Chapter Twenty-Six
Strathairn arrived at St. Paul’s Cathedral several hours before the wedding and wasn’t happy with the situation. He’d come under some criticism while arguing for more men to secure the roads around the cathedral and feared there were gaps in their net.
A clamor rose from the crowd gathered along the west front. Workmen, shopkeepers, men of the cloth, and families with children stood twenty-deep along the barrier, waiting for the prince regent and distinguished guests to arrive.
Strathairn roamed along the line of constables. The surrounding streets were blocked off with only one entry point at Ludgate Hill where occupants of each carriage would be checked before passing through the barrier to let down passengers at the cathedral steps.
He circumnavigated the massive domed cathedral, following the fence from St. Paul’s church yard to Paternoster Row. Confident that New Change, Carter Lane, Dean’s Court, and Creed Lane were secure, he made his way back to the west entrance to find the crowd had grown larger and strained against the barrier. Then he entered the cathedral through the massive great west door, making his way down the aisle beneath the huge dome to the nave, his footsteps echoing on the tiled floor.
Guests waited in their finery, their voices hushed in the hallowed space. His eyes roamed every shadowy corner, locating the constables attempting to appear inconspicuous. They guarded the quire, the stairs to the dome, and the crypt. Some peered down from the whispering gallery and others lurked in the chapels. All seemed in order, but how could he be sure?
When he returned outside, the crowd had grown even larger. The constables and Bow Street patrollers among them were as hampered as he was, with only a brief description of the man they sought. Blinking in the sunlight, he scanned the faces for a dark-haired giant. He could only fall back on his keen eyes and his instincts, which seemed nowhere near enough. What if Moreau was here, and he failed to find him in time?
The Marquess of Harrington stepped from his carriage and raised a hand to Strathairn before disappearing inside the cathedral with his best man. The duke and duchess’ gleaming coach followed, drawn by six matched white high steppers.
Moments later, a dark blue carriage bearing the Brandreth crest was admitted. The footman put the steps down and the dowager, Lady Brandreth, alighted, her two youngest daughters following. The bride looked undeniably lovely, but Strathairn’s gaze rested on Sibella in her white dress with a wreath of red and white roses in her hair. She nodded to him with a smile.
Strathairn swung around as the constables moved the barricade to admit a man. Astounded, he strode toward the limping figure. “Irvine!” His wounded comrade leaned heavily on a crutch, deep lines of pain and strain aging his young face. “You should not have come.”
Irvine panted from the effort. “I want to be of help if I can. As you said, I’m the only one who has seen the devil.”
“I’m relieved to find you here and very grateful,” Strathairn said. “It’s imperative we get to him before he can fire off that gun of his. Can I ask you to walk a little? Search for him in the crowd?”
Strathairn withdrew one of his pistols from the bandolier beneath his coat and held the gun out to Irvine. “If you run into him, use it, but I’d prefer to take him alive.”
Irvine shuffled away toward the people jammed up along the barrier while Strathairn had a word with the constable. The regent would soon arrive.
When he joined Irvine again, the injured man shook his head. “He’s not here. Maybe it is to be Vauxhall.”
“Keep looking. If you see anything, no matter what, give me a sign. I’ll be watching,” Strathairn said. “I will return in a moment.”
Sibella waited at the top of the steps at the cathedral entrance. He ran over the ground and climbed to meet her, his appreciative eye roaming over her. “How beautiful you both look.”
“Has anything happened?” She curled her fingers around her reticule, her eyes wary.
“Not so far, I hope…”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Irvine limping back toward him. Irvine raised his arm. “I must go.” He turned and raced down the steps.
“I’ve found Moreau,” Irvine said, gasping. “I’ll swear it’s him. He’s here.”
“Where? Don’t make it obvious.”
Irvine gestured over his shoulder with a subtle movement. “He’s just appeared down Ave Maria Lane.”
Strathairn turned his head toward the lane. A big solid dark-haired man stood among the crowd. “You’re sure that’s Moreau?”
“I’ll never forget that hulking brute. He marked me indelibly.”
“Alert the constables,” Strathairn said. “Tell them to follow me. But with stealth. We don’t want to lose him and neither do we want a stampede!”
