Chapter 16 - The Flight of the Viper
The candlelight inside the Signet Library flickered against the damp stone walls as Sir Anthony Blake handed the wax-sealed dispatch to Alister. The Duke of Ashbourne took the parchment, his grey eyes narrowing into cold shards of flint. Outside, the bells of St. Giles tolled eleven heavy strokes through the Edinburgh fog, their iron resonance echoing like a funeral march across the cobblestones.
Abigail stepped closer, her hand resting on the lapel of Alister’s heavy greatcoat. She had stood fearless against Duncan MacIntyre and the shadow of Cavendish’s reach, but the mention of Beatrice Hadlington brought an involuntary chill that prickled along her spine.
"How did she escape?" Abigail asked, her voice calm despite the dread knotting in her chest. "Mayfair was under the watch of Chancery bailiffs and two of the finest magistrates Bow Street could muster."
"It appears gold still speaks louder than the law in certain quarters of London," Alister said, breaking the red wax seal with a swift flick of his thumb. He scanned the hurried scrawl, the lines of his jaw setting so hard that the muscle ticked beneath his skin. "She did not walk out alone. Two constables were found unconscious, poisoned with laudanum in their tea. And the carriage that bore her away flew the private crest of the Marquis of Chiverton."
Sir Anthony swore softly under his breath. "Chiverton? He is Cavendish’s maternal uncle—a peer with deep pockets, his own fleet of coastal brigs, and a seat on the Admiralty Board. If Chiverton has thrown his weight behind Beatrice, this is no longer a desperate woman running from shame. It is a counter-offensive."
"She knows the game is lost in London," Abigail reasoned, her mind working with the tactical sharpness that had kept her alive during her two years in hiding. "Cavendish is behind bars in the Tower, MacIntyre is in the tollbooth here in Edinburgh, and the ledgers are in the hands of the Crown. She has neither the political leverage to overturn the High Court nor the allies to restore her standing in polite society."
"Which leaves only one motivation," Alister said, his voice dropping to a gravelly, dangerous murmur. "Vengeance."
He crumpled the dispatch in his fist, his gaze drifting toward the tall library window that overlooked Parliament Close. Down on the rain-slicked square, four of his trusted veterans stood guard beside the carriage where Clara lay asleep beneath woolen rugs, watched over by Mrs. Gable, the trusted former nursemaid they had brought from Berwick.
"She blames Clara for her humiliation at the dinner table," Alister said, the words bitter as gall. "And she blames you, Abigail, for stripping away the mask she wore before the world. A woman like Beatrice Hadlington does not flee to France to live in quiet exile. She will seek to destroy what she believes ruined her."
"Has she turned north?" Abigail asked, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.
"The post says the Chiverton carriage was spotted changing horses at Grantham, heading along the Great North Road at breakneck speed," Sir Anthony replied grimly. "She has a two-day lead on the London couriers. If her intent is Scotland, she may already be across the Tyne."
"Then we do not linger in Edinburgh," Alister declared, turning to Sir Anthony with the brisk, commanding cadence of the general he had once been. "Send riders to the ports at Leith and Dunbar. Every vessel leaving the Firth of Forth is to be searched under ducal warrant. Order Higgins to ready fresh horses for our escort. We leave for Ravenscroft Castle before dawn."
Abigail felt a flutter in her throat. Ravenscroft Castle—the ancestral seat of the Earls of Strathmore, set high upon the windswept cliffs of Aberdeenshire, overlooking the roaring grey swells of the North Sea. It had been her home as a child, the sanctuary where her father had taught her Latin and music before Cavendish’s false debts had padlocked its iron gates. To return there was the culmination of everything she had fought for.
Yet now, the ancient fortress felt less like a haven and more like a besieged citadel.
"Is Ravenscroft defensible, Alister?" she asked quietly. "It has stood empty for two years, maintained only by an aging steward and a handful of tenant farmers."
Alister reached out, cupping her cheek with his gloved hand. His touch was warm, an anchor amidst the gathering storm. "Its walls were built in the fourteenth century to withstand English cannon, my darling. And it will be garrisoned by twenty men who followed me through the breaches of Ciudad Rodrigo. You and Clara will be safe behind its stone. But we must reach it before Beatrice's hired wolves can close the roads."
Without another word, they descended the broad stone steps of the Signet Library. The Edinburgh air was bitter with the smell of peat smoke and sea salt. As Alister lifted Abigail into the carriage, Clara stirred beneath her heavy blankets, her dark curls tumbling over the collar of her tiny velvet cloak.
"Papa?" Clara mumbled, rubbing her eyes with a chubby fist. "Is Miss Abigail still a Countess?"
Abigail couldn't help the soft smile that broke through her tension. She slid into the seat, pulling the little girl onto her lap and tucking the fur-lined lap robe securely around Clara’s shoulders. "I am still Abigail, my sweet. And we are going to my childhood home to see the sea."
"Will there be puffins?" Clara asked innocently, snuggling her head beneath Abigail’s chin. "You said there were puffins on the rocks."
"Thousands of them," Abigail whispered, kissing the crown of Clara's head while her eyes met Alister's over the child’s shoulder.
Alister banged his cane against the carriage roof. "Drive on, Higgins! To the Queensferry crossing!"
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The coach surged forward, its iron-shod wheels rattling fiercely over the wet basalt stones of the Royal Mile, carrying them into the deep, uncertain shadows of the northern night.
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