Theater or not, Cal didn’t like the use of women and children. But that was why Radcliffe had the job he had. He had to be ruthless. He operated on the demands of the larger picture, where individuals didn’t matter, as long as the greater good was achieved.
Cal, after half a lifetime at war, had decided that individuals mattered. It was why he’d never make a general.
He watched as the women were led from the house, red-faced and weeping. One of the women was visibly pregnant. Three children followed, a young boy of about eight or nine leading them. He was thin as a lath, with short, ragged hair from which his ears stuck out woefully. He held the hand of a little boy about four years old and carried a toddler, a little girl. The two small ones were sobbing, but the boy was silent and grim-faced. His eyes burned dark and intense, stark against his pale young face.
Cal ached for the lad.
Radcliffe’s men led them into a waiting high-barred cart. Ignoring the shouts from the gathering crowd, they loaded the women and children into it—the boy handing his siblings up himself, refusing the aid of the soldiers.
“It looks like a damned tumbril,” Cal muttered. The women clutched at the bars; the little ones cried out piteously. The crowd was turning ugly and started pushing at the barrier of Radcliffe’s men.
“Theater,” Radcliffe reminded him. “If they look as though they’re going to their execution, all the better.” His head man glanced at Radcliffe, who gave a crisp nod. The cart rumbled off. The women wailed, the children screamed, the crowd shouted.
Cal turned away from the sight in disgust. It was not atall how he’d envisaged the conclusion of his hunt for the assassin. As he turned, he met the accusing gaze of the drunk former sharpshooter across the other side of the road.
A night in the cold rain seemed to have sobered him up a little. He gave Cal a filthy look, then spat in his direction. Then he lifted his gin bottle, drank deeply and staggered away.
Cal felt like doing the same.
Chapter Eighteen
A woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR
Emm and the girls arrived home around noon. They’d spent a delightful few hours exploring the London shops and had decided to go back to Ashendon House, have a quick luncheon and then visit the Tower of London. It was their first time in the great city—even Emm had never been there before—and they were determined to see all the famous sights.
The Tower was first on the list. Rose wanted to see the grim place where so many famous people had met their doom—she liked grisly stories—while Lily and Emm were keen to see the Crown Jewels. George, once she’d heard about the Royal Menagerie, was eager to see the exotic animals.
“You have a visitor, my lady,” the butler, Burton, murmured as he opened the door for them.
“Really? Who is it?” Emm couldn’t imagine who it could be. She didn’t think she knew anyone in London and, more to the point, nobody knew she was here.
“Lady Salter, Lord Ashendon’s aunt. She’s waiting in the green sitting room.”
“Oh, what a lovely surprise.” Emm handed him her hat and glanced in the mirror to tidy her hair and check that she was presentable.
“I gather you’ve never met Lady Salter, my lady,” Burton murmured.
“No, not yet.” Emm turned to the girls. “Rose, Lily, your aunt Agatha has come to call. Isn’t that delightful? George, come and meet your first London relative.” She led them to the green sitting room.
An elegant elderly lady looked up as they entered. She’d been perusing a magazine. She set it aside, raised her lorgnette and directed it at Emm. She said not a word.
Emm came forward, saying warmly, “Lady Salter, I’m sorry to keep you waiting; I didn’t know you intended to call. I am Emmaline, Lady Ashendon.” The title still felt odd on her lips.
Lady Salter made no attempt to rise. She glanced at Emm and pursed her thin lips. “So I gather.” She looked at the girls, clustered reluctantly in the doorway. “Well, come in, gels, don’t stand there loitering. Let me look at you.”
The girls shuffled forward. The old lady scrutinized them carefully through her lorgnette. “Don’t any of you gels know to curtsey when greeting your elders and betters?”
She watched critically as they hastily curtseyed, and snorted when they were finished. “You, gel at the end, where did you learn to curtsey? You’re about as graceful as a bear.”
George lifted her chin. “Thank you,” she said. “I like bears.”
The old lady stiffened. “Cheek! I suppose you’re Henry’s bastard.”
George clenched her fists. Emm placed a soothing hand on George’s shoulder and said, “This is Lady Georgiana Rutherford, your nephew Henry’s perfectly legitimate daughter. Tragically lost to the family for some years, but we’re thrilled to have her here, where she belongs—with us—aren’t we, girls?”
Lady Salter’s lip curled. “Speaking formyfamily, are you, gel? And you a bride of how many days?”
