Page 69 of Against the Wind

The travel south was fast and hard. Martin and the duke rode abreast, followed by the duke’s footman, a burly servant who carried himself like a former soldier. The duke had graciously granted Martin a fresh mount, one of his own grand Thoroughbreds. By now, only his fear for Kit kept Martin awake, as every muscle in his exhausted body protested the grueling pace.

He had a foreboding that he might be too late and the dread of it drove him onward. Pictures of his smiling auburn-haired kitten flashed into his mind. When had she become all to him? His chest ached with the thought that he could lose her. He knew well that in one tragic moment she could be gone. If Rutledge had been involved in Sidmouth’s business in Derbyshire, with the rebellion quashed, he might be leaving and taking Kit with him. She would fight as she had once before. What would that fight lead to this time? The thought tore at Martin. Losing her would destroy his world, and he desperately wanted that world.

As they covered the miles, Martin had to shout at times for the duke to hear him over the pounding of the horses’ hooves, just as the man warned. He responded to questions pertaining to all that had happened. The duke grew angry when Martin told him of Oliver the spy, retained by the government to stir unrest in the duke’s own lands.

“It is not just the harsh winters, crop losses and machines that have replaced workers,” Martin explained, “they are unhappy at having no direct say in government.” Having listened to all the speeches and complaints, he had a good feeling for what had led the people to join the ill-conceived rebellion.

“I myself favor the vote for the populace,” the duke offered, his voice rising to be heard over the galloping horses, “but it cannot come about this way.”

“They are poor and ill educated. When the spy Oliver told them all of England was ready to rise and demand change, they believed him.”

The duke seemed to consider this as he shouted back, “Perhaps if the people had been better educated they might have known a ridiculous claim when it was presented. They might have come to me. I shall look into it.”

Martin vaguely nodded in agreement, his thoughts having long ago left the matter of interest to the duke. All his energy was focused on reclaiming the object of his heart’s desire. He must reach her before Rutledge could harm her.

“But there must be a Frenchman among the rebels arrested!” Rutledge demanded of the cowering magistrate behind the desk. He had to shout to be heard over the din of the waiting room behind him where prisoners were being questioned.

The rotund magistrate peered up at him, speech faltering. “But m-m’lord—”

“Look again, you idiot! You must have missed a name. He’s one of them!”

The room behind them suddenly stilled. Feeling eyes boring into his back, Rutledge grew impatient. He was weary of the ineptitude of the local populace.

The magistrate returned his attention to the paper he held in trembling hands, but Rutledge cared not a whit if he disturbed this incompetent man’s day; these country bumpkins were getting on his nerves. He pounded his fist on the desk to warn the magistrate he was serious. “Look again!”

“I’m s-sorry m’lord,” the man stammered, “but the list the hussar captain gave me of the men he arrested this morning contains no Donet, nor any French name at all.”

“I waited all night and all morning for this paltry result? Surely your men can do better.”

“There are still dragoons in the field rounding up rebels, m’lord. I think they may find him today,” the magistrate offered, sounding hopeful.

Rutledge doubted the man thought of anything save his next meal. Grabbing the list, he studied the column of names. “‘Brassington, Hill, Hunt, Ludlam, Moore, Onion, Swaine, Turner, Weightman,’” he recited under his breath as he ran his finger down the list. Raising his head from the paper to peer down at the magistrate he repeated, “No Donet?”

“No, m’lord.”

The noise of the waiting room behind him resumed its former hum as the soldiers went about the business of dealing with the aftermath of the rebellion that had ended only a few hours before. Rutledge glanced again at the list he held. A name at the bottom of the page, set apart from the others, drew his interest: Sir Martin Powell, Crown’s Agent.

“Who is this?” he asked, wrinkling his brow in consternation and shoving the paper in front of the magistrate’s nose, finger pointing to the name. “I am not aware of any representative of the Prince’s government here save me.”

“Apparently he was dispatched by the Prince Regent himself, m’lord. Captain Philips assured me he is a most agreeable fellow. Stayed with the rebels all night trying to talk the local men out of following that rascal Brandreth. It seems he turned many back.”

“Odd that Castlereagh never mentioned him,” Rutledge murmured to himself. “Ahem…well,” he spoke up, returning to his original subject that was of more interest. “Please inform me should the Frenchman Donet be apprehended. You can reach me through my man who will check with you daily while I am in Derbyshire.”

“The prisoners will be taken to the Derby gaol once we’re through with them,” the magistrate called to his departing back.

Still fuming as his boot heels hit the steps leading down from the office, Rutledge pondered his next move. Katherine was now his. He could take his time marrying the girl, but he first wanted the Frenchman arrested. No, he wanted him dead. A hanging would take too long.

Ah, yes. Much too long.

Katherine. Pleased he had her hidden away good and proper, he decided the Frenchman could wait. Katherine, however, could not.