The Abducted Heiress

‘I had no choice,’ said Arscott. She could hear the thread of anger beneath the rigid deference in his voice. ‘There were three of them. And my pistol misfired.’

‘I heard it—!’ Desire began.

‘I fired the musket,’ said Arscott, ‘but the pistol misfired. I could not threaten the two remaining men with it. Only fight hand-to-hand to save you.’

‘I will always be grateful,’ Desire said. The last thing she wanted was ill feeling between her and her steward. ‘It’s dark. Let’s go inside now.’

Chapter Two

Newgate, Tuesday 4 September 1666

‘Fire! Fire! Fire!’

‘The Papists have fired London!’

‘Nay! The flames of hell are purging the corrupt city!’

‘It’s the French to blame. Throwing fireballs into the houses…’

‘’Tis God’s punishment for the sins of the Court…’

‘The Dutch are taking vengeance for our recent victory…’

‘St Paul’s burns…’

‘We’ll all burn!’

Jakob listened grimly to the uproar around and below him. He was in Newgate, awaiting the next gaol delivery to the Old Bailey. At the best of times the prison wasn’t silent, but now the cries of his fellow captives had risen to a frenzied cacophony of panic.

Newgate was not only a gaol, it was also one of the seven ancient gateways into London. Its two massive stone towers straddled Newgate Street. Every day people crowded through the iron gates and beneath the portcullis on their journey into, or out of, the City. But for two days there had been no normal traffic through the gate. The sounds of London descending into chaos had filtered through the thick stone walls and iron bars of the gaol.

News of a fire in the east of the City had first reached the gaol on Sunday morning, but fires among the old wooden buildings of London were so common that initially only a few doom-mongers were alarmed.

All the same, speculation about the extent and cause of the conflagration quickly circulated among the prisoners. By Monday it was claimed that the fire extended from London Bridge in the south to Lombard Street in the north. That it covered the whole of the waterfront for almost the entire length of Thames Street. Rumours abounded. Many people believed absolutely that the fire had been started deliberately by a Dutch baker. Others that the French had ignited it by throwing fireballs into houses. England was at war with both countries. On Monday night the fire destroyed Cornhill and advanced inexorably on Cheapside.

By Tuesday morning, St Paul’s Cathedral and Newgate were both under immediate threat. It no longer mattered to anyone trapped inside the prison how the fire started. Their only concern was to escape. Even in their confinement the prisoners could hear the terrified screams of those who fled through the gate in search of safety. They could also hear the thunderous roar of the fire raging towards the towers. The stench of burning was stronger than the usually overpowering stench of the gaol. The air was foul with smoke.

Jakob stood at a barred window, his throat raw from the polluted air. He took shallow breathes to avoid pulling the smoke too deeply into his lungs. He was in a better position than many prisoners. They were incarcerated in squalid quarters below ground. Fortunately Jakob had not come penniless to gaol. He’d bribed the Keeper of Newgate to house him in the more comfortable conditions of the Master’s Side at the top of the prison. He’d also taken the first opportunity to send out a message to his cousin, the Duke of Kilverdale. The Keeper had been impressed by Jakob’s high-ranking connections and since then had treated him with careful respect.

But so far Kilverdale had neither returned the message nor appeared in person. On Monday morning, after two nights in Newgate, Jakob had reluctantly sent out another message. This time to his grandfather, who had a house in St Martin’s Lane. Under other circumstances Jakob would have waited considerably longer for Kilverdale to respond before asking for Lord Swiftbourne’s help, but he believed Lady Desire was still in imminent danger. There had been no reply to his second message either.

Jakob tested one of the bars at the window, while he wondered with some annoyance where Kilverdale had gone. His cousin seemed to be constitutionally incapable of staying in one place for more than five minutes.

The roar of the fire was louder, closer. Smoke curled through the bars. Burning embers swirled past the window, a terrifying portent of what was to come. Jakob’s muscles tensed with horror at the thought of being caught like a rat in a trap before the flames.

He shook off the ghastly image and went to hammer on the locked door.

‘Hey! Are you going to leave us to roast?’ he shouted.

It wasn’t the first time he’d demanded information about the fire. Since he had the money for bribes, the gaolers kept him reasonably well informed. This time no one replied. He waited by the door an instant longer, then returned to the window. He’d checked all possible escape routes when he’d first arrived, and he’d quickly discovered that the mortar holding the bars was in poor condition. Though the prison was a formidable building, it was old and in disrepair.

Jakob had spent much of his time over the past two days chiselling away at the soft mortar with a large iron nail he’d purloined during his transfer into the cell. The fire had been his ally in his escape preparations. Anyone who noticed how much time he spent at the window would assume he was trying to follow the progress of the flames.

Now he braced one hand against the wall and wrapped his other hand around the first iron bar. He focussed all his strength and dragged the bar free. It grated loudly against the crumbling brick, but there was no need for silence. If anyone heard him and came to prevent his escape, they’d open the door.

An open door was all Jakob needed.

He was about to drop the bar on to the floor when, beneath the ever-present roar of the fire, he heard the scrape of a key in the lock. In the few seconds before the door swung inwards he thrust the bar beneath his doublet.

