An Unsuitable Bride (48 page)

He moved into the middle of the chamber, waiting with the appearance of nonchalance. The owner of the shuffling steps emerged from the gloom of the stairwell. He held a brass key ring and a horn lantern, which he hung on a hook beside the door. Suddenly aware that he was not alone, he turned back to the chamber, leaving the door ajar behind him.

He coughed and shuffled to the table. “Didn’t realize
anyone was ’ere, sir. Master Gilby ain’t ’ere at present. I’m expectin’ ’im soon. If ’n ye’d care to wait.”

“No, I don’t think I would,” Peregrine said. He had his pistol in his hand, tucked behind his back. He raised it with a smile he hoped was reassuring as he stepped up to the old man. “I don’t intend to hurt you. But I’d like you to face the wall for a moment.”

The jailer blinked at him in bemusement, his eyes darting to the pistol and back to Peregrine’s smiling countenance. “Do what, sir?”

“Face the wall,” Peregrine said quietly, laying a hand on the man’s shoulder, turning him around. He took the rope halter from his pocket and swiftly bound the jailer’s wrists. “Forgive me. This will only be for a few moments.”

A sudden noise behind him brought him whirling around. The beadle stood in the doorway to the street, his expression momentarily confused. It was the moment that gave Perry his opening. He had secured the old man and now, swiftly, hand outstretched in greeting, stepped towards the beadle.

“Master Gilby, I believe. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

The beadle shook his head as if to dispel confusion. Everything looked as usual. But his eyes fell on the open door to the cells. His startled gaze moved from his smiling visitor, still extending his hand in greeting, to the old man, who was slowly turning back to the room, his hands securely fastened at his back. But the visitor
was a man of Quality, his coat and breeches of the best superfine, the tailoring exquisite. And he was smiling, that hand outstretched in familiar greeting.

Master Gilby hesitated a moment too long. Peregrine’s outstretched hand became a fist, which connected with a satisfying thud against the beadle’s chin. The man toppled sideways, reaching for the table to steady himself. The table slid away from him under Peregrine’s swift kick, and then Peregrine slammed the street door, which the beadle, in his surprise, had left open. The grating of the key as he turned it in the lock seemed as loud as a thunderclap in the strange, uncomprehending silence of a room that ordinarily saw only orderly business.

Peregrine slipped the door key into his pocket and regarded the results of his few moments of action. They were all safely locked in; no one could disturb them from the street. Neither of his victims appeared badly hurt, but Master Gilby, now sitting on the floor, was rubbing his jaw with an aggrieved air that boded ill. The old man, with his hands still bound at his back, looked from one to the other, his head swaying from side to side as he tried to make sense of this extraordinary upset in the normal, peaceful sequence of his daily life.

Perry decided that Master Gilby was probably going to be a nuisance, so he used his fist for another neat touch to the beadle’s chin, which rendered him satisfactorily immobile. Hoping that it would be long enough,
Perry took the key ring off the wall, together with the horn lantern, and descended into the darkness.

“Marcus?”

“Here. Where you see the light,” came the answer, and the yellow flicker of a candle showed in the grating above one of the doors halfway along the passage. Perry heard the sounds, the whispers, the rising voices, as the inhabitants of those dark spaces began to realize that something different was happening in their prison.

He ignored them, concentrating on the glimmer of light. He reached it, his fingers fumbling with the key ring. “God damn it, I don’t know which one is the right one. Marcus? Is Alexandra all right?”

“I’m all right, Peregrine.”

Her voice, strong, infused with her own clear intonations, filled with her own self, was the sweetest thing he had ever heard. And paradoxically, it brought a surge of anger. He loved her, but he wasn’t sure he had forgiven her yet.

He found the key, and the door creaked open onto the fetid space. Alex stood wrapped in a cloak in the middle of the cell, offering him a tentative smile as she pushed a lank strand of hair from her forehead.

“I don’t know what I look like,” Alexandra murmured, suddenly absurdly conscious of how dirty she was, how greasy her hair must be. She wondered if she smelled bad and reflected that she must reek after so much time in this damp filth.

