Lizzie gave a gasp. She exchanged a look with Laura. “That is terrible,” she said. “I am so sorry-”

“No one liked him very much anyway,” Mrs. Broad said, pushing to the front of the crowd. “He was always full of airs and graces. But the word is that someone mistook him for Sir Thomas and murdered him by mistake.”

Lizzie could not quite repress a laugh. “Oh dear, I see. Poor Spencer.”

“But that’s not why we’re here,” Mrs. Broad said bluntly. “We need your help. Sir Thomas is a complete bastard, begging your pardon, milady, and we have to stop him. He’s only been the squire for two minutes and he’s eaten my chicken and he’s taxing the shopkeepers to raise money to buy all his fancy clothes and pay for his fancy women-” Here there was a rumble of agreement and discontent from the shopkeepers of the village. “And we thought Sir Montague was bad, but Sir Thomas is worse! Why, he’s levying a tax on death now, taking half our goods when we die. None of us can afford to live and now we can’t afford to die, either!”

“Then it seems in our interests to protect and support one another and to make sure that no one else dies for a start,” Lizzie said.

“Aye,” Mrs. Broad said darkly, “unless it is Sir Thomas. I’ll string him up with my bare hands, so I will!”

Once again there was a murmur of anger and discontent from the villagers and Lizzie remembered Dexter saying that before he was murdered, Sir Montague had received death threats and had been in danger. Clearly Tom had not heeded the example that had been made of Monty and it was tempting simply to allow the villagers to lynch him. Lizzie sighed. She supposed that Nat would not approve of mob justice, nor would Dexter, or Miles for that matter, despite the fact that they all detested Tom, too. And in her heart of hearts she did not want Tom to die, cad though he was.

“What are we to do?” Mrs. Morton asked. “This cannot go on.”

Lizzie looked at Laura, who was smiling gently at her. “Alas there is very little that I can do in this state,” Laura said, gesturing toward her hugely pregnant belly, “but I think that you will take up my mantle admirably, Lizzie.”

“I’ll help you,” Alice added. “On behalf of Laura and Lydia, and everyone else…”

Lizzie looked at Lydia, who was sitting with quiet dignity in her chair, Lydia who more than anyone deserved revenge on Tom. “Do it, Lizzie,” she said.

Lizzie looked back at Laura again. Laura nodded slightly.

“All right,” Lizzie said, suddenly feeling the weight of responsibility. “The first thing I am going to do is to write to the Prince of Wales to see if he can intervene in this matter of the ancient laws. He was a friend of my father and so he may be disposed to help us-”

“The man’s a fool,” Mrs. Broad said trenchantly.

“That’s treason,” Mrs. Morton pointed out.

“It’s still true,” Mrs. Broad said.

“Ladies,” Lizzie said, holding up her hand, “it may be true and it may be treason but if the prince can help us that is good enough for me.”

Several people muttered their agreement.

“To get a response will take some time,” Lizzie continued. “So in the meantime I suggest a series of…” She paused. “Countermeasures against my brother which will, I hope, stop him in his tracks for a little while. Meet me at the river at four this afternoon and we shall begin.”

“What on earth do you plan to do, Lizzie?” Alice said when the ladies had filed out with a pledge to meet later and Carrington had tottered in with more refreshments for the four of them.

“I mean to hit Tom where it hurts,” Lizzie said. “What are his favorite things?”

“Clothes and women,” Lydia said.

“Quite,” Lizzie agreed. “His wardrobe and his collection of pornography.” She turned to Laura. “Do you know if Dexter and Miles are occupied today? I would rather not be interrupted in what I plan to do.”

“If Spencer has indeed been murdered then I imagine they will both be very busy indeed,” Laura said. “Poor man-terrible enough to suffer the fate of murder, but to be murdered by mistake?” She sighed. “Anyway, I am sure the coast is clear.”

“What are we going to do?” Alice asked.

“We are going to break into Fortune Hall,” Lizzie said. “We are going to steal Tom’s clothes and his pornographic books and we are going to destroy them in full public view.” She laughed. “We are going to make him suffer for what he has done to everybody.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

IT WAS A VERY HOT afternoon. Four o’clock saw Nat strolling through Fortune’s Folly village with Miles Vickery, discussing the latest development in the murder case.

“We’re very little further forward,” Miles was saying. “The murder of Spencer must surely be linked to that of his master and the gossip that he was murdered by mistake for Tom could well be true, but once again no one saw anything except for another mysterious sighting of a masked woman last night.”

