The Spider's Touch Read Free

There’s gentl’men and ladies in ‘ere!” The ruffian who had opened their door called out to the mob behind him. Then he reached inside to make a grab for Lord Lovett, who was closest to the door.
    At first, Lord Lovett did not resist, but said in a reasoning tone, “Here, my good man! You mustn’t frighten the ladies. I shall have to ask you to let us pass.”
    “Ye can go—” the man’s breath reeked terribly of gin— “just as soon as ye drink a toast to his Majesty’s health.”
    “Blast you, fool!” Harrowby, who had remained cautiously silent up until this point, expressed his outrage. “Where do you think we’re going? If you do not let us pass this very instant, we will be late for his Majesty’s drawing room.”
    Lord Lovett added quickly, “Yes, I’m sure you mean very well, but we must be going. You can take our wishes for his Majesty for granted.”
    He had been trying to release himself from the ruffian’s hold, but the man refused to release him. “It’s not the Cuckold that we’re drinkin’ to,” he sneered. “It’s to our darling, him what’s over the water.”
    From the other side of the carriage, Sir Humphrey gave a gasp. “Lovett! What have I—”
    “Will you shut your mouth and let me handle this!”
    Giving Sir Humphrey a vicious glance, Lord Lovett tried harder to free himself, while Harrowby sputtered, “Why, you—! I’ll have you taken up for sedition! How dare you speak of his Majesty like that! Where are my footmen? Why don’t they seize these ruffians?”
    The footmen were nowhere in sight, but Hester heard the sound of slaps and fists on flesh, and an occasional encouraging cry from their coachman, which told her that the men were engaged in their defense.
    Lord Lovett had got command of his temper again, and he cut through Harrowby’s speech to say reasonably, “You see what the consequences could be? If I were you, I should run, before the militia comes to round you up.”
    But the man was too drunk to listen. He took up the cries, coming from farther up the street. “High Church and Ormonde! No ‘wee German lairdie’ for us!”
    “A Stuart! A restoration!”
    Through the opposite pane, Hester saw members of the mob breaking the windows of a house. The stock jobbers in the street were being attacked. She winced, as a young man was beat on the head with a rake. Others were stripped of their coats, while cries filled the streets. The mob cheered the Duke of Ormonde and King James, and cursed the Quakers, Whigs, and King George.
    Today was the Duke of Ormonde’s birthday, but never had there been a celebration like this. His Grace should have been honoured this morning by private visits to his house, but no birthday but a royal one should ever be celebrated publicly in the streets.
    Some men from the militia tried to break up the crowd, but they were quickly surrounded and beaten, too. Whoever had the courage to support King George was running to take cover.
    “Where are my footmen?” Harrowby shouted again. His voice cracked on the final word. “Here, you! Coachman! Give them a taste of your whip!”
    “Yer not goin’ anywhere, till ye drinks to the health of King James. Let me hear ye!  Ormonde!  No King George! Give us King James III!”
    Lord Lovett gave a desperate shove, freed one hand, and reached for his sword.
    As the man dived again and nearly dragged him into the street, Sir Humphrey shrieked, “Ormonde! No King George! King James III!”
    The rioter had nearly managed to pull Lord Lovett from the coach. Hester and Isabella grabbed his coattails and struggled to hang on.
    “High Church and Ormonde!” Sir Humphrey bleated again.
    At last the man heard him through his drunken fog. He released Lord Lovett so suddenly that he fell backwards, landing on top of Hester, who had been pulling harder than the rest.
    “That’s more like!” The man gave them a great big grin. “Now let me hear ye all say it— No, wait! I’ll get ye a tankard