His Mask of Retribution. Margaret McPhee

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      ‘He is gone.’ Francis Winslow—or Viscount Linwood, as he was otherwise known—Misbourne’s son and heir, stood by the window and watched Pickering’s carriage until it turned the corner and headed away from the square. ‘Do you think he believed us?’ Linwood’s eyes were as dark and venomous as his father’s as he came to stand by the daybed.

      Misbourne gave a nod.

      ‘It will be more difficult tomorrow when he returns and wishes to visit his betrothed. Although the story of our “carriage crash” being all over tomorrow’s newspapers should help. I’ve ensured the news is already being whispered in the clubs.’ His son was good at taking care of such details, but Misbourne offered no thanks; his mind was on other matters.

      He slipped the crumpled sheet of paper from the pocket of his dressing gown and smoothed it out that he might stare at it again. The hand was bold, the words, few as they were, angular and angry. A place. A year. And the highwayman’s demand.

       1795, Hounslow Heath

      The document that was taken—in exchange for your daughter.

      He was thinking, and thinking hard. There was only one other person that knew of the document and Misbourne had eyes and ears stationed in every main port in the south watching for his return. It was possible that Rotherham had evaded detection, that he was back in England already. Misbourne’s blood ran cold at the thought and he shivered as if someone had walked over his grave.

      ‘Father?’ Linwood was staring down into his face and he could see the concern and agitation in the eyes that were so like his own.

      ‘Let me think,’ Misbourne snapped. It made no sense. Whatever else Rotherham was, he was a man of his word and one who liked everything done exactly to the letter. There was still time left before he would come. Time enough for the wedding between Marianne and Pickering.

      Misbourne lounged back against the pillows of his bed and read the words again. The criminal fraternity had a way of talking even when they’d been sworn to silence. A boast in the tap room of a public house, a whisper in the ear of the buxom wench beneath them. Thank God for illiteracy. He wondered how much the highwayman could possibly know.

      ‘You are not well, Father. Let me deal with this in your stead,’ said Linwood.

      ‘Don’t fuss so, boy, I tell you I’m fine.’ An idea was taking shape in Misbourne’s mind.

      ‘And I disagree,’ said Linwood without a flicker of emotion.

      ‘You always were a stubborn little sod.’

      ‘Chip off the old block, so they say.’ Linwood held his gaze.

      Misbourne gave a smile and shook his head. ‘And they’re not wrong.’

      ‘Then let us go to the brotherhood,’ said Linwood without returning the smile, speaking of the secret society of which both he and his father were members. ‘Seek their assistance in this.’

      ‘No!’

      ‘It’s different now that Hunter is the Master. He’ll help us and—’

      ‘I said, no, damn you, boy!’ Misbourne felt a stirring of panic and knew he had to convince his son. ‘We manage this ourselves. This is family business; it does not go out with this room, no matter what else you might think.’

      Linwood’s face was angry and defiant.

      ‘I will not risk Marianne’s reputation. I will not risk your sister’s safety. Do you understand?’

      Linwood gave a sullen nod. ‘What is this letter from fifteen years ago that he wants?’ It was the question that Misbourne most dreaded to hear.

      ‘None of your damned business.’

      ‘Will you give it to him?’

      There was a pause before Misbourne replied, ‘Yes, I’ll give it to him.’ His scowl deepened and he pinched at the bridge of his nose, a sure sign that he was trying to control his temper. ‘The day progresses and still we hear nothing.’

      ‘We will.’

      ‘What the hell is taking him so long?’ Misbourne’s upper lip curled in a snarl.

      ‘He means to make sure we take him seriously—and no doubt he wants to twist the knife a little. Whoever he is, he certainly does not like you.’

      ‘And, by God, I’ll give him good reason not to! By the time I’ve finished with him he won’t know what he likes and what he doesn’t.’ Misbourne was only slightly mollified by the thought.

      A knock sounded at the study door. The butler entered, holding a silver salver with a single letter laid upon it.

      ‘Just delivered, m’lord, by an urchin.’

      ‘Does the wretch wait for a reply?’

      ‘No, m’lord. The boy ran off.’

      Misbourne saw the servant’s gaze take in his tender swollen cheekbone and felt a spurt of annoyance. He took the letter and dismissed the man with a flick of his fingers. The seal broke easily, but his hands were trembling with impatience and fear as he unfolded the letter and read its content before passing the note to his son.

      ‘Aldgate High Street where it meets Fen-church and Leadenhall,’ said Linwood. ‘He’s chosen well. It’s a busy junction at the best of times; it will be pandemonium there at three o’clock. And with its links to so many roads and alleys it will be difficult to cover the whole area.’

      ‘Difficult, but not impossible,’ said Misbourne. ‘Once Marianne is safe…’

      ‘Once Marianne is safe, we’ll hunt him down like the villain that he is,’ finished his son.

      From the rooms above came the sound of a baby crying and a man and woman arguing, shouting and swearing at full volume. An old man was singing a drunken bawdy song and outside, in the street, a dog was barking. Marianne sat very still on the single wooden chair and waited, just as she had waited through all the previous hours. It was the sole piece of furniture in the room. Her eyes ranged again over the pile of filthy covers in the corner that served as a bed. Mould grew on the walls and the floorboards were bare. Two buckets sat behind the door—one held water, and the other was so stained with filth that she did not want to contemplate its use. There was no coal on the fire, no pots or pans. Not so much as a cup to drink from. The dirt encrusted upon the windows made the light hazy and hid her view of the rookery beyond.

      ‘Who lives here?’ she asked. The filthy bed of rags in the corner gave lie to her denial that anyone could live in such squalor.

      ‘A family with five children,’ replied the highwayman’s accomplice from behind his pale mask.

      ‘All in this one room?’

      ‘Aye, lass. But he’ll pay them more than they get in a year just for the use of this room for a few hours. He helps where he can.’

      ‘I did not know such poverty existed.’ She had never seen a place the like of СКАЧАТЬ