up to St. James’s Palace just as members of the nobility were departing from their carriages. He’d done it. They still needed to breach the royal residence and convince the king, but Alexander had accomplished a truly Herculean task. He’d finally wrestled and beat his own Nemean lion.