Chapter Text
Rockingham
Chapter 1
John Watson, Earl of Rockingham, rapped his cane against the roof of his carriage before slumping backwards into the worn cushions.
“Ins Hotel bitte, Gregor, quick… schnell.” Dash it all, German was such a hassle. All these hard consonants, and then there was the goddamn grammar...
The ancient coach groaned before jolting forwards over the cobblestones on Threadneedle Street, London, and John gripped his cane tighter. Outside, the weather was pleasantly fine, a fresh wind carrying a whiff of much anticipated spring in late June thought the open window into the carriage as it made its gradual way toward Gibson Hall and Finsbury Circus garden. Spring had been an elusive thing this year of the Lord 1816, and John had wondered about the brown fields and decaying trees he’d driven by on this way to the city.
Outside, the London sky might have been fine. However, inside his carriage, now storm clouds threatened to burst, and John closed his eyes and silently fought his despair.
An hour earlier, John had been full of restless energy as he mounted the stairs toward the wide, impressive double doors of the Bank of England, the pain in his right leg a slow buzz and the cane in his hand hateful but steady and therefore necessary. With most of the London ton still out of the city, the streets of the great metropolis seemed subdued and only sparsely frequented, and John was grateful he hadn’t encountered a familiar face or carriage on his way here. Focussed on his present task to the exclusion of nearly everything around him, he didn’t know whether he would have been able to muster an amicable face, let alone a good-natured word.
The social whirl of the season had ended a few weeks ago with the opening of grouse and fowl hunting despite the harsh weather conditions of the past weeks; the members of the ton retiring to their estates for hunting or the resorts of Brighton, Bath and near Bristol for recuperation. With London so depopulated, it hadn’t been difficult to find a room in a respectable hotel, and even if the expenses for this small delight had eaten up nearly all his cash, John found it safer to stick to socially expected parameters. Admittedly, it would have been economically wiser to stick to one of the less grand places, but he just couldn’t risk being seen in a less-than-the-best-establishment by anyone who knew him. Anyone who knew of his inheritance and rise to social esteem, may he be friend or admirer or full of envy of his new position as Earl of Rockingham. Secretly, John would have rather liked to stay at his family’s town house in Belgravia, but this he had already sold to be able to rub two farthings together and… No, let’s not go there now.
Once inside the mighty halls of the building, John had made his way towards the reception desk and after a few minutes was shown into the office of Mr Montgomery, a shrewd looking man in his 70s with a bald head and an impressive dark grey moustache, who had looked after his family’s monetary interests for almost half a century now. Not having been at all confident about his success in his task in the first place, he’d nevertheless been floored and devastated by the bank officer’s refusal to even let him state his case properly and in all its intrinsic ramifications. Not even a glass of the finest brandy the man had bestowed on him could revive his spirits. The moment the words ‘cover my gambling bet’ had come over his lips, Mr Montgomery’s face had shut down.
“My lord,” Mr Montgomery had said, and John had noted how he didn’t even try to conceal his derision, “the Bank of England does neither encourage nor cover these kinds of gentlemanly past-times and their inevitable and desultory outcomes.”
And that had been that. He’d blown it if he’d ever had a chance in hell at all. In the quiet of his rickety carriage with the Watson coat of arms and family motto ‘Mea Gloria Fides’ in fading gold and blue on the doors, John sighed.
‘Trust in my Renown’, Jesus Christ.
Being an intensely private man at heart, John had debated whether to retouch the peeling paint lest they be seen in their dismal state, but a lack of materials and funds in cash had deterred that notion right away. What was more, with everything bearing down on him, a rickety coach and fading colours hadn’t been so high up the list of priorities. As satisfied as he could have been with his newly inherited title, town house in the capital of the great British Empire and estate in the heart of Britain with its vast farm lands, the news of Thomas Watson’s demise and thus the inheritance came as quite a shock.
And freshly shipped back to England from the battlefields and sick bays of Waterloo, John had been utterly unable to deal with it all. There were tenants and accounts to be considered, harvest times and customer contracts, leases, tenants and allowances. Not there would be much to harvest this year.