He left Irvine’s side and walked over to the barricade as another carriage carrying more wedding guests passed through.
The regent’s cavalcade appeared and advanced in stately fashion down Ludgate Hill, flanked by guards on horseback. Strathairn pushed into the throng, patently aware that if the people panicked, many would get hurt. The tightly packed, excited mob pushed back at him, struggling to keep their position which made movement frustratingly difficult. He chose not to draw his gun while he kept his eye on Moreau’s dark head. A shooting match would be disastrous.
Strathairn was a few yards from the Frenchman when Moreau saw him and whipped the rifle out from beneath his coat. Those around him who saw the weapon cried out and tried to get away.
Exclamations of horror and rebuke followed Moreau as he fought his way back toward Ave Maria Lane with Strathairn coming fast behind him. Strathairn could hear his French curses and threats as he pushed people aside. His gun now drawn, he warned people to let him through, but their terror impeded him as they struggled to put distance between themselves and the two men with guns.
Moreau shoved several people to the ground as he pushed on toward the lane. A woman carrying a child fell heavily.
“Help her up!” Strathairn called with a curse. He couldn’t get a clear path, and Moreau had almost reached the edge of the crowd. If he made it to the end of the lane, he’d have a good chance to get away.
Moreau burst out of the mob as Strathairn gained on him. He broke free and sprinted after the Frenchman. Behind him, the two constables following were jammed between those surging against the barricade to glimpse the prince regent, whose cavalcade was only minutes away, and those attempting to flee the scene.
Strathairn wanted this mongrel captured alive. A quick death wasn’t good enough for Moreau. Drawn and quartered, his head on a pike would be the only justice and deterrent for others with the same aim.
Moreau took off up the lane, but the heavy man was slow on his feet. Strathairn took aim and brought him down with a shot to the thigh. Like the felling of an oak, he crashed onto the pavement with a roar of rage, the rifle flying away. Strathairn reached him as he staggered to his feet, bleeding heavily. Strathairn did not expect the weight behind the mighty punch, which sent his head reeling. When his foggy gaze cleared, Moreau was lurching for the gun, and Strathairn leapt after him. Before Moreau’s hand could grasp the rifle, Strathairn kicked it away.
The big Frenchman charged again, butting Strathairn in the chest, which knocked the air out of him. Strathairn staggered, then leapt forward and attacked him with his fists. All the pain and fury he carried for Nesbit and Irvine and past events that had nothing to do with Moreau lay behind every loaded punch.
Despite being crippled and weakened from the loss of blood and Strathairn’s blows, the big man still fought back. A ham-fist connected with Strathairn’s cheek and his ears rung. Their labored panting reverberated around the narrow lane while the shocked crowd uttered barely a word. Strathairn managed to plant a good facer, rocking the man back on his heels. As Moreau shook his head, Strathairn danced forward and delivered a right to the giant’s stomach and followed it with an elbow to the jaw. Moreau’s head twisted, a trail of spit flying from his mouth.
Moreau was all muscle but unschooled. Strathairn got the big man in a headlock. The rifle was too far away for him to reach. He had to disable the Frenchman to get to the weapon. When he brought his knee up into Moreau’s groin, he cried out in pain.
Moreau spat out a string of French curses as Strathairn drove his fist continually into the Frenchman’s stomach. The devil wouldn’t go down.
A monk approached them. He picked up Moreau’s rifle and pointed it at the Frenchman.
“Give me the rifle,” Strathairn said, surprised that a monk should display a penchant for violence.
The monk threw back his hood.
Strathairn choked and went cold. Forney! The count sneered, his face thin and pasty. He altered the trajectory of the gun to Strathairn’s heart.
“An eye for an eye. You killed my wife,” Forney cried, his strange wolf-like eyes wild.
With a shriek, Moreau broke free as Forney fired, the ball striking Moreau in the head.
Forney let out a howl as the Frenchman went down. With a sense that fate may have caught up with him, Strathairn stood helpless as the count aimed the gun at him.
He pulled the trigger.
A bright flash and Forney staggered back as the rifle exploded in his face. He crumpled, his habit smoldering.
