James, Earl of Crofton

by Rebecca Cohen

  However, James had still not been able to persuade Adam he should not attend if he insisted on being there as his highwayman persona. He was as stubborn as he was loyal. James decided to make one more attempt while they were in his rooms waiting for their guests to arrive.

  “You are absolutely convinced the Chivalrous Highwayman will be there to protect my honour?”

  “This is less about your honour and more about your delectable personage,” Adam said, smirking.

  “This is not a time to think of base matters.”

  “I disagree. You have tried, several times, and in many enjoyable ways, to dissuade me, but I am holding firm on this.”

  James resisted kicking the table. A demonstration of petulance would not help him here. But there was, perhaps, one other way. “Then I will have to tell Marchent how you will be involved in the plan.”

  “I thought you had said as much already; you said he could be trusted with my secrets.”

  “Oh, he will not divulge them; that I do not doubt. But I think he will be uncomfortable holding them long.”

  Adam’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Marchent is, in the main, a law-abiding man. I cannot see him approving of your actions.”

  “I am not asking for his approval, just his silence.”

  James shrugged. “We will see.”

  “I know what you are doing, James Redbourn. You are trying to dissuade me. Once again, I tell you it will not work.”

  News that Tilly and Marchent’s carriage had arrived stopped the discussion. Remembrance had brought the message, though he had become quite leery about disturbing James when Adam was present, due to a rather inopportune moment when he’d walked in without knocking to see Adam pleasuring James with his mouth.

  “His Grace has asked me to inform you that he has arrived, my lord.”

  James noticed the slight redness to Remembrance’s cheeks. “I assume his language was somewhat more colourful.”

  “It was more along the lines of ‘tell Crofton to get his well-padded arse down here at once’, my lord. But, as you know, I’d not be the one to repeat such language.”

  James laughed. “You’re much more likely to use it yourself. Now, where has the bad-tempered coxblight settled himself?”

  “In your office, my lord. Scared the daylights out of Mr Stokes.”

  “Again, not surprising. Is Lady Matilda with him?”

  Remembrance sniffed loudly and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his coat. It seemed that, despite his improvement, there was still a fair way to go. “No, I believe theirs may not have been the most harmonious of journeys. She has gone to freshen up and give her ears a rest from His Grace’s snoring.”

  “She’ll be in a foul mood. Have a maid take her something to eat and a cold carafe of hock. That’ll soothe her somewhat, but I doubt she’ll venture downstairs until the morning.” He stood and slipped on his jacket, properly dressed to leave his room. “Best go and see Marchent. We’ve much to discuss.”

  Adam followed him out, and when they arrived at James’s study, Marchent had his feet propped up on the desk and was munching on a piece of chicken. Stokes looked on in consternation, as Marchent’s feet had knocked over a stack of paper.

  “I’m sorry, my lord. I did suggest to His Grace that he might be more comfortable in one of the armchairs.”

  “No need to apologise. Marchent does as he wants, even in other men’s homes. You can leave for the day. I’m sure your good lady will be happy to see you.”

  With one last pitying glance at the desk, Stokes left the three of them, closing the door firmly behind him.

  “So,” Marchent began, leaning back in his chair with a grin, “all in place to strike? I am looking forward to riding out and catching me a scoundrel.”

  “Mostly. There is one thing we need to make you aware of, but apart from that it is a simple matter of waiting a couple of days and then shipping Tilly back to London.”

  “What is this thing I need know of? Sounds a bit ominous for my liking.”

  Adam stepped forwards, and James thought it best to let him tell Marchent, since it was his bloody-mindedness that had caused the plan to deviate.

  “I have given the matter much thought, Your Grace, and considering my perceived friendship with Clement, I have decided it would be best if I were not present. If I am not there and Clement escapes, I will still have his trust.”

  Marchent frowned. “We need a man of your calibre out there with us.”

  “I have got word to someone who will be far better suited than me to help.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know his real name,” Adam lied smoothly. “But most of the court know him as the Chivalrous Highwayman.”

  Marchent stared at Adam, his eyes narrowing. “Tell me, Mr Dowson, how you know this highwayman well enough not only to contact him but to have him miraculously available when we need him.”

  “Through a friend of a friend of my father. And he is keen to help the Earl of Crofton.”

  Marchent shook his head. “This does not smell right to me. Even putting the convenience to one side, do you really expect me to believe you would not want to be at Crofton’s side when he could be in mortal peril? Then there is the knowledge that the Chivalrous Highwayman called Crofton a special gem of court. I doubt you could hold your jealously in check.”

  “I will do whatever is needed to keep James safe.”

  “Exactly my point. So there can only be one true explanation—you, Adam Dowson, are the Chivalrous Highwayman.” Marchent didn’t look scandalised, but rather smug in his own confidence at his declaration.

  “If I were to deny it, you would not believe me,” said Adam, his face set in the perfect expression for playing cards.

  James knew Marchent wouldn’t back down, and Adam was equally as stubborn, but James had warned Adam that Marchent would not be easily misled. “Adam, we have discussed this.”

  Adam was silent for a minute, but he raised his chin definitely. “It seems you have unmasked me, Your Grace.”

  “You cannot continue to hare around the countryside as you do,” said Marchent, but his tone was not harsh.

  “I keep very little of my ill-gotten earnings for myself. I need the money to help others—people who do not have the means to feed their families.”

  “But you are taking things that do not belong to you, and while none of your victims seem willing to see you punished, you must see that, if are caught, you would be hanged. And since you are close friends with Crofton, that puts his name in disgrace. Although, he would more be worried about his heart, the sentimental sod that he is.”

  Adam’s jaw tightened. “As I have explained, there are people depending on me.”

  “Come now. You must have amassed a fair amount by now, even if you have been distributing it to those in need,” insisted Marchent. “I know from the stories the ladies tell at court about the jewels handed over.”

  “It takes time to sell such things, and I am trying to find ways to invest some of the money so I can provide a more reliable source of funds.”

  James had not pressed Adam on the issue; it had been something he had intended to return to once they had sorted out the problems at the hall. But by the sound of it, Adam had a secret stash—somewhere—of jewels. “Where are these precious items?”

  Adam looked uncomfortable, and James didn’t think he’d like the answer. “Most are in my room upstairs.”

  James threw up his hands. “Adam! Don’t you think that might not have been the best course of action? What if they are found?”

  “They are locked away and well hidden, and I don’t intend to keep them for long—just until I can sell them on.”

  Marchent cleared his throat. “I