It was too late to carry the good news to Louisa Hamilton, so Morton had Wilkes return the hackney-horse to its livery, bathed and changed, and went down to Drury Lane for the last act of Arabella's new production of Dibden's Revenge. As he strode up to the theatre he saw a dark, solitary figure looming through the fog, seemingly awaiting him on the front steps under the marble portico. It proved to be Vickery, another of his brother officers from Bow Street, who had obtained Morton's old job of guarding on performance nights. It was in this function that Morton had first met Mrs. Malibrant, retrieving a valuable ring that had been snatched from her in the foyer.
“Well, Mr. Vickery, any excitement?”
James Vickery was a sober, slow-spoken man.
“Well, Mr. Morton, the flash crowd are out and about on a dim night like this, that's sure.”
“Oh, aye?”
“A lady's diamond bracelet taken, just an hour ago, but I saw the dab and gave him chase.”
“Nab him?”
“Aye, I did. Ran him down in Little Russell Street. The lady gave me a guinea for me trouble, too. But then the management of the theatre here comes out and abuses me for deserting me post.”
Morton laughed. Typical enough! The private parties who hired Runners for a specific service seemed to think they should drop every other demand of their profession. But no one, as Morton's colleagues would often say indignantly to each other, ever promised these clients exclusive use of an officer of justice.
“What are the swells saying about the new play?”
“Well, Mr. Morton, you know I don't listen much to their prattle. Sounds as if they approve Mrs. Malibrant, though.”
Morton smiled and gave him a friendly slap on the arm before going in.
Henry Morton approved Mrs. Malibrant too, as he told her an hour or so later, backstage. It had been a few days since they'd had this kind of privacy and the kisses tasted particularly good, the look in each other's eyes as they held each other out for inspection particularly warm.
“Let's retreat to my little castle and have a supper” was Arabella's suggestion.
There'd been a full house and out on the front porch there was still near-pandemonium in the fog. A huge press of carriages struggled to move down the narrow street to the theatre doors. Competing with the coachmen and the private lackeys calling out to try to locate clients and masters were the link men with their torches, bawling “Who goes home!” to offer their services as escorts.
“Perhaps we should just stroll down to the Strand and see if we can get a cab there,” suggested Morton.
But then a hackney-driver hailed them, seeming to make a superhuman effort to barge his way past his competition to reach them. Other potential fares shouted at the man in indignation but he was determined to give Morton and Mrs. Malibrant the benefit of his exertions. Morton smiled. The jarveys took pleasure in serving the beauties of Drury Lane.
A few minutes later they had struggled free of the crowd and, in the intimacy of the coach interior, after a few more kisses of reacquaintance, Henry Morton brought his fair companion abreast of his efforts.
Arabella seemed to regard Morton oddly as he told her what he had done with his last two days. “Well, if nothing else comes of it,” she offered flatly, “Louisa will be glad of the news.” She eyed Morton. “I should think she will be very grateful indeed.”
“Now, Arabella,” Morton said, sensing the drift of things, “I did not do it for that reason, as you well know. There could easily be some connection between Davenant's death and Glendinning's. You remarked on it yourself.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose. But do be aware, Henry, of your propensity to rescue women in distress-especially troubled women. And if they are comely into the bargain…”
“If I did not know better I would say you were jealous.”
“You do know better,” Arabella answered, pulling her shawl about her, and in doing so, moving imperceptibly away from him in the carriage.
Morton did not quite know how to retrieve his last remark, or save the situation, and they rode on in silence for a time.
“I suppose it comes back to this man Bromley,” he said at last.
Arabella glanced at him, and then quickly away, but then she relented. “I suppose it is the unavoidable conclusion, though I will be disappointed to see that rogue Rokeby go free. Did you not say that Rokeby, Davenant, and Bromley were all in the same regiment?”
“Nay, Bromley transferred from Davenant's Thirty-fifth to Rokeby's Guards, and that is odd enough. Then Bromley ruins the reputation of Louisa Hamilton's dead fiance. Rokeby makes a play for Miss Hamilton, but she refuses him. Some months later Rokeby provokes Glendinning into a duel, and when that fails someone with some knowledge of physic administers a draught of poison later the same evening.”
“Well, then Bromley has assisted Rokeby,” Arabella said, though without her usual enthusiasm. “How else can you read this book?”
“I fear this is a book with too many possible endings. If you consider-”
“Where on earth are we going?” Arabella suddenly interrupted.
Morton stared at her in surprise for an instant, then twisted round and peered out the coach window. They had turned into a narrow stone passage that neither of them recognised. This was not the way to Red Lion Square and Theobald's Road.
“Henry,” said Arabella, looking out the other side.
They came swarming out of the foggy shadows as the coach rolled to a stop. Four, perhaps five of them, silent and swift.
Morton reacted before he thought.
As the first man wrenched open the coach door, the Runner braced himself and lashed out with his foot as hard as he could. The blow caught the man squarely in the chest and he reeled backward, colliding with his fellows. Morton knew he had to get out of the tight confines of the coach. He was aware of Arabella's shrill cries behind him as she grappled with someone on the other side. He lunged forward and leapt out into the night air, meeting another of them head-on and bowling the man back with his superior weight. An iron bar clashed and rattled on the cobbles as it fell from the hand of his assailant. A sharp blow hit Morton on his shoulder blade, and he whirled and caught the attacker's arm before he could strike again. Wrenching this man around, he thrust him tumbling into the path of another. But there were too many.
“Do him, do him! Smash his pate!”
The frightened cry was coming from above, from the driver, who was struggling to control his pitching, neighing horses. Morton turned and vaulted up onto the swaying body of the coach. Hands grabbed his legs from behind but he kicked out savagely, breaking free and ripping his tight breeches as he did. The jarvey saw him coming and struck down at him with his whip, cutting Morton a searing hot lash across the cheek.
Roaring with pain and fury, Henry Morton seized the driver's wrist before he could draw back, and holding his own position with one hand, hauled the man bodily down over his shoulder. The jarvey cried with panic as he tumbled headfirst toward the cobbles. Morton scrambled with frantic energy up onto the seat, slamming free the brake as he did.
“Arabella!” He glanced down the far side of the vehicle as he fumbled for the reins, and saw his mistress hanging half out the door, struggling with a man who was trying to pull her into the street. Morton lashed the reins and the frightened horses bolted forward. The man holding Arabella still clung to her, being dragged along.
But then some instinct warned Morton of danger on the other side, and he pivoted. Another figure, lithe and athletic, was bounding up toward him, arm raised. Morton squirmed away, seeing the silver flash. The blade cut through his coat and stuck hard into the wood of the carriage frame close beside him. The attacker did not let go of his weapon, and for an instant he and Morton looked into each other's faces. Morton had a vivid impression of snub features, cheeks deeply pitted with smallpox, a shining bald head. Then he swung his arm and struck the man a tremendous blow with his free hand, catching him squarely in the face, feeling all his strength behind his fist. The man went limp, his eyeballs tilted upward, and he dropped away.
On the other side of the coach there was a cry of pain from a male voice.
“Filthy blowen!”
“Prigger!” howled Arabella.
Morton glanced down to see the figure of a man sprawling on the cobbles behind them. He urged the horses on. Obstacles loomed ahead in the dark passage but he drove straight at them. The carriage bounced crazily over whatever littered the narrow way, but kept its wheels, and in a few moments shot out into the comparative brightness and space of High Holborn.