Thirty-nine
Fort
While Lavender spoke, Fort gauged the appalled audience’s reaction and held back his need to leap in front of her, sword in hand.
At her na?ve demand for confession, Fort feared the worst. To animals like this, Lavender was an easy target, a catalyst for violence, and not the intelligent defender of community that she was.
Hand on sword, easing from his seat, he admired her courage in speaking. . .
And then his damnable brother stood up and the shouting began.
Fort was in front of Lavender before anyone else reached their feet. He whispered in her ear, “Thank you, you have raised a sleeping giant, and now this is about to become rowdy. Warn Verity to send for our reinforcements.”
He pressed the script into her hands. He’d noticed she followed the words better when the actors spoke. He should have realized she’d never had a nanny or mother connect the sound of words to letters by reading to her.
“You’re staying?” Her alarm at his warning almost made him smile.
He couldn’t remember anyone ever worrying about him, the runt of the litter, the duke’s late-in-life unnecessary son.
He kissed her cheek and handed her over to Jacques.
The bootmaker was no actor, but a survivor of revolution who understood danger.
Jacques ignored Lavender’s protests and led her back to the kitchen with the reassuring phrases Fort lacked.
Having stayed outside while the farce played out, alerted by the shouts to the growing hostility, Captain Huntley strode in from the lobby like a commanding general.
A tall man with broad shoulders, wearing a gentleman’s well-tailored frockcoat, knee-high boots, and top hat, he nearly filled the pub with his presence.
To Fort’s relief, he was accompanied by Lt.
Jack, surly Fletcher, and the village’s solicitor, Damien Sutter, an entire military and authoritative company capable of staring down armies.
The actors faded to a distant table, leaving the stage to the gentlemen.
The Earl of Weston reached the bar at the same time as Huntley.
Arms crossed over his massive chest, Rafe used his head to direct the other gentlemen to the valets and their employers.
As the American captain shook the earl’s hand in a show of power, Fort knew this was another sort of theater, solidarity in front of a common enemy.
Muttering imprecations, with Fletch looming over them, the valets dropped back to their benches. Seeing no escape, the two remaining city scoundrels returned to drinking. Featherstone broke out his ever-present deck of cards.
The captain said nothing, leaving the floor to Weston.
Fort’s bully of a brother spoke in a booming voice that carried his speeches across the wide chambers of Parliament. Perhaps members of Parliament needed to be bullies, not groveling politicians.
“Captain Huntley, as magistrate, you are required by law to apprehend malefactors wanted by the court. I have here signed affidavits and warrants for the arrest of Mr. Thelonious Gladstone for fraud and bankruptcy, and Mr. Albert Jefferson Featherstone aka Albert Tatum aka Al Smith, for fraud, criminal indecency, and conspiring in assassination.” Weston gestured toward the table of miscreants.
Fort wasn’t certain there was any such charge as conspiring to assassination. And what the devil was criminal indecency? But the charges sounded official. He waited for chaos to erupt.
Instead, Tatum, the pretty-faced valet possibly related to the gambler, held his palm up to his angry fellows, keeping them in their seats. The valets hadn’t been named in the warrants. They might be later, but they’d have time to flee, if so.
Clever of Tatum to recognize that. Chip off the old block and all that.
He probably had committed petty frauds in Town, but he wouldn’t be old enough to have the funds for financial crime.
Like his gambler relation, it seemed unlikely that Tatum might dirty his pretty hands on committing actual murder.
Older and less inclined to rioting, Gladstone and Featherstone appeared indifferent to the charges.
These were scheming men who’d most likely got away with murder and more for years.
Too wealthy and too powerful with too many connections among the underworld as well as the aristocracy, they feared no one and certainly not provincial unknowns.
“You can’t prove anything,” Featherstone said, shuffling cards and not even looking up. “Our barrister will have us out by dawn.”
Rafe reached for the gambler’s elbow, rope in hand, prepared to take him into custody. Featherstone jerked his arm away and glared down his long nose.
Deciding he may as well be useful, Fort used his unimposing appearance to approach the gambler from the opposite side.
While the gambler shifted away from a daunting giant, he ignored Fort, a mistake.
Close enough to dig his fingers into Featherstone’s frockcoated arm, Fort yanked it backward so hard that he grunted in shock, giving Rafe opportunity to capture the other and bind him.