“At least we know it wasn’t Lizzie,” Nat said, lips twitching, “unless she combines murder with naked riding.”

“Yes…” Miles cleared his throat. “Um…I hope that everything is all right between the two of you?”

“Perfectly, I thank you,” Nat said. A few hours ago, he thought, his response might have been very different. Now, however, he had cause to hope.

“Because every man who was there last night views Lady Waterhouse with the utmost admiration and respect,” Miles continued.

“Doing it too brown, old fellow,” Nat said.

“Well,” Miles said, “they view her with…ah…appreciation and admiration. She does have the best seat on a horse of any woman in the county,” he added slyly.

“That’s more like it,” Nat said. He laughed. He found that he was looking forward to seeing Lizzie later and taking a picnic out onto the hills. They would talk. He would explain to her about Gregory Scarlet’s contribution to her dowry and he would try to understand the anger and grief that drove her and then, perhaps, their marriage might not be such an unmitigated disaster after all.

“I wonder why all the shops are closed,” Miles said, staring around at the shuttered windows along Fortune Street.

“I heard that Tom Fortune was taxing the shopkeepers heavily,” Nat said. “Perhaps this is their way of protesting.”

“And what is that crowd doing on the bridge?” Miles said. “What on earth is going on?”

“There’s a fire!” Nat said, scenting smoke on the air.

They quickened their steps and found themselves on the bridge over the River Tune. The crowd was good-tempered and allowed them to push their way through. Miles leaned over the parapet and the breath whistled between his teeth.

“Hell and the devil!”

Nat was a second behind him and it took him a moment to see what was happening. On the riverbank, Mrs. Broad and Mrs. Morton were tending to a bonfire, feeding it with sheets of paper from a large folio. Meanwhile in the river it looked as though someone was doing their washing, for piles of clothes were floating on the water. They were caught on the stones of the riverbed, they adorned the overhanging branches of the willow trees and they flapped in the current like banners. Those items that broke free were floating away under the bridge and some enterprising villagers were scooping them up at the other end and making off with them.

“Those are good-quality garments,” Nat said, spotting a gray velvet jacket and a red-and-gold embroidered waistcoat as they bobbed past. “A bit showy for my taste, but surely too good to throw in the river.”

“That depends on why you would be destroying them,” Miles said, grinning. A piece of charred paper from the bonfire fluttered past and he made a grab for it. “I say, look at this!”

Nat squinted at the page. It carried some lurid illustrations and some even more explicit text in French. “That…That looks like a dildo!” he spluttered, pointing at one of the pictures. Immediately someone in the crowd snatched the paper from Miles’s hands and pored over it and the pitch of excitement seemed to rise even higher.

“Tom Fortune’s collection of pornographic writings,” Miles said, trying not to laugh. “Oh dear, I know he spent a lot of money on that folio.” He pointed. “Look. I think we have found the perpetrators of this outrage.”

Nat looked. In the river shallows, their skirts hitched up to their waists, the water lapping about very shapely legs, stood Lizzie and Alice. They were laughing together. Lizzie’s head was thrown back and her red hair tumbled from its ribbon and she looked exhilarated and very happy. Nat’s breath caught to see the vivid excitement in her face. He glanced at Miles, who was watching Alice with a little smile playing about his mouth.

“What are we going to do?” he asked.

Miles cocked an eyebrow. “Join them,” he said. He pulled off his jacket, unfastened his stock, passed them to a helpful bystander and ran down to the river.

That had not been quite what Nat had meant. Vague thoughts of reading the Riot Act, dispersing the crowd and rescuing Tom’s clothes if not the pornography, had been jostling in his mind with the thought that what Lizzie had done was very probably illegal. Then he saw Miles leap into the water and grab Alice about the waist and kiss her with a great deal of enthusiasm. The crowd cheered and Lizzie tilted her head and looked up at the bridge and her eyes met his.

For a long moment they stared at one another and Nat could see apprehension creep into Lizzie’s eyes and all the joy seemed to drain from her and she started to wade clumsily toward the riverbank. Nat had an odd feeling inside then and it seemed of prime importance to reach Lizzie and reassure her and put that irresistible smile back in her eyes. He climbed quickly onto the parapet and the crowd gasped and Lizzie turned and stopped, looking at him wide-eyed as he teetered on the very edge of the bridge.