As it happened on the eve of Vanessa Grey’s fateful race in Brighton, odd occurrences were taking place in Cornwall!

On that particular night, the black sky was alight with the full moon and the stars glittered over Montlaine Castle.

On that night, a small world was crumbling.

“Step lively, m’lord, mistress, fer them coming up the hill be fearful, angry, and out fer blood,” cried Epps, the Viscount of Montlaine’s man.

Montlaine bent his head against the wind and put a protective arm around the gentle girl beside him. Time was closing in on him as he led her up the drive that led to their stables. They said not a word until they reached their horses and started the job of tacking up.

Then the girl spoke first, pushing aside her hood to exhibit a length of dark waves and the face of a young maid. “Bret, Bret, this is wrong. I think we need to take a stand. You cannot mean to run…not now! You must stand against their charges and prove them all false.”

Montlaine eyed her sadly. “You are understandably agitated and do not comprehend the full picture.” He took hold of her small chin, and saw the adoration in her eyes. “No, Mary. I’ll not allow the name of Montlaine to face a mob. No good can come of it. There is never any reasoning with a rabble out for blood.”

“But, what then, will you do?”

“My dear, there isn’t time now to explain. You take this note along with you and make for Lady Penrod’s establishment. There, you will be completely sheltered from all of this. The rabble will not follow you there. Their fight is with me.”

“Oh, Bret, they are saying you are the devil and they are calling me one of your minion witches. How can they say such things? I am so confused and frightened, not for me, but for you.”

He hoisted her into her saddle and tightened the girth. “Keep a tight rein, child. Hold your gelding’s head up and don’t take a reckless pace. Go now, that’s the lass.” With that, he saw her off into the night.

His groom moved with impatience. “M’lord, up wit ye. There is no time—no time to waste.”

The viscount’s black stallion snorted as Montlaine nimbly mounted him and took the reins in hand. He eased his horse onto the drive, but it was, as he had feared, already too late. The mob had arrived and began swarming, making his exit very near impossible.

Mobs, he thought, for he had seen a couple in his time, seldom had any viable leadership, but this one did. The Magistrate of Wadbridge, astride a chestnut, sat straight in his saddle and called out on a sharp note, “Halt! My lord, I must ask you to go no further.”

Silence filled the air and the viscount fancied that the wind itself calmed in anticipation of his response.

He laughed out loud and said, “Gentlemen, you are on my land. You are trespassing and dare to order me about? Really!” He then clucked his tongue.

The magistrate actually squirmed in his seat and the viscount smiled to himself, however, the man then held up an official looking warrant. “I…I…” the magistrate stuttered, “know that you have sway in many high offices, but this is a legal document, my lord…for your arrest.”

“Is it, by God!” the viscount roared, and was pleased to see the crowd shrink into itself. “What is the charge?”

“Murder, ye divil, murder!” cried a distraught woman as she wrung her hands and stepped towards him.

He looked at her and past her to the crowd. Everyone, other than the magistrate, was on foot. They had come a long way to confront him.

“Why do you say such a thing?” he asked, totally puzzled.

“Ye killed me daughter, ye did. Ye seduced the poor child to yer devilry, made her one of yer witches, and then cast her aside. She died in a convulsion from one of yer spells!”

“I am sorry for it, but…I don’t even know who your daughter is…” he started.

“She was Miss Melony Fry,” the magistrate said.

“Ah, Miss Fry,” he said slowly.

“Then you admit. You knew her?” the magistrate pursued.

“Yes, I knew her, but I don’t understand why I am being charged with her death?” The viscount was truly at a loss.

“I, myself, have seen you dallying with the poor girl in town. ‘Twas yer own unmistakable pendant that she held in her hand when she took her last breath,” the magistrate continued.

“My pendant? I lost that more than three or four days ago. If you had come up to the house first, you could have questioned my aunt, my servants…”

“And been put off!” the mother of the girl cried.

He turned to her now and said gently, “I am sorry for your loss, but I would have never hurt Melony or any other female.” He turned to the magistrate. “Sir, if you had come up to the house, as I said, my cousin, Mrs. Echworth, would have attested to the fact that I lost the pendant days ago…and that the entire staff had been put to searching for it.”

“A good story,” the magistrate cut him off. “However, it does not clear you.”

Out of patience, the viscount shouted, “Do you realize what you are doing, accosting me with that rabble at your back? By Jupiter, sir, I shall have your job and then your head for this insult, and stop waving that piece of worthless paper at me!”

He had the satisfaction of seeing the magistrate’s lips quiver. The man looked momentarily uncertain, however, evidently he had no intention of backing off.

The crowd at his back called for action, and apparently he realized he had to appease them. He put up his hands, but it did not silence them and they started shouting for justice.

“Ah,” said the viscount quietly to the magistrate, “you see now, the crowd gets restless. Your superiors will not approve if this gets out of hand, and it is about to do just that. Look at him—to your left, calling for blood. Well, I don’t intend to give him mine.”

“Easy! Steady now,” the magistrate told the crowd, but the din was a roar and he was not heeded. “Perhaps if you come with me now, my lord,” he suggested. “Perhaps then they will calm down.”

“Go wit ye?” the viscount’s man, Epps, snorted.

“What, so as a jury of his peers can be dazzled by his name and his charm?” said a woman in the crowd. “No, Magistrate Rawkens, that won’t do. We have a mind to deal with him now!”

A man raised his pitchfork in the air and called for the viscount’s death. Another yelled, “An eye for an eye…what say ye, lads?”

“Aye,” growled yet another. “Bring him off that divil horse of his and hang him high!”

The chant went through the crowd as the viscount made his plans. He marveled at the way each individual lost his identity as they became one, a unit of power. Violence like a wave washed into them, and a stone was picked up and thrown at the viscount.

Unused to such treatment, the viscount’s horse reared and flayed his front legs in the air. The stallion’s whinny shook the atmosphere with an eerie sound and the proud steed was a beauty to behold. For a moment, the mob paused to watch him.

Montlaine grinned and felt the devil they had dubbed him as he called out his horse’s name, “Aye then, Midnight!”

He was down low, leaning into his horse’s neck, and in the splitting of a second he charged towards the rabble, who parted in a flurry of screams and terror as he jumped high to avoid trampling some who had not quite moved out of the way.

With a rumble of laughter and a rush of excitement, the Devil of Montlaine vanished into the night!