Jane Feather - Virtue

Marcus never looked back. He drove fast through the city, taking the northern route out to Hampstead Heath. It was a journey he'd made once before in the same urgency, consumed with the same desperate fury. How long had Gracemere had with the girl? Four hours at the most. Was Agnes Barret with him? Having procured the girl, was she going to hold her for him? The nauseating images spun before his internal vision.

The Reading stage lumbered down the road toward him, the postboy blowing his horn. The postboy grabbed the side of the box and closed his eyes tightly as the curricle didn't slacken speed. The two vehicles passed with barely a centimeter to spare.

"Lord-a-mercy!" the jarvey yelled down to his passenger. "That's drivin' for you. Didn't even shave the varnish, I'll lay odds. He's in a powerful urry, your cove."

Judith clung onto the strap as the hackney swayed and swerved along the rutted road, trying to keep the curricle in sight. It occurred to her somewhat belatedly that she had no idea how far Marcus was going. He could be going anywhere-Reading, or Oxford. Somewhere well out of the ordinary reach of a hired London hackney. But how did he know where Gracemere had gone?

The road wound over the heath and she leaned out of the window. "Can you still see him?"

"Aye, he's just turned off at the crossroads. Reckon he's 'eaded for the Green Man," the jarvey called back. "It's the only place 'ereabouts. Folks don't much relish livin' too close to the gibbet."

"No, I don't suppose they do." Judith retreated into the fetid interior again, averting her eyes from the rotting corpse swinging on the gibbet as the carriage turned left at the crossroads.

Marcus drew up in the courtyard of a dark, shabby inn under the creaking sign of the Green Man. He jumped down, tossing the reins to a small lad picking his nose by the wall, and strode into the pitch-roofed building, ducking his head under the low lintel. He held his driving whip loosely in one hand.

Voices came from the taproom to the left of the hall, and the smell of boiling greens wafted from the kitchen at the rear, mingling with the reek of stale beer. The innkeeper came bustling out from the back regions, wiping his hands on a grimy apron. When he saw his visitor, his eyes widened as the years rolled back.

"Ah, Winkler, still in business I see," the marquis observed in a pleasant tone not matched by his expression. "I'm amazed the Bow Street Runners haven't caught up with you yet."

The innkeeper shuffled his feet and looked Marcus over with a calculating shiftiness that carried a degree of apprehension. "What can I do for you, my lord?"

"The same as before," Marcus said. "Nothing overly demanding, Winkler. Your… your guests are to be found above the stables as usual, I assume?"

The landlord licked his lips and glanced anxiously around, as if expecting to see a Bow Street Runner spring up out of the dust in the corners of the hallway. "If you say so, m'lord."

"I do," Marcus said aridly, turning on his heel. "Oh, and should you hear any undue disturbances, you will be sure to ignore them, won't you? I know how deaf you are, Winkler."

The landlord wiped his forehead with his apron. "Whatever you say, m'lord."

"Just so." Marcus smiled with the appearance of great affability and walked back outside. He crossed the yard at the back of the inn. The stable was a substantial red-brick building at the rear of the courtyard. Beneath its sloping roof were two connecting rooms available to those who knew of them and were able to pay substantially for their use. No questions were ever asked of the various, generally felonious, occupants, and what went on in those rooms was known only to the participants. So far, Winkler and his clients seemed to have escaped the attentions of the law.

Marcus glanced up at the latticed, tightly curtained windows overlooking the stableyard just before he entered the building. He saw no flicker of movement at the curtains and he could hear no sound of voices as he trod softly up the wooden stairs at the rear of the dim interior. He paused, listening at a door at the head of the stairs. His heart had started to thud and he realized he was listening for the sounds he'd heard once before at this door. The sounds that had sent him bursting into the room with his whip raised. But there were no whimpering cries this afternoon. A chair scraped on the wooden floor and then there was silence.

He lifted the latch, then kicked the door open with his booted foot.

Gracemere leaped to his feet, a foul oath on his lips. The chair clattered to the floor behind him. "You!"

"Surely you were expecting me, Gracemere," Marcus said. "You must know that I always keep my promises." He glanced around the room. The curtains were pulled tight over the windows blocking out the afternoon's sunlight. The room was lit by thick tallow candles and the bright glow of the fire.

Harriet huddled on a wooden settle beside the fire. At the sound of Marcus's voice, she sat up with a cry, staring wild-eyed at him as if he were an apparition. Her eyes were swollen with weeping, her hair in disarray, her expression distraught, but he could see no marks of brutality.

He crossed the room swiftly. "Are you hurt, child?"

She gulped, tried to shake her head, then burst into a torrent of weeping that mounted alarmingly toward hysteria.

Marcus wasted no time in soothing her. He turned back to the earl, who still stood as if stunned. "Foolish of you to return here, Gracemere, but then a rat usually goes back to its own dung heap," he observed, cracking the thong of his whip on the floor. His eyes went to the door in the middle of the wall; he knew of old that it connected this room with its partner. "Where is Lady Barret? I should like her to witness the next few minutes."

Gracemere's face was bloodless. He looked desperately around the room and then grabbed for a bread knife on the table. Marcus's whip snapped, catching him across the knuckles. He gave a cry of fury, of fear, of pain, snatching back his hand.

Marcus advanced on him, taking his time, his eyes never leaving his face, the whip curled loosely at his side. Suddenly the whip cracked again and his quarry jumped backward. Again the thong whistled and snapped, and again Gracemere jumped back. In this fashion, Marcus pursued his prey until the earl stood backed against a heavy armoire.

"Now," Marcus said softly. "Now, let us begin in earnest, sir."

"Let us indeed begin in earnest, my lord." Agnes Barret stood in the door connecting the two rooms. She held a serviceable-looking flintlock pistol in her hand, pointing directly at the marquis. "Give the whip to Gracemere. I think he might enjoy putting it to good use."

The earl chuckled and held out his hand.

"Don't think I won't shoot, Carrington," Agnes said with a tight smile. "Of course, I won't kill you. The consequences of your death might be a little difficult to avoid, but I will break your knees. We shall all three be long gone from here by the time you recover your senses sufficiently to drag yourself down the stairs."

Harriet screamed. Gracemere snatched the whip from Marcus.

Within the inn, the landlord was struggling for breath as the jarvey cheerfully tightened his boldly checkered scarf around his throat, inquiring for the second time, "Where'll we find the gennelman cove, friend?"

"Perhaps he can't speak," Judith suggested as the innkeeper flailed desperately in the jarvey's choke hold. "You are squeezing him rather tightly."

The jarvey slackened the material a trifle and Mr. Winkler gestured outside with a hoarse but informative, "stables." His expression clearly indicated that he no longer had the least interest in preserving anyone's privacy, and would willingly yield up whatever secrets of his house and its guests were demanded of him, and even those that weren't.