CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Felicity felt the tension in the room. She had thought she was imagining that Lady Blackstone and Mr. Ratley were staring a great deal at Mr. Merrick. But now Lady Blackstone stood, placing her hands on the table in front of her. Her eyes glittered in the candlelight as she looked at the men around the table. Virtually all of them had droopy, bloodshot eyes, except for Mr. Merrick, who looked quite as handsome, and alert, as ever.
“We have been making plans while we’ve been here. We have trusted each other completely, have we not?”
The men mumbled their agreement and nodded their heads. Some were starting to take closer notice. Mr. Ratley’s face was flushed, and perspiration beaded on his forehead.
“But we have a traitor in our midst.”
A gasp and a few grunts went around the room.
“Ladies, if you are squeamish, you should leave the room immediately.”
Mrs. Cartwright stood and cried out dramatically. The other women followed suit, and they all filed out of the room, but Felicity stayed in her seat. She wasn’t sure why, but she couldn’t seem to move.
“Felicity, you had better leave as well. I do not want you to see anything that will be too disturbing for you. Mr. Ratley, take her out.”
Did they not suspect her, then? Mr. Merrick. O God, please help him!
She let Mr. Ratley take her arm, help her from her chair, and lead her into the next room.
She wanted to look back at Mr. Merrick, to assure him that she would risk her life to save his. Surely they would not kill him in the dining room.
She began to feel light-headed, the familiar sting in her forehead and cheeks that came when she was about to faint. No. I won’t. I can’t. I must keep my wits. I must think of how I might help Mr. Merrick.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Ratley asked, but there was no real concern or gentleness in his tone.
She had to take the focus off herself. “I am well, but what is happening? Do you know who the traitor is, Oliver?” She gazed up at him, still fighting the darkness that was creeping into her vision.
“Yes.” He was quiet for a moment. “Do you not know who Lady Blackstone is about to expose?”
“How could I know?” Felicity sank down in a chair at the back of the drawing room to which the ladies had all withdrawn. No one spoke. She held her breath as she stared at Mr. Ratley’s face, as if waiting to hear what he would say next, when in reality she was straining to hear any sound that might carry from the dining room.
A crash. Felicity jumped. The loud noise was followed by a thud and other scuffling sounds from the dining room. Would they murder Mr. Merrick as they had murdered that poor man in the garden?
She stood and ran toward the dining room.
Philip was very aware that he would have to go through two healthy young footmen before he could escape through either door. He might be able to accomplish that, but there were several other men in the room—although most were still suffering the effects of too much alcohol.
“Mr. Merrick, you aroused my suspicion some days ago. I cannot even put my finger on exactly what it was. Perhaps it was intuition, or the fact that I never heard you rage against the ruling class. There was always something about you.”
She made eye contact with one of the footmen and nodded. The man stepped toward Philip.
Philip jumped from his chair, knocking it backward, and dashed for the other exit. He barreled through the first footman, using his shoulder to knock him aside, then cut the man’s feet out from under him with his foot. The second footman slammed his fist into Philip’s eye before he could even get his hands up.
Philip managed to stay on his feet, but another fist punched him in the stomach. He fought to draw in a breath, bent over and reeling.
The footman stepped aside. Philip’s gaze fastened on the open doorway. He took one step, then felt the cold metal of a gun barrel jab the side of his neck.
Lady Blackstone pressed the gun hard into his skin. “Going somewhere, Mr. Merrick? I’m afraid I have to ask you to stay a bit longer.”
His cheekbone throbbed, but he still very much wanted a chance to reciprocate the footman’s blows. But when he calculated the odds of getting out of the room alive if he ignored the gun in his jugular, he decided they were not in his favor.
“Tie his hands,” Lady Blackstone ordered.
Another footman produced some rope, and they tied his hands together behind his back, pulling the rope so tight it cut into his wrists.
“May I ask why you think I’m a traitor?” Perhaps he could yet talk his way out of it.
“Do not pretend, Mr. . . . What is your name again?”
“You know my name. Philip Merrick.” All the men were standing around him, flanking Lady Blackstone. Now, instead of looking weary, their eyes were alert and trained on him.
“There is no Philip Merrick of Yorkshire with a sick mother about to die.”
“I am as real as you are, my lady. My name is different from my father and mother’s. I was raised by an uncle, who adopted me and gave me the name Merrick. He was from Devonshire, but he died a few years ago. You may search it out. My father’s name is Thomas Fitzhugh.”
Lady Blackstone narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps you are telling the truth. We shall see. I have my butler and a manservant looking through your things in your room as we speak. I am sure they shall turn up evidence. But in the meantime, who will volunteer to search this traitor’s person?”
“I will.” Mr. Cartwright stepped forward. His wife must have told him of seeing Philip holding Miss Mayson’s hand in the library closet.
“Take off his coat and shirt,” Lady Blackstone said, her voice hard.
Philip pulled on his bonds, which rubbed harshly against his wrists, biting into his skin. How would he escape now?