Fort had learned hard lessons about not treating bullies with politeness.
“The magistrates have been notified. Your criminal of a barrister will be behind bars before you reach London.” The humble Haggarty strolled up to join Weston.
With Lt. Jack binding his arms, the financier glared at the lawyer he’d hired. “You’re supposed to protect my interests!”
“No, I’m supposed to protect the interests of the investors you’re swindling,” Haggarty corrected. “After I was warned of the contents of Humphries’ little box of horrors. . .” The lawyer nodded thanks to Fort. “I sent word to my partners. They should be busy rounding up your creditors in crime.”
“The ladies are listening.” Fort indicated the kitchen door. He didn’t think Thea was there, but Lavender would inform her soon enough. “You might mention the names on the other warrants.”
Haggarty glanced to Weston for approval.
Weston merely took a seat. “Lord Fortescue is the one who supplied the names and put together the entire scheme. I suggest you take orders from him.”
Fort preferred to be acknowledged for his accomplishments and not through his brother’s approval, but the results were more important than his pride.
More physical than Weston, Hunt pounded Fort on the back, presumably in recognition of Fort’s talent for piecing puzzles. Good to know one of his hobbies was useful. He gestured for the lawyer to continue.
Haggarty read from a piece of paper handed to him by his shaggy-haired assistant, Wilson.
“The authorities have arrested Lord Talbot as an accomplice in attempted assassination and as a bankrupt. He has implicated Lord Abercrombie in the conspiracy and a warrant has been issued for his arrest, as well, along with the warrants for Gladstone, Featherstone-Tatum, and Hubert Humphries.” The city lawyer returned to his table, where Wilson was clearing up his papers and returning them to a satchel.
Fort admired his brother’s discretion. Weston had been out of the city as the arrests were being made.
No one could directly link him to the incarceration of Abercrombie, his mistress’s husband.
But to have both Talbot and Abercrombie declared bankrupt, there was no doubt that Weston had written all his cronies to call in their markers.
“They’re all equals in crime,” Hunt told Fort as the prisoners were hauled off.
“I’ll let the prosecutor straighten out murder conspiracies.
We have sufficient evidence that Perser is a killer.
They all dispensed counterfeit, which is crime enough.
Gladstone and Featherstone will cool their heels with Perser in the crypt for the night.
Humphries is in a prison of his own making.
We’ll take them to assizes in the morning. ”
“And Weston? How safe will he be now that everyone knows he’s here? He’s not well enough to ride.” Fort breathed easier as the prisoners departed, but their angry, frightened servants remained behind.
“If we release their animals, the valets will most likely run as fast as they can. We’ll keep Weston occupied at the manor, where he should be secure enough until he’s ready to travel. You’ve done a deuced good job of protecting everyone. I owe you.” Hunt wandered off, his duty done here.
He’d actually been useful, it seemed. Had Weston actually looked on Lavender with approval? Fort would ponder that later.
Once the prisoners were out of sight and the valets had fled to their quarters, Lavender dashed from the kitchen.
Before Fort could react, she threw herself at him.
Stunned, he caught her, enjoying the embrace entirely too much.
She kissed his cheek, then danced off to hug the departing actors in the lobby.
“You have no fear of competition from us,” Jacques cackled, leaning against the bar.
Fort hated that he’d not learned to conceal his expression. “She’s just learning the confidence to spread her wings.”
Jacques snorted. “You have met both her grandmothers, have you? How far do you think this apple has fallen from the tree?”
A small knot in Fort’s gut unwound. “She’ll be a holy terror once she understands how far her wings can carry her.”
“Before you start worrying about holding her back, talk to her. You English are too tightlipped. Pay my friends, then take your lady for a walk.”
Fort hid a grin at accepting advice from a French bootmaker, but it was wise advice. In the lobby, he slipped the actors’ manager a larger purse than he’d promised. “Hunt may not admit it, but your group is an asset to the community.”
The jaded actor studied him for a moment, then shook his hand in the American way. “For a duke’s son, you’re not bad yourself. Take care of our Lavender. She’s precious to us.”
“She’s precious to everyone, but clipping her wings is the last thing we should do.” Not explaining himself, Fort tugged the butterfly’s arm to pull her aside.