‘What took you so long?’ he demanded, striding towards the terrified gaoler.

‘Hurry! We’re going to the Clink.’ The gaoler coughed and gestured frantically towards Jakob with his left hand. In his right he held a musket.

‘To hell, more like.’ Jakob strode through the door, helped on his way by a shove between the shoulder blades.

All around him he could hear frightened, angry shouts. The gaolers were trying to march their prisoners away to the alternative confinement of the Clink Prison in Southwark. But the gaolers were disorganised and as terrified as the prisoners. Once they reached the street it was easy for Jakob to escape in the confusion.

As soon as he was alone in a debris-filled alley, he paused to get his bearings. Inside the prison he’d become almost used to the roaring approach of the fire. Outside in the street the noise was a physical assault on his whole body, pounding his ears and disorientating all his senses. Stones exploded in the high temperatures. It sounded as if a battle was being fought within the flames.

He turned to take his first real look at the fire—and shock briefly held him completely immobile. The fierce gale that had been blowing since Sunday had whipped the sulphurous flames into a savage inferno. It towered high above the tallest buildings, dwarfing everything in its path. The sky above was black with smoke.

A shower of crimson fire droplets rained down upon him, covering his doublet with tiny, blackened pinpricks. The intense heat scalded his eyes and seared his face. Acrid smoke gusted suddenly around him. Choking him. Nearly blinding him. His lungs burned. The flames seemed almost alive in their malevolent intent to devour everything in their path.

He shook off his momentary horror and turned to run through the thick layer of ash that swirled in the streets.

By now his temporary lodgings in the City would surely have burned. There was no point in going to the house in St Martin’s Lane because the message he’d sent there had been left unanswered. Besides, he wasn’t keen to present himself to his grandfather in the guise of an escaped convict. Now Jakob was free, he regretted the necessity that had forced him to send that message.

He paused to check his location and a fit of coughing tore his lungs.

He remembered the moment her ladyship’s steward had levelled his pistol at him. Jakob had dived flat behind the meagre protection of a bed of herbs. The steward had pulled the trigger, but the pistol had misfired. Jakob had no doubt the man had intended him to die on the roof of Godwin House.

He’d survived the débâcle because of a misfired pistol and Lady Desire’s absolute determination he would live to stand trial. He recalled the way she’d held him at bay with the pistol she’d taken from her attacker. There was no doubting the lady’s courage, but the fire would not respect her dignity or her privacy—and it was not the only threat to her safety. No doubt she’d already fled from her grand mansion in the Strand, but Jakob wanted to know where she’d gone.

He was covered in soot and ash. Just another desperate man escaping from the fire. As long as he avoided members of Lady Desire’s household, he was unlikely to be recognised. Perhaps he could find someone to tell him what he needed to know. He owed the lady his life. He meant to repay the debt.

Desire stood in her roof-garden, the key to the river-gate clutched in her hand. She stared, transfixed, at the burning city. With the exception of a couple of watchmen left to guard the property from looters, she was alone in Godwin House. She wondered vaguely whether Arscott or Benjamin Finch had realised yet that they’d left her behind.

She hadn’t intended to stay, but in the end she hadn’t been able to leave. Godwin House was her home—this garden her sanctuary. She had a superstitious fear that if she deserted it she might never see it again.

The arrangements they’d made to convey the contents of the house to safety had made it easy for no one to notice her absence. The most valuable items had been taken away either by carriage or in the river barge. Arscott had gone with the barge, intent on protecting the locked chest that contained all of Desire’s monetary wealth. There was more than nine thousand pounds in the heavy chest, the revenues from all the Godwin estates scattered throughout the country. Arscott had taken the head porter and several of the strongest menservants with him to guard the chest.

Benjamin had been in charge of the three coaches that had hauled away other chattels as well as most of the staff, including Lucy, Desire’s personal maid. There had been some discussion about whether Desire would be more comfortable in the overcrowded barge or a coach. No clear decision had been made. In the confusion it had been easy for both men to assume that their mistress was safely in the care of the other.

Despite her fear that she might lose her home, Desire had not consciously intended to stay behind. Somehow she simply hadn’t left. She wondered if she was living up to some deep-rooted family tradition of not running away in the face of danger. Twenty-two years earlier, her mother had lived—and Desire had nearly died—by that creed. In the absence of the Earl, the Countess had taken charge of their Devonshire estate. She had held the fortified house for Parliament against besieging royalists for five weeks of fierce fighting. Even the injuries to her daughter had not compelled the Countess to yield. Only the arrival of Parliamentarian forces, led by Desire’s father, had brought an end to the siege.

The thunderous roar of the fire destroying London was horrifyingly reminiscent for Desire of the noise of the royalists’ bombardment of Larksmere House because, trapped behind the defences of the house, there had been no peace and no escape from the fighting. Desire touched her cheek. Her scars were an ever-present reminder of that frightening period of her life.

The strong easterly winds whipped her skirts around her legs. Her dishevelled hair felt gritty with the ash swirling through the air. Her garden was full of flying debris. A charred piece of paper briefly caught against the side of a raised bed. It gusted up into Desire’s face before spinning heavenwards once more.