And then there was the Watson’s ancestral seat at Rockingham House his uncle Thomas, eldest of two sons by twenty years and infamous black sheep of the family, had been neglecting for years…
He’d tried for a couple weeks. He really had. In a weak moment, though, it all had been too much. He’d succumbed to the dread of all the responsibility, the loss of most of his freedom. As if that wasn’t enough to have your life spin on a dime - literally, John thought sourly - in true Watson style he’d gone and made sure it wasn’t just a near loss but a bloody complete one...
It had been a gorgeous night when John had escaped to Northampton. He’d made his way to the gentlemen’s club, where he’d wined and dined, the brandy flowing freely until he’d ended up in a more sinister part of town at a cards table with this enigmatic man with the blue eyes, strong jaw and high cheekbones and they’d gambled and John had been charmed and overwhelmed and foolish.
Why do you have to go there now, John?
Taking a deep breath, John woke from his dark musings and realized that the carriage had come to a standstill before the hotel he’d stayed at last night and that his buttocks felt numb from the hard bench, his right leg stiff with pain. A bead of sweat pooled in the shallow dip on his upper lip and John angrily swiped at it. He’d been so out of it on the ride through the city, his thoughts a black pool of self-doubt and misery that he hadn’t noticed how clammy his clothes felt and how cold his fingers. The carriage jolted when Gregor leaped from the coach box; and when he opened the carriage door, offering a hand to his master, John noticed his own hand trembling.
It would probably just be best to immediately pack his meagre valise and head home to Rockingham. But, John stubbornly thought, before he’d be on the road again in this blasted carriage, before he’d slunk home to cut his losses and see where they’d leave him, he’d at least take his time to enjoy one last bloody luxurious soak in a bloody exclusive and expensive hotel to let the warm water ease the pains of his body and work out the cramps in his blasted leg.
Who knew when he would next be able to afford it.
***
The horse’s hooves clopped on the path that gently weaved its way over trampled country lanes towards Rockingham. They had left London after another night at the hotel John actually could no longer afford, but he had been too tired and miserable to care. He’d checked on Gregor in the quarters reserved for coachmen to make sure the man was sufficiently provided for and then, after his bath, retired to a private parlour to wallow in dark thoughts and misery. When the waiter had silently opened the door to enquire about his wishes for supper, John had ordered cold meat, bread and cheese but had refrained from the auxiliary brandy. Because God damn it, if it weren’t for the brandy, he’d not be in this abominable situation. Might as well lay off it once and for all and save himself the pretty penny.
Out of the windows of the carriage fields and countryside could be seen, dank and interlaced with ashen brown even in the late spring of June. Well, this year’s English version of late spring in June, John silently had to amend and a wistful smile coloured his lips. He’d known other seasons of late spring, both in the English insular climate and the warmer one on the continent, when he made the gentlemen’s great tour with his friend Bill Murray. In the summer of 1804 it had taken them from Dover to Calais and into the Premier Empire of France, before enticing them further south into Austria and Italy.
Times had been restless on the continent with the bloodiest days of the French Revolution just a few years behind them and the terrors of the Premier Empire only a couple years ahead. Everyone in France seemed to breathe a bit of fresh air after both the king and queen of France as well as their judges Robespierre and his ilk had been put to the graveyards. However, as Bill and John made their way from Calais towards Frankfurt, the atmosphere had begun to perceptibly shift from celebratory and victorious to tense and cautious.
Being British citizens and virtual strangers, they themselves had been regarded with at least one wary eye wherever they went. However, they hadn’t encountered any real problems or opposition, for the ordinary inhabitants of the villages and towns west of the mighty river Rhine mostly minded their own business in trying to scrape by. It seemed that the status as foreigners had fashioned some sort of a bubble around them, at the same time making them unapproachable while also serving as a barrier between them and the general public.
The coach rumbled over an uneven patch in the road, but amidst his musings, John hardly noticed.
