“And did you find the kidnapped boy?”
Lewis cleared his throat. “No, my lord. It seems he was aided in escaping before we made our entrance.”
Sir Richard paused again, looked over the papers again, scowled and looked up at Lewis. “According to your report, the tip came from Lord Robert Ashton. Kennet’s son?”
A rustle of unrest washed through the crowd.
“Yes, my lord.”
“But he is on your list of prisoners.” Sir Richard’s head snapped toward the cluster of men surrounding Robert, scanning each face until his gaze met Robert’s. Sir Richard squinted. “Ashton?”
Robert stood as straight as he could, an effort that resulted in a deep wince as he nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
“Ashton, what in the world were you doing there?”
“The same as the rest of them!” The shout came from the crowd behind them, and an apple bounced off Robert’s shoulder, leaving behind a foul-smelling smear.
“He was there just like we was! Doing what we was!” This came from one of the other prisoners—Robert could not tell which one—and the room erupted with shouts and calls for the pillory. And the gallows.
Robert wondered how many of his decriers owed the emporium money.
Sir Richard began a pounding on the bench that went on for almost a minute, until it drowned out—and silenced—the roar of the crowd.
Then came the shout Robert would remember the rest of his life.
“He was there to save me!Theywere there to save me. I am that kidnapped boy.”
What had been a silenced roar now turned into a storm of whispers. Sir Richard peered at the crowd and motioned the speaker forward, and Robert felt his stomach drop onto his toes.
The terrified and trembling whippet of a boy he had lowered out a window the night before now stood before one of the most powerful magistrates in the country, his head held high and his shoulders back. At his side stood “Sir Edmund,” the lithe and trim dandy. Eloise stood an inch shorter than Timothy, but she too had drawn to her full height, and her face gleamed with love and pride.
“Don’t do this,” Robert whispered to himself. “I’m not worth it.”
“Who are you, son? And who is ‘they’?”
Timothy took a deep breath. “My lord, I am Lord Timothy Surrey, heir to the Earl of Pentney. I was kidnapped by those men”—he pointed to the four White Stallion villains—“for purposes I would rather not describe openly.”
“I understand, lad. Go on.”
“They kept me bound and hidden, and they inflicted several injuries upon my person. That man”—he pointed at Robert—“and...” His words faltered and he closed his eyes. “I cannot.” He turned and whispered to Eloise. She responded, and their discussion turned frantic. Finally, she stepped in front of Timothy.
“Do not do this!” Robert said, this time loud enough that even Sir Richard glanced his way.
“My lord,” she declared, “my brother is trying to protect me, but he cannot. He was a victim of these ghouls. You need a witness who was there to attest to why Lord Robert now stands before you. I am that witness.”
“And who are you?”
“I saw Lord Robert lower my brother out a window so that he could escape. I saw Lord Robert attacked as a response. And I saw your Bow Street officers arrive and begin their work.” She paused and arched her shoulders a bit more. “I am Lady Eloise Surrey.”
The eruption of the crowd behind him seemed to startle everyone, including Sir Richard. He motioned for Constable Lewis to approach the bench, spoke to him in low and clearly agitated words, then he left the bench and disappeared behind a door at the far end of the room. Lewis went to his fellow constables, and most of them moved toward the crowd of spectators, herding the raucous mass toward the exits. Lewis went to Eloise and Timothy, then gestured toward the door that Sir Richard had used. Robert watched them leave, then found Lewis standing in front of him.
Lewis called to one of the Newgate keepers, who was waiting to see if any of the prisoners would be returning with him. “Get these irons off his legs!”
The keeper jumped, but moved to obey, shoving between the other prisoners who grumbled and groused until Lewis told them to shut it. Robert bit his lip to keep from groaning as the irons fell away, the release almost as painful as the confinement when the blood rushed back to his toes. He followed Lewis—his hesitant limp bringing new catcalls from some of the prisoners—through the far door and down a short corridor. Lewis stopped at a broad wooden door and knocked once. Sir Richard called from inside, and they entered.
Sir Richard Birnie’s expansive office had dark wooden panels, a lofty ceiling, and a half-wall of leaded windows that showered the room with fractured sunbeams. One wall held floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books, stacks of paper, and an odd assortment of memorabilia from around the world. Sir Richard had cast off his wig and robe—both were slung haphazardly across a leather chair—and he had taken up residence behind a desk that could have doubled as a bed. The man’s feathered and curled hair had been flattened by the wig, but he was far more handsome and trim than his magistrate’s garb revealed. He had been writing when they entered, and he finished, folded the paper and handed it to Lewis. “Take that. Deliver. Come back.” Lewis left and the magistrate pointed at Robert, then a leather chair in front of the desk.
“Good God, sit down, man. You look as if you are about to topple over like Napoleon at Waterloo.”