A helpless, hollow feeling bloomed in his chest as Mr. Cartwright pulled off Philip’s neckcloth, exposing his throat. Then the man jerked Philip’s coat off his shoulders and yanked it down. The ropes binding his wrists kept it hanging from his elbows.
“Go through his coat pockets,” Lady Blackstone ordered.
He felt them rifling through his pockets while Cartwright tore the buttons from his shirt and exposed his chest, pushing the shirt off his shoulders. And there were the folded-up papers, like hot coals against his side.
Lady Blackstone’s eyes fastened on the papers. She stepped forward and snatched them from where they were tucked at the top of his trousers.
She unfolded them, her eyes scanning them. She wadded them in her fist, looked Philip in the eye, then slapped him across the same cheek the footman had struck.
His ears rang with the stinging blow.
When he opened his eyes, Lady Blackstone was leaning toward him, her face only inches away from his. “Do you know what we do to traitors?”
He could easily imagine.
“Let’s torture him,” one man said.
“Yes, we should make him suffer.”
“He planned to give us all up to be hanged.”
Lady Blackstone raised her hand to silence them. “Since we cannot risk his escaping, we should kill him right away.”
“He won’t escape,” someone said. “We’ll make sure of that.”
Wilmott, a tall, heavy man, lumbered up to Philip, shaking his own fist as if weighing it. “Let me take a shot at the little traitor.”
Had it occurred to them that they were the actual traitors to England, not him? Philip braced himself for the blow.
Wilmott drew back his huge, meaty fist. This was it. Philip was going to die.
A scream split the air. Wilmott stopped and turned his head.
Felicity Mayson stood in the doorway, Ratley hurrying up behind her.
“What are you doing to that man?” Miss Mayson’s voice was almost high enough to be called hysterical. “Are you savages? What are you doing?”
He did not want her to see him like this, stripped to the waist and hands tied behind his back, about to be beaten to death, but he was still grateful for the reprieve, no matter how short.
“Get her out of here,” Lady Blackstone hissed.
“Please!” Miss Mayson’s eyes were full of tears. “Please don’t do this. He is a human being. Have you no conscience? Have you no fear of God?”
Ratley pulled on her arm, but she shook him off.
Lady Blackstone went toward her, talking in a mild, pleasant, low voice, blocking her view of the room, urging her away from the door.
“Is she gone?” Wilmott asked.
“I think so.”
“Good.” Wilmott drew back his fist and his knuckles connected with Philip’s face.
Stars exploded in his head, and he hit the floor on his side. He couldn’t move, couldn’t feel, except for the explosion happening in his head.
“You killed him,” someone said, but the voice seemed to drift from far away.
Miss Mayson cried out again. He lay still.
Felicity heard the words, “You killed him,” and a strangled cry escaped her throat. She pushed her way past Lady Blackstone, who grabbed her arm and stopped her. Mr. Merrick lay on the floor, blood oozing from his mouth and nose. Her knees went weak. He couldn’t be dead.
“Leave him alone!” Lady Blackstone was talking to the men, who all backed away.
Felicity broke free from Lady Blackstone’s grip and started toward Mr. Merrick’s motionless body, but someone caught her around the waist and held her fast. She struggled but couldn’t get away.
“How could you?” Felicity screamed to the men all around. “You monsters! Send for a doctor, please,” she said, turning to Lady Blackstone.
“Are you also a spy, working with this man?” Lady Blackstone’s eyes bore into her.
“I am your niece. I am not a spy. And why do you think Mr. Merrick is a spy?” She was too frantic. She had to be careful if she had any hope of helping Mr. Merrick.
“He stole papers from my room. Here is the copy he made.” Lady Blackstone held up the crumpled papers. “He was planning to have us all hanged.”
Felicity stared at her hostess and blinked. “Oh.” She had to be smart, had to pretend to be on Lady Blackstone’s side. “That is . . . despicable. But surely you will not kill him. Not you, my lady.”
“Why should we not?” Lady Blackstone’s voice was calm and low. “He would have done the same to us. He planned to betray us, every one of us, including you.” She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Felicity, I had your room searched. I confess I believed you might be a spy as well, helping this man, whatever his name is, but the servants found nothing. The maidservants are cleaning it up and should have everything put back in its proper place.”
“What about Aunt Agnes? You did not harm her, did you?”
“Of course not. She is well and ensconced in the library where I had the servants set up her dinner.”
“Oh.” Felicity’s mind raced as she mentally thought over all the things in her possession. No, she had nothing that would incriminate her as a spy.
“I am sorry for my suspicions, Felicity, but you were seen with Mr. Merrick in the library closet.”
“I have explained this many times—”
“Yes, yes, it was very innocent. Forgive us for our suspicions. We cannot be too careful. There is too much at stake, after all.” Lady Blackstone actually smiled.
Felicity looked back at poor Mr. Merrick, his hands bound behind his back. Her stomach twisted. How badly was he hurt? She had to save him. O God, help me save him!