The city of Mainz, or Mayence, had been taken by the revolutionary French army roughly 3 years after the storming of the Bastille fortress and occupied ever since; the first hold of the Revolution on German soil. Bill and him would have followed the country roads straight into the city, had not fellow travellers warned them that it actually might be too foolhardy and dangerous.
So they’d set out for Vienna and ultimately Venice instead and spent a memorable late spring and summer exploring the galleries, libraries, channels, bars and brothels of these magnificent cities.
This had also been the spring where John’s passion for medicine had awoken.
Being noble by birth, John had known his father would never have let him pursue that particular fascination. Nevertheless, the time in Venice especially proved to be outstandingly fruitful in that regard. Instead of immersing himself into music, as had been his father’s wish, John had been able to secure a temporary apprenticeship as an assistant to a gruff but efficient Austrian-by-birth-Italian-by-nature medical doctor and had therefore been occupied and entertained that summer.
He’d even registered for German classes, even though he hardly ever went. The bit of the German language he had learned, however, incidentally served him well these days, all things considered.
In last days of autumn, they had travelled back to London on a summons of John’s father, who had wanted to see how his son’s musical tuition came to pass. Needless to say he hadn’t been pleased.
Ah, the halcyon days.
He had scraped by for a couple of years while the British Empire was constantly engaged in a worldwide war with the Premier Empire of France, both at land and sea. Attending music and economy classes at day, he’d pursued his own interest at night, until there had come this one summer in 1808, which had seen John Watson and his proclivities and talents for medicine, his service rifle in hand, pistol and bayonet strapped to his waist, to the Iberian Peninsula and straight into war…
The sudden rumbling of his empty stomach shook John out of his reverie. He’d not eaten since dawn and it would be at least another hour until they’d reach a decent inn for a quick lunch and a further half day until Rockingham. But as it happened Blue Lake House lay conveniently close to the road that led from London north east to Northampton and further on to Birmingham. Just a few miles down the country lane behind the bridge. John pursed and lips and fingered into his coat. From a pocket in the inlay he retrieved a small golden locket, and for a moment he pressed his fingers around it, cherishing it and vigorously repressing a surge of guilt.
He knew he’d as well stop going down his chosen rabbit hole, come back to the situation at hand and make the detour to visit Marianne and Magistrate Morstan, even though he was more than aware of the fact that it would border on personal ruin to tell his betrothed and her father about his dire misfortune.
After all, if it weren’t for the betrothal and the dowry it entailed, Rockingham would already be lost.
No, he would not burden Miss Marianne Morstan with all of this; he’d spare her, he wouldn’t tarnish the picture she had of him. John pressed his hand around the locket again, remembering the day of their betrothal when Marianne had given it to him.
For another moment he let his thoughts wander. She was sweet and clever, funny and had a beautiful laugh that let her brown eyes shine like molten chocolate in the sun. John had come into his title so suddenly, and the pressure and responsibilities had seemed insurmountable. He’d been adrift. Meeting her had brought back a sense of calmness he hadn’t known since his serving days in the army, and he’d felt a little less like he just didn’t belong.
No, he would just pay Blue Lake House a call and use the opportunity to spend a bit more time with his fiancée and bath in her easy sunshine - all while being chaperoned by her father the Magistrate and… well… judged.
The coach had just turned into the narrow lane that would take John the quickest way to Blue Lake House when a harsh wordless cry echoed from the driver’s box. John felt the carriage lurch to a precipitate halt, but had the presence of mind to cushion his fall forward by sticking his cane into the adjacent seat and hold onto the window frame with the other hand.
“Gregor,” he called, “was ist los?”
The answering voice, however, did not belong to his coachman. It was lower and richer in tones and the words were English.
“Stand and deliver!”
On instinct, John’s hand that wasn’t holding the cane startled to grab his service pistol at his hip, only to realise a moment later that, of course, it wasn’t there.
Outside the carriage he heard the distinct click of a pistol being cocked.
