Page 2 of Rogue’s Holiday

A brief scuffle followed. The officers seized Davidson and his companion, grabbing their weapons before they could alert those inside.

Ruthven yanked opened the door and stormed into the stable, the night patrol following on his heels. “We are officers!” he yelled. “Seize their arms!”

Robbie shook his head, regretting their haste. His dismay soon proved well founded. A single shot cracked the night air. Then repeated gunfire rattled the stable.

The light he had glimpsed through the open door went out and the building reverberated with men’s shouts.

Some of the conspirators fled out the stable door. The Bow Street Runners who had remained outside seized as many as they could. One tore free and ran toward Robbie, a pistol in one hand, a knife in the other. He fired the pistol at Robbie, but the shot went wide.

Robbie rushed to grab him, knocking the knife away. The man cursed the government as Robbie seized his coat and, lifting his pistol from his pocket, pointed the barrel at the conspirator’s head. “The only government official you’ll be seeing tonight is the magistrate.”

He kept the pistol pressed to the man’s temple as he forced him down the street and handed him over to the runners.

Shots and shouts continued to echo in the street. Robbie caught a few more escaping from the stable and delivered them to the runners.

At the zenith of the skirmish, the Coldstream Guards finally arrived, their brass buttons and musket locks reflecting the moon’s pale light.

Robbie crossed the street to Captain Fitzclarence. “Where have you been?”

Fitzclarence’s voice bespoke his exasperation. “They sent us to the wrong end of John Street. We thought ’twas to fight a fire. We’re only here now because of the gunfire.”

“’Tis a murderous plot against the government!” shouted Robbie, aghast at the poor communication. “Constable Ruthven and some of the Bow Street officers are inside. Make haste but take care! The place is full of weapons.”

“Surround the building!” Captain Fitzclarence ordered his men, who hurried to comply as the captain and his grenadiers rushed into the stable.

Any resistance by those left inside would now be futile. Robbie only hoped the Coldstreamers and Bow Street officers did not shoot each other.

Just then, Ruthven yelled, “Call for a doctor. Everything is under control, but we have a man shot!”

The doctor was summoned.

Satisfied the plan had worked, Robbie consulted with the runners and decided his job was completed. The trap had been sprung and a passel of sorry men, whose only purpose for living had withered to a drastic act of revenge, would pay with their lives. Save for their evil intent, he could almost pity them. Reform was needed and he was confident it would come, but not through violence and murder. There would be no revolution in England as there had been in France.

As he turned to leave, he glimpsed movement nearby. One last conspirator, who must have been hiding, was attempting to slip away. Robbie lifted his pistol and cracked the man on the head as he ran by. The man faltered but did not fall. Robbie grabbed him by the collar. “What’s your name?”

“James” was the only reply and that more of a groan.

“You will hang for what you have done,” said Robbie, and shuffled him off to the runners clustered at the far end of the street.

The noise of the fracas faded behind him as he turned and walked to Oxford Street to hail a hackney that would take him to the Thames. His father had chosen the Adelphi Terrace south of Somerset House for their residence, expecting to sire a family of shipmasters, which he had.

As the horse’s hooves clattered over the street, Robbie’s gaze drifted out the window to the passing buildings cast in shadow by the street lamps.

A wave of relief washed over him as he relaxed against the seat. He was done with subterfuge. The job before this had seen him shot on a snowy Scottish street, leaving him with a ragged scar from his left eye to the edge of his hair. He’d let his hair grow over the scar but the memory of his near-death had not dimmed.

And what of tonight? What if the man he’d collared had wielded that pistol and knife with skill? Instead of riding through London, he might be bleeding his life away in a dusty backwater. He breathed out a sigh. Tonight, he vowed, was his last work for the Crown.

Leaning his head back, images of the life he’d abandoned months before flitted though his mind. He had missed his gentleman’s pursuits. An excellent cognac and a game of brag at White’s. A round of fencing at Angelo’s with his uncle. An afternoon of boxing at Jackson’s. And women. Ah yes…

After he filed his report on Cato Street, he might just indulge himself in a holiday. And, for that, he would visit Tattersall’s to purchase a new horse or maybe a matched pair for a new curricle.

But why wait?Tonight was not too soon to resume his pleasurable pursuits. There might yet be time to enjoy the company of a woman who smelled of spring flowers instead of the backstreets of London.

The carriage pulled up in front of his home and he told the driver, “Wait while I change. We’ve another stop to make.”

Willow House.

He raced up the stairs, smiling all the way. Willow House was an exclusive bordello, the only one in London for which a man needed a recommendation from one of the gentlemen who were numbered among its clientele. Before his brother, Martin, had married, he had vouched for Robbie.

The night was still young.