“We must go quietly now, and secure the gig at the far edge of this copse,” he murmured. “Jane — will you remain with the horses, while we walk the final half-mile?”

“Never, sir.”

Frank snorted aloud. “Jane and horseflesh do not suit, my lord. It is useless to persuade her.”

The trees thinned; the darkness that encroached in the heavy wood, lightened ahead; and there, against the night sky, loomed the tumbled ruin of rock.

“No moon,” Lord Harold muttered. “We divide the advantage thus: his movements are hidden; but so are ours.”

He halted the gig, and Frank jumped down. In a trice, the horses were hobbled and a rock placed behind the wheels. Lord Harold drew a flat wooden case from the rear of the equipage: his matched set of duelling pistols. One he secured in his coat; the other he handed silently to Frank; and so we set off. Did the stolen skiff nose against the cliff’s foot below? Or had the Jesuit beached it already, and entered the subterranean passage? Would he move with ease, confident that his plans were undetected?

We came upon the Abbey from the rear; the turret stair, blasted and exposed to the elements, rose up on the forward side. The ground was everywhere uneven, and I dreaded lest I should stumble in the course of that last treacherous walk; but the thought had no sooner entered my mind, than Lord Harold’s hand was extended, and silently gripped my own. And so we went on, Frank to the fore and our breathing almost suspended, so desperately did we guard our progress, until my brother stopped short and held out his hand.

“Look!”

Light had blazed forth from the blasted walls above us, shining vivid as a beacon through the surrounding dark. No candle-flame that might flicker and burn out, but a lanthorn fueled by whale-oil. It burned straight and true, and might draw one eye, or many, trained upon it from the Dibden shore. We stared in horror, and then Lord Harold began to run. He had seen, as a darker shape against the night sky, the figure of a man — distorted, perhaps, by shadow and cloak, but unmistakable in its movements. My brother and I followed in an instant, but my stays prevented me from achieving the necessary exertion, and I soon fell back. My eyes were fixed, however, upon the turret’s heights — and I saw that the Enemy in the cloak had been alerted to the sound of pursuit — footsteps rang on stone — he whirled about wildly, but escape was closed to him: Lord Harold had gained the ramparts.

I saw him outlined in the glare of the signal lamp. His right arm rose, and levelled the pistol; he uttered a harsh command; and then the lanthorn shattered under the impact of the lead ball. In the sudden eclipse of darkness, I thought that Lord Harold staggered — that he sank sharply against the wall where two figures grappled as one — and that the cloaked figure then hurled himself at the turret stair. A second shot rang out before me: Frank must have achieved the turret — but what, oh, Heaven, was the issue of the mad engagement?

And why did the huddled form on the walls not rise, and give pursuit?

With a sob tearing at my throat — ignorant of pain or breathlessness — I ran as though the hounds of Hell were upon my heels. Through the blasted kitchen garden and past the tunnel’s mouth — through the buttery and refectory and the south transept of the church — and there, at the foot of the stair, stood my brother, a spent pistol in his hand. Darkness welled in the ruins at night; I strained to discern the tumbled form at Frank’s feet. It was the cloaked and lifeless figure of a man. He had fallen from the stair’s height, and landed upon his face. Frank knelt and turned him to the sky.

“Orlando,” I whispered.

Chapter 30

The Rogue Is Sped

5 November 1808, cont.

With the brisk inhumanity of one accustomed to death, Frank dragged the valet aside and bolted up the turret stair. I saw Orlando’s staring eyes — shuddered to the depths of my soul — and followed my brother.

A few moments only were required to gain the walls’ height: and there was Lord Harold, his left hand clapped to his shoulder, weaving unsteadily towards us.

“My lord!” Frank cried. “You are wounded! But how—?”

“A knife,” he said with difficulty. “It has lodged in the bone. I cannot pull it out—”

My brother grasped his waist, or I am sure Lord Harold should have fallen. Frank tore at the knot of his own cravate, and handed it to me. “Wad it into a square, Jane. My lord, you must press it against the wound, if you have the strength.”

I stuffed the wad under the cold fingers of his left hand, and felt the clean steel of a blade protruding from his coat — he had snapped off the haft in struggling to extract it himself.

“Lean upon me,” Frank ordered. “We shall attempt the stair. Jane — follow us. I would not have you before, if we should stumble and fall.”

The slow descent commenced. Inevitably my brother jostled his man, and Lord Harold groaned — but cut off the sound with a sharp clamping of teeth. It seemed an age before the ground floor of the Abbey was achieved. When I stood at last near my brother, with the body of Orlando huddled at the stair’s foot, I saw that Lord Harold had fainted.

“His hand had slipped — the wad is somewhere on the floor. Pray find it, Jane — he is losing a deal of blood!”

I groped for the linen, and found to my horror that it was soaked through. Frank half-carried, halfdragged his lordship through the Abbey and laid him on the earth.

“Press the wad hard against the shoulder,” he commanded, “and do not release it for anything. You must stem the flow of blood, Jane, or he’s done for. I shall run for the gig — we shall never manage him so far as the woods.”

He was gone before I had time to draw breath: and that swiftly I was left alone, in the shattered ruins of Netley, with the man I loved near dying. Careless of the blood, I sank down beside him and pressed both my hands against the sodden linen, muttering a desperate plea to any God that might still linger in that hallowed place.

Frank whipped the horses into a frenzy and we rattled downhill to the Lodge in a style Sophia Challoner might have approved. Few lights shone in the windows of the comfortable stone house; no torches burned in the courtyard. Was it possible that but a servant remained, and all the fires were doused? Hysteria rose in my breast. Without help, Lord Harold should surely die.

Frank drew up before the door, secured the reins, and sprang down from his seat. Never had I so admired the decision and authority of my brother, as now; I understood what he must be, striding his quarterdeck with a French frigate off the bow. Lord Harold rested insensible upon my lap; I could not move for the weight. Frank pounded at the door and cried Halloo! The noise roused the man in my arms, and he opened his eyes.

I could barely see his face through the darkness.

“Lie still,” I said. “Guard your strength. You will need it.”

“Jane—” he whispered. “On the wall. . Orlando. Not. . the Jesuit—”

“I know. Hush.”

“The knife” — his fingers feebly sought his wound — “he killed that girl, and Dixon—”

The massive oak door swung open to reveal José Luis, the Portuguese steward, a candle raised in one hand.

Behind him stood Maria Fitzherbert.

“Thank God!” I cried out in relief.

“Your pardon, ma’am, for the imposition,” my brother said hurriedly — he had never, after all, made Mrs. Fitzherbert’s acquaintance, and was not the sort to recognise a royal mistress—“but we have a wounded man in grave need of assistance.”

“Lord Harold Trowbridge,” I added urgently.

“He requires a surgeon.”

“Help his lordship into the house, Zé,” Mrs. Fitzherbert ordered in her tranquil voice. “I shall see to the boiling water.”