Strathairn knelt beside him as he fought to breathe. It seemed that fate had favored him today. He climbed to his feet as Sibella emerged chalk-faced from the stunned onlookers, the muff pistol in her hand.
“Give me that.” Strathairn grabbed the gun from her as the two constables closed in on the stricken Forney who was prostrate on the ground, his blackened face hardly recognizable.
“Is he dead?” Sibella asked, her voice oddly flat.
“No, he still breathes, but not for long.” Strathairn stood looking down at the conspirator they had thought to be dead. No question that death would claim him now.
He put his arm around Sibella. “My God, Sibella. I should be angry with you. What in God’s name are you doing here?”
She struggled out of his grasp. “I was desperate. I wanted to help if I could. So I followed you.”
He took her hand. “You’re missing your sister’s wedding.”
“They’ll wait for me.”
“Prinny doesn’t wait for anyone.”
Sibella sagged against him and he led her to the church, through the crowd of subdued people. They gasped and murmured and parted like the Red Sea to let them pass. He half expected to see the prince emerge from the cathedral in a rage.
“See what happens when you give me a gun?” she asked as they crossed the forecourt. “I don’t ever want it back.”
“I’m not about to give it back.” She might have been hurt, or worse… “Everything is all right now.” He swept her up the steps.
“Who was that man in the monk’s garb? I saw his eyes. He would have killed you,” she whispered.
At the entrance, he raised her gloved hand to his lips. “Count Forney. He won’t kill anyone now. Thank you for being so brave, my love.”
She pulled away from him. “The wedding. I must go.”
“Sibella…”
She shook her head sorrowfully at him and disappeared into the interior shadows of the cathedral.
*
The wedding party gathered in the nave.
“Where have you been, Sibella?” Cordelia asked in a low voice. “You are holding up the wedding. The Prince of Wales will be angry.”
“He isn’t,” Chaloner said, briskly, silencing Cordelia with a gesture. “Mother sits next to the regent and is keeping him amused. What happened out there, Sib?”
“The assassin has been killed,” Sibella said.
“Oh, thank heaven.” Maria clapped her hands.
Chaloner nodded. “Then may we proceed?” He held out his arm to Maria and nodded to a church alderman. In a moment, the organ music swelled.
Sibella took her bouquet of red roses from their footman, then walked down the aisle ahead of Aida and Cordelia in their white gowns with Chaloner and Maria following behind.
Familiar faces greeted her as she walked, from family to politicians and princes.
She took her place beside her sisters. Relief that John was safe made her tamp down a shudder while she watched Maria join Harry at the altar and the ceremony began.
When she’d followed John as he made his way through the crowd, it hit home to her the extent of the danger he faced. How strong and competent he was, yet he still came within a whisker of dying. It would not be the first time, of that she was sure. He would never give it up. Not for her or for anyone. It was in his blood.
As Maria vowed to love and obey Harry, Sibella bit her lip to suppress the anguish which came with the knowledge that he was lost to her. Her sister’s voice seemed almost distant in the vast echoing space, perhaps because of the heavy thud of Sibella’s heart in her ears.
The ceremony over, Maria and Harry went to sign the marriage lines. Sibella returned her mother’s smile with trembling lips. Since Coombe died, her nerves seemed to lie close to the surface. In her quiet moments, she relived the terrifying expression in his eyes, his determination to rape and murder her, and the awful moment when he was killed.
When John spoke to the man with the crutch and entered the crowd, she was compelled to follow him with an overwhelming urge to do everything she could to help, to turn what fate might have in store into a victory.
The monk had pushed past her and pulled back his habit. She saw the mad, murderous look in his eyes, which had chilled her to the bone. What made men so wicked? It shook her to the core to know such evil existed. Her sheltered life had left her unprepared. John must have witnessed many terrible things. How close he had come to death, yet he seemed so calm.
She’d sought solace in his arms for one fleeting moment, and she would always be grateful for that. She admired his bravery and his dedication, but at the same time, she wanted to beat him on the chest and rail at him for this work he did. What a fool she was to love him for precisely what he was, a brave man prepared to risk his life for his country, and yet wish to change him, to subject him to a life of quiet domesticity. She wouldn’t ask it of him.