“Open the door,” the highwayman said, and John couldn’t keep down a slow groan escaping him.
This, he was beginning to think, was really absolutely not going to rank among his favourite days. Adrenalin shot through his veins. If he’d only had the bloody pistol. In a life gone by he would.
“Slowly. Do it now. No tricks.”
The highwayman stood in the shadows on the road, a dark grey horse looming behind him under the low hanging branches of the trees that lined this particular stretch of country lane. A white mask coved the lower half of the man’s face in a dramatic contrast to a long and elegant black coat. His hair remained hidden behind a wide-brimmed rather buckled felt hat that also shaded his eyes. John counted at least two weapons; the pistol in his hand and a short but serviceable blade strapped to his hips with a brilliantly scarlet sash that clashed magnificently with the deep aubergine of his shirt.
Oddly enough, however, the cut of his breeches, the fit of his shirt under his coat seemed accurate and precise, highlighting his lean, tall frame, his long legs and trim waist. His feet were clad in knee-high albeit a little shabby hessian boots that accentuated his calves and the overall appearance of fashionable casualness. Every part of his attire was quite at odds with what John expected an ordinary highwayman’s intentions and demands to be.
Really, John grudgingly admired, between the bridge and the gates of Blue Lake House, an attacker couldn’t have picked a better place for an ambush. He glanced up at Gregor who sat frozen on the coach box, eyes large glassy pools in his white, fearful face.
“I advise you to be as sensible as your driver,” the smooth, rich voice said from between the white mask. With a step closer to the coach, the robber lifted his hand a bit higher and John found himself staring into the barrel of the gun.
“Get out. Now.”
Frustration welled up inside John. Gregor wasn’t being sensible, he was terrified. With Blue Lake House so close by, John had had reason to believe he was going to end his day a bit more content than he’d begun. With a nice glass of wine in his hands and his lovely intended on the settee in front of the open windows in the intimate parlour, where he’d asked for her hand in marriage. It had certainly been a beautiful night.
Now, with his hopes of a discrete loan from the bank forfeited, his stomach empty and with more than a couple hours on the road home, he was supposed to hand over his meagre purse and his uncle’s golden tie pin? Hardly.
The numbing rush of anger flaring through his veins, John didn’t stop to think. He opened the door of the carriage in a flash of dark wood and billowing curtains and launched himself at the man in front of the carriage. Letting his higher vantage point work in his favour, the highwayman didn’t have a chance. John crashed into him, throwing him off balance.
With a cry of surprise, the man folded backwards before his arse and back hit the muddy road, the impact knocking the wind out of him. His pistol sailed into the nearby bushes, where it vanished from sight. There were lean muscles beneath the tight shirt and surprisingly strong legs hidden within the close-cut breeches, but John immediately lunged on top of him and grabbed the collar of his coat in both hands, ignoring the flailing arms and tight fists.
His cane lay a few feet out on the road where he’d lost it in his mad dive, but on such close range John didn’t need a weapon.
Applying his momentum to ruthless advantage, he slammed the attacker’s head back into the road, causing the gravel to crunch. A satisfying kick in the groin and cuff to the ear had the man go limp and drained of all intentions for further fight.
Grabbing for the blade at the highwayman’s hips, John’s fingers encountered warm and taut skin before his hand closed around the hilt of the blade. Barely a moment later, he was bowed low over him and pushing the blade up to his throat.
“Care to elaborate, arsehole?” John said and pressed the fine blade a little closer to the man’s jugular. “Or are we done here?”
“Done,” the man rasped. His mask had gone all askew in the fight, revealing a prominent jaw and a smoothly shaved chin, and when John looked closer, he found himself staring into wide eyes the colour of sea-glass amid long dark lashes. John shook him once for good measure and a mob of riotous curls spilled from beneath the highwayman’s hat.
“Wise choice. Up you get. Gregor, du bist gut?”
“Ja, mein Herr,” came the voice of his coachman from behind. Gregor slowly stepped down from the driver’s box onto the road, where he stood still, unsure what to do next.