“What will you do with him?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Please don’t kill him, my lady.” Felicity’s lip trembled, and she did not try to stop the tears that flowed from her eyes. “Please. I beg you. I cannot bear it. I know you love me, you said so, as your own daughter, and Mr. Ratley and I will always be your family. Please do not allow these men to kill Mr. Merrick.”
“What do you suggest we do?”
“You could lock him up somewhere until the revolution is over, treat him as a prisoner of war. You could give him a trial afterward, sentence him fairly. Then if he must be hanged for his crimes, at least it will be civilized. You don’t want people to think the English as barbaric as the French, surely.”
Lady Blackstone frowned out of one side her mouth. “Perhaps you are right.”
Hope lifted Felicity.
Lady Blackstone pointed. “You, Mr. Wilmott and Mr. Dougherty and Mr. Bentley, carry him out to the shed where we keep the printing press. Then lock the door.”
“Oh no, please! You can’t take him out there like this. He might never regain consciousness. And these men might kill him as soon as your back is turned.”
“What are you suggesting?” Lady Blackstone tilted her head to one side. “That we put him on a feather bed and give him access to the stable? He means the death of us all! Don’t you understand?”
“Very well. Yes, I understand, but . . . his mouth is bleeding. He could choke on his own blood and die.”
“And save us a lot of trouble,” Mr. Cartwright said.
The other men laughed.
“There’s no need to mistreat him. Hitting a man with his hands tied behind his back, when he cannot defend himself, is neither civilized nor sporting.”
Lady Blackstone motioned with her hand. The man holding her back released her. She darted to the table and picked up a napkin, soaking one corner with water.
“You, Benson.” Lady Blackstone motioned to one of the footmen. “Drag that old mattress from the storage room into the shed. Then the rest of you carry him to it—after Miss Mayson is satisfied he won’t choke on his own blood.”
Everyone left the room except three of the footmen, who stood by the doors watching her, and Lady Blackstone and Mr. Ratley, who whispered to each other a few feet away.
Felicity sank to her knees beside Mr. Merrick. She touched his temple with the wet cloth and whispered, “Are you all right?”
He didn’t speak. Was he dead? Her heart skipped beats, and her stomach sank. She leaned down to place her cheek next to his nose and mouth to see if she could feel his breath.
“I’m all right.”
His whisper startled an “Oh” from her lips. She sat up and wiped gently at the blood oozing from his lip, still leaning over him.
“Can you get the papers?” he whispered.
She looked around and spied the rumpled papers, with writing on both sides, lying on the table.
“I’ll have to wait,” she whispered back. Lady Blackstone and Mr. Ratley would surely see her if she tried to get them now.
“Is he still alive?” Lady Blackstone asked.
“I think so,” Felicity said over her shoulder. When she turned back to Mr. Merrick, he was lying still with his eyes closed. His face was swelling and turning purple, his lip still oozing blood. Her heart twisted painfully inside her. She didn’t know what else to do, so she wiped at the blood that had run down his chin.
Suddenly, it occurred to her that his chest was bare, as were his shoulders and upper arms. But it seemed silly to be embarrassed about such a thing at a time like this, so she ignored his state of undress and focused on his face.
She had to save him somehow. But he was more worried about the papers, the evidence against Lady Blackstone and the others. Wouldn’t that evidence ensure the deaths of many people? She would have to think about that later.
“Get the papers,” Mr. Merrick whispered, his voice so low she barely made out the words.
“I shall try,” she whispered back.
He kept his eyes closed. Otherwise, she was not sure she would have been able to touch his face with the cloth. It was so personal, touching his chin and lower lip. But she had done many things in the past few weeks that she had never anticipated doing on this visit, or ever—deliberately lying and deceiving others; meeting a man who was virtually a stranger, alone, in a closet; becoming engaged to a man she barely knew; and allowing that man to kiss her multiple times so that he would not guess that she did not intend to marry him at all.
Her mother would surely take one look at her when she returned home and know that she had done many scandalous and unseemly things. How could she look her in the eye?
If things went badly now, Mr. Merrick would die. And in a few short weeks, all of England could be in chaos and deadly revolution.
Felicity glanced again at the papers, still on the table. How could she get them without being seen? Had Lady Blackstone forgotten about them? But in her mind, the spy was caught. They were safe again, so perhaps she would forget.
“I’ll create a distraction,” he whispered. He moaned and opened his eyes, and she backed away from him and stood up.
“Please don’t kill him,” Felicity pleaded again, turning to Lady Blackstone. Truly, her heart was in her throat, for she knew it was very possible that they did intend to kill him as soon as she was out of sight.
Lady Blackstone waved her hand at the footmen. “Take him to the shed.”
The men strode over to Mr. Merrick and bent and put hands on him.
“Let me go! I can walk,” Mr. Merrick said.
All eyes were on him now, so Felicity sidled toward the corner of the table where the papers lay.
The footmen helped him to his feet. He took a step, then sank as if in a swoon. While the men were scrambling to hold him up, Felicity bumped her hip against the table edge and took hold of the papers. Then she backed up to the sideboard that stood against the wall and slipped the papers behind a large urn.