“Like the very devil,” Perry said drily. “Pull your
hood low, and when we get upstairs, you need to shuffle out of the building like some old woman supplicant to the council chamber. You’ve sufficient experience at charades to pull that off without any trouble.”

Alexandra bowed her head in acceptance. She couldn’t blame him for his harshness. She had forced him to accept a situation that he had detested from the first moment. But tears pricked behind her eyes nevertheless. She wanted him to enfold her, to hold her, to tell her he loved her and that the nightmare was all over. But perhaps she had forfeited that comfort. Perhaps he was there only because of the past, those few glorious days they had shared.

She drew the hood over her head. She had long since discarded the pad between her shoulders. It was unnecessary in this prison cell, where no one saw her, and desperately uncomfortable, but now she hunched her shoulders in the remembered way and gave him a clear-eyed look. “I can do whatever is necessary, Peregrine.”

He nodded curtly and gestured to the cell door. “Hurry, then. Walk between us.”

“What about upstairs?” Marcus gestured upwards with a jerk of his head. “Anyone likely to cause trouble?”

“I hope not. The beadle still should be in the land of dreams,” Perry responded shortly. “I’ll go ahead; you bring up the rear.” He stepped out into the corridor, and a crescendo of voices and shouts arose from the cells around them. A tin pot clanged against the barred
grating of a door at the far end, and he grimaced.
“Hurry.”
He grabbed Alexandra’s hand. “Get up the stairs before the racket brings the whole town down upon us.”

She stumbled slightly in her haste as she half ran behind him to the stairs leading up to the council chamber. She could hear Marcus behind her as the noise from the cells grew ever louder. Perry was pulling her behind him up the stairs, and she nearly fell into the chamber, blinded by the bright light of day. “I can’t see,” she gasped.

Perry ignored the comment, but his hand tightened around hers. “Your hood,” he instructed. “Shield your face.” His eyes darted to the old man, who stood with his back to the wall, hands still bound, gazing in mingled fear and curiosity at the intruders.

Peregrine raised his pistol in a threatening gesture, hissing, “Make a sound, and you’ll join your friend on the floor.” He sensed that the jailer, emboldened by the noise from the cells below, was preparing to add his own voice to the hubbub. The beadle, still curled on the floor, stirred and groaned, and the old man shrank back against the wall.

Alexandra was astounded at this new side to Peregrine. She could never have imagined him threatening anyone, let alone a helpless old man. But then, she could never have imagined present circumstances, she reflected, pulling her hood low over her forehead, hunching her shoulders even tighter. Behind
her, she heard Marcus slamming the door to the cells, and the tumult below grew fainter.

The beadle struggled to his knees. Perry bent over him. “My apologies,” he murmured, and applied his fist once more. Master Gilby toppled sideways with a soft exhalation.

“Serves him right,” Alexandra murmured with ill-concealed satisfaction, remembering the greedy paw that had swallowed her money in exchange for the pathetic candle stubs and watery soup that had kept her just this side of utter desperation since he’d turned the key on her.

Perry shot her a quick glance and thought that she looked better already. Her spirits were certainly improving, judging by her present expression. “Hurry,” he instructed. “Keep your head down.” He unlocked the street door and strolled out into the cold afternoon air, glancing casually around. The street was quiet, with a Sunday hush to it. Alexandra’s hunched figure shuffled out behind him, and Marcus, with the same insouciant air as Peregrine, stepped out, closing the door firmly behind him.

Perry turned casually back to the door and surreptitiously relocked it. “That should hold them for a while.” He dropped the key into a cracked and empty flowerpot at one side of the door.

“I’ll fetch the horse,” Marcus murmured, and strode off down the street to the Red Lion.

Peregrine turned aside into the alley running beside
the Shire Hall, and Alexandra followed him, keeping to the shadows. “What’s happening?” she whispered.

“Just stay where you are,” he instructed. “We’re waiting for Marcus.” He stood just inside the entrance to the alley, watching the street. No one seemed aware of anything strange happening around the Shire Hall. There were few people on the street, but as the church bells began to ring for the mid-afternoon service, doors opened, and more folk appeared. A few urchins darted among them, earning random backhanded clouts when they got in the way.