“The sash… Binde,” John told him and Gregor hurried over to do his master’s bidding.
“No, wait… you’re a soldier…? I was expecting… someone else.”
The highwayman seemed to have come out of his momentary stupor. With John’s hands still clutching his collar and Gregor now unknotting the scarlet sash from around his waist to bind his hands together, he could only stir feebly, his eyes now punched up and teary. He must have sustained a mild concussion when John had slammed his head into the ground, but John refused to be sorry.
“Yes, someone who wouldn’t fight back, I assume. Gregor... in die Kutsche mit ihm, schnell.”
Together they hoisted the highwayman up and dragged him to the carriage, where John pushed him inside and followed suit, Gregor retrieving the cane and handing it to him the way he would a sword. To the sharp snap of the reins and a whine from the horses, the coach rocked into motion towards Blue Lake House.
“This is a misunderstanding,” John’s prisoner rasped. His coat was dirty and tangled around his shoulders, his face smutched and a bruise was forming at his right temple. A wild part inside John was satisfied how much damage he had caused, when he noticed a thin tickle of blood on the man’s neck, matting his dark rugged curls.
John sighed. He lifted the cushion he was sitting on and carefully stored the blade where his opponent would be hard-pressed to retrieve it should he be foolish enough to try, and eyeing his prisoner warily, reached into the pocket of his own coat for a handkerchief.
“Hold still,” he ordered and carefully leaned forward to inspect the damage. Head wounds, while bleeding profusely, were not always a sure sign of a more severe injury. John had seen worse on the continent, but as far as taking on patients went, they usually didn’t bleed into your very own coach and ruin the cushions.
The highwayman eyed him suspiciously, but after a moment he cautiously lowered his head a bit, thus baring his neck, and John got to work.
Pushing the man’s dark curls out of the way, he was oddly relieved to notice that he had been right. The wound was shallow and would stop bleeding and heal in its own time if he just kept up pressure. This would require a poultice and some decent wrapping, but of course those items were currently out of hand. The highwayman did hold still but seemed to brace himself for another cuff on the ear. When it didn’t come, the tension in his willowy frame eased a bit. He was younger than John had expected, maybe in his mid-twenties, with lush dark curls and oddly striking features. Oddly handsome despite his bloody scalp, bruised temple, smutched cheeks and split lower lip.
“You’re a doctor,” the young man unexpectedly said, and John’s hands froze. Sudden unease washed over him and instinctively he shook his head.
“No, I am not.”
“Yes, you are,” the highwayman said, and up close his sonorous voice was even darker and richer than before.
“And a good one. That’s reassuring.”
When John remained silent, the man scoffed.
“Don’t be boring,” he demanded, and his penetrating gaze spoke volumes. “I can tell you are a doctor from your hands and the medical bag under your seat.”
John’s eyes followed his hand as the man pointed downwards beneath John’s seat where his leather medical bag indeed sat wedged between the floor and bench.
“And I can tell the fact that you have served in the war from your cane and the way you just fought me.”
“What the—“
The highwayman’s mouth flickered in a knowing grin, and John was struck mute by the sheer gall of him.
“Please. This is tedious,” the man drawled, but winced when John returned to applying pressure on his head wound. After a moment, though, he sighed and John suddenly found himself the sole focus of clear, utterly unusual sea-glass eyes and a grin just shy of an arrogant sneer.
“I know you’re a war veteran and you’ve been injured on the continent where you not only served as a soldier but also frequently acted as a medical professional. You’re not rich but your clothes are well cared for, which speaks of frugality. You’ve attended university and—“
John didn’t return his grin but instead did cuff him on the ear again.
“Shut up,” he groused, anger and confusion flaring hot within him. His opponent flinched and shut his mouth with an audible click.
“I don’t know how you see all that but don’t believe for a second you can fool me or catch me off guard, so you can bunk off. I’ll take you to justice for trying to rob me. Though I’d much rather punch your face again and throw you under my coach, and no mistake.” John wasn’t really sure he meant the last part, but he was certainly angry and confused enough that the words spilled forth anyway.
