Chapter 38
“The line of people who’d turned up to watch “The Fool’s Lord” escorted to the gallows stretched around London.
Before the clocks could chime the time of his execution, the barracks and prisons all went dark.
A network of disguised inmates, workers, and light-skirts had snuffed out all of the candles.
In the dark, Swindle barely made out a familiar figure, the silhouette in signature red, black hair pulled back from an unearthly face through blinding tears.
“Are you going to stare or are you going to let me break you out?”
“How did you-?” He started to question, but knew this woman’s cunning knew no limits.”
Adelaide
Clerkenwell, London
The dock looming further and further behind, Fitzwilliam Pomfrey, 13th Viscount Ludlowe (for now at least), made his way out of a heap of dirty linens and climbed out of a linen wagon. Grimacing as the pain in his ribs and temple heightened at his efforts.
If he hadn’t had places to be, he’d have fallen asleep right there, devoured by a monstrous pillow of billowing linen.
God, but he was sore and exhausted. It was adrenaline mixed with some small spark of hope that propelled him as he stepped onto a street and around a corner before the wagon driver even noticed what had occurred.
He stopped to lean against an alley wall as he examined the contents of his pockets.
He had perhaps a pound to his name, but it was in the sole of his boots.
It was too bad he didn’t have a knife, like the ones Noelle was fond of throwing, tucked in his boots.
He was surprised the ruffians hadn’t stolen his boots to sell.
They weren’t his nicest pair, but still worth several months’ wages, he’d guess.
He’d been swindled from his birthright for the woman he’d loved and left with barely a farthing to his name.
In the book she’d penned…
Damn it, he should stop thinking about that bleeding, bollocking, blasted book and walk home. To her.
Would they even recognize him? The lord of the manor covered in grime and salt water and dust and blood he thought was his own, in nothing but his shirt sleeves and breeches? He’d never been so disheveled in his life. A bath had never been more appealing.
As he came to the intersection of Clerkenwell and Farringdon roads, less than two miles from his Fitzrovia home, he heard a familiar sound.
Something high-pitched, and then it dropped an octave lower.
A questioning whine, then a deepening bark.
He whipped his head around, shielding his eyes as he turned toward the sound.
People walking alongside him on the side street jostled and pushed against him, and he muttered half-hearted apologies.
Suddenly, paws collided with his back. He had to right himself before he toppled into the street. A long, rank tongue darted out to familiarly caress his cheek as the dog fell atop him. He fought to regain his breath, and his bearings.
“Howler?” he questioned. The fuzzy dog nearly the weight of a grown man panted up at him familiarly, then nuzzled his head into his chest.
Fitz laughed. He hadn’t had any idea that one of his saviors in his hour of need would be that damned dog he’d rescued from an illegal dog fight years ago to return the favor.
“I need your help, old chap.”
A carriage slowed and the door opened. “Lord Ludlowe?” a voice called from the carriage, followed by a face that peered out that he didn’t recognize. It wasn’t uncommon for Fitz to be recognized by people he wasn’t sure he’d been properly introduced to, at least not sober.
“Get in,” the gentleman ordered. Fitz climbed aboard the conveyance, facing backward so that he could peer out the little window at the back of the carriage.
Howler followed him inside and sat at his feet.
The other passengers looked none too pleased, but he paid them no heed with the seasoned indifference of a member of the upper orders, despite his bedraggled appearance.
“I can vouch for the young man,” the gentleman said, to an older man with an impressive top hat.
Slowly, the vehicle was emptied of the other inhabitants, including the gentleman whose name he didn’t recall; yet, some gnawing suspicion pulled at Fitz.
Howler rested his head upon his knee. As he looked out the window, he couldn’t make out where the man had gone.
But Fitz could tell the same marked carriage behind him trailed his own through four subsequent turns, at a reasonable distance.
He was being followed.
He beat on the carriage and yelled for the driver to speed up, offering him a small fortune in return. The driver seemed to understand and even share his concerns, as he took a corner with breakneck speed. Fitz’s own heart raced alongside it.
Was his uncle still having him followed? Was Sir Edward still involved?
Had the dratted familiar-yet-unfamiliar man hastily notified his uncle that Fitz escaped from The North Star? Who could possibly move that fast?
Dusty gravel kicked up around the carriage wheels as pedestrians struggled to get out of the way.
Fitz held onto a strip of leather in the cabin as the carriage took yet another turn toward’s Regent’s Park that would take them out of town.
Once the conveyance had reached a quiet spot on the outskirts of the park, it slowed.
Fitz felt a surge of relief. Howler rested his head on his master’s knee.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere the ground seemed to rattle again with the shake of impending hoofbeats.
The floorboards beneath seemed to vibrate as the whole carriage swayed with acceleration.
A loud sound rang through the carriage. Howler jumped in Fitz’ lap and the two held tight to one another as a carriage wheel popped off, and the whole thing toppled sideways, skidding several feet before landing near an embankment in a reverberating heap.