Alexandra stayed in the shadows, still closely wrapped in her cloak. Her eyes were accustomed to the brightness now, and her lungs seemed to expand as the fresh air filled them after the noxious dampness of the last days. “How long was I there?” she asked abruptly.

The question startled Peregrine. And then he realized what it meant, and the thought of her enduring endless hours in that fetid darkness, not knowing even the time of day, filled him with a savage rage against the men who had put her there.

“About a week,” he said. “But it’s over now.”

“Unless they catch us.” An involuntary shudder lifted the fine hairs on her nape, and she was very cold.

“That’s not going to happen.” His voice was calm, reassuring, confident. “Here’s Marcus now.” He stepped back into the alley as Marcus, riding a horse from the inn’s livery stable with a portmanteau tied to the saddle, turned into the entrance. He dismounted swiftly.

“Quickly.” Peregrine gestured imperatively to Alexandra. “You’ll have to ride pillion. I’ll go up first, and you come up behind me.” He mounted. “Put your foot on my boot.” He held his hand down to her.

Alexandra took it and felt his fingers tighten around her wrist. She put a foot on his boot, and he yanked her upwards as she jumped, then settled into the saddle behind him.

“Hold me tight, and keep your face averted,” he instructed. “Just until we get out of town.”

“We can avoid town by taking the back way through the privies,” she said. “If I remember aright, this alley will lead to the fields behind town.”

Of course, this was Alexandra’s home country, Perry remembered. She had grown up there, after all. “We’ll pick up the coast road from there,” he said, holding out his hand to Marcus. “My thanks, my friend.”

Marcus took the hand in a warm grasp. “My thanks for the adventure. I look forward to calling upon my stepsister in town.” His smile was mischievous. “I need to hear the rest of your story. Indeed, I believe I am owed it. But for now, I shall put fresh horses to the curricle and head for a quiet afternoon at my fireside in the Dower House. Where it shall be said I have been all day nursing a cold. The horse is not a patch on Sam, I’m afraid, Perry, but he was the best I could get. He should carry you to a decent town, where you can hire a chaise. You can sell him there, and we’ll settle up over a good dinner in town.” With that, he raised a jaunty
hand in farewell and headed out of the alley into the main street.

“Let’s find a way out of this maze.” Perry set the horse towards the rear of the alley. “We have about half an hour to get well clear, before the town falls about our ears.”

Alexandra said nothing, her arms tight around his waist, her head resting against his back. She would not allow herself to believe that she was safe until there was no possibility of pursuit.

The horse picked his way over the slimy paving stones at the rear of the buildings where the outhouses were situated at the bottom of kitchen gardens. The gardens in their turn opened onto the fields. Peregrine dismounted to open a gate beside a stile that gave onto a narrow path leading around a stubble field. He kept the horse close to the hedgerow, but they saw no one and after a while reached another stile that led onto a lane.

“God knows where we are,” Perry murmured, dismounting to open the gate once again.

“Go right on the lane.” Alex spoke for the first time in an eternity, it seemed to her. “Can’t you smell the sea?”

He paused, taking a deep breath. He could, indeed, smell it, the faint salt tang to the air. “The coast road will take us into Hampshire.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But I don’t wish to involve Sylvia.”

“If you think your sister is going to permit you to call the tune any longer, Alexandra, you are much mistaken,” Peregrine said firmly. “Any more than I am. And when we’re all living in London under the same roof, you will find yourself outnumbered, my dear. For now, we are going to stop at the nearest hostelry, where I shall have a few things to say to you, after which I intend to get some sleep. You, not to put too fine a point on it, need a bath before anything else. You have a prison reek about you.”

“That’s hardly surprising,” she retorted, astonished at how quickly she was returning to her self.

Peregrine didn’t dignify the retort with a response, and they rode in silence for the next half hour before a small, whitewashed hostelry bearing the sign of the Hare and Hounds appeared on the outskirts of a little village. Peregrine drew rein outside and dismounted, offering a hand to Alexandra to dismount. “Stay here,” he instructed, “and keep your face hidden.”

The door to the inn opened directly onto the taproom. He called out, and a woman appeared at the counter, pink-cheeked from the kitchen range, wiping her hands on her flour-dusted apron. “Good evenin’, sir.” She looked a question.