“Am I right to assume you didn’t expect me?” the man asked, befuddlement colouring his rich voice. “But you’re driving his coach.”
“Don’t be daft, of course not. Why would I expect to be ambushed, for Christ’s sake?”
John’s captive stilled. “I am not a highwayman, “ he said, apropos of nothing, voice flat and sensual mouth colourless. John snorted.
“Nice try. Not a highwayman, eh? Then let us look at you. Maybe you do have a concussion.” The last was said half under his breath in abject befuddlement. “Here, press down tight. Don’t take it off before I say so.” Pushing the blood-soiled handkerchief into the startled highwayman’s still bound hands, John leaned back into his own seat, regarding the other man with mock scrutiny.
“The mask. I might not be in with the dandy set and therefore might believe you when you tell me this is the latest height of fashion. Also the hat, even though I really cannot come up with a time and place where felt hats have ever been considered fashionable at all.” John was pleased to see the highwayman’s mouth open in astonishment. Cocking an eyebrow, he added “But even you must admit that the gun is a dead giveaway.”
To his astonishment the other man chuckled. “Nice pun,” he said, but then markedly sobered. “It wasn’t loaded.”
“Then that makes you a proper fool. Too bad you won’t live to learn from your mistake.” Which was actually a pity, John caught himself thinking. Maybe the man in front of him was one of the thousands of soldiers left to their own devices after the war, now roaming the country in search of work, food and a place to sleep. The war may have been over for a year now, but despite the fact that Wellington had defeated Napoleon and his Grande Armée at Waterloo, a good many British soldiers had come back home penniless, rugged and broken in body and spirit.
Even so, becoming a highwayman was this man’s own choice and he would have to suffer the consequences.
“Now the part where you blocked the road—“
“Oh, come off it,” the highwayman interrupted, and now there was a flicker of panic behind his unusual eyes. “It was a… mistake.” The way he said it made John wonder if this capricious creature in his arrogance had ever admitted to making a mistake. Too bad for him that even his prettily wrinkled nose and puckered mouth wouldn’t sway John.
“I thought you were someone else,” the highwayman said next, loosening the kerchief he’d pressed to the back of his head with an elegant move that shouldn’t be possible with his still bound hands, and leaned back into the seat. The posture might have been convincingly suave and casual, just a man sinking back into a more comfortable position if it weren’t for the slight trembling of his knee. “After all, you’re driving his coach.”
“You’ve said that before,” John remarked, “explain yourself.”
“Listen, Doctor,” his captive said, rearranging his posture yet again. “When I said I was expecting someone else, I meant it. Obviously, you thought I was a highwayman, but as a matter of fact I was only play-acting one. If I were the hardened criminal you accused me of being, wouldn’t the pistol have been loaded? Think!” he added and tapped his uninjured temple with one long index finger.
“And if I had been this other unfortunate person, I would somehow have been amused by all this? Quick now, you have about two minutes left, we’ve just passed the gates of Blue Lake House.”
This information startled the man violently. “You’re taking me to Blue Lake House? Listen, please, I was paid to play-act the highwayman. If you had been Thomas Earl of Rockingham you would have expected me. I saw the coach and its coat of arms—“
John interrupted him roughly. “You bloody liar, I am John Earl of Rockingham, John Watson is my name, and I was most certainly not expecting you, for fun or in earnest. Now shut it, man, Magistrate Morstan will punish you for this.”
These words drained the last bit of colour from his captive’s face, and he shook his head so violently John feared for the head injury. “Drive on, Doctor, we must discuss this. I implore you.”
But it was too late. There were voices outside, among which John could make out the rumble of his future father-in-law, and the sound of boots approaching the carriage.
“Worried, are you? If you know the magistrate’s name, chances are Morstan knows you for being a highwayman.”
“No,” the other man said, his face pale, and John felt smug to see a flicker of real fear marring the sea-glass of his eyes. “Morstan knows me for being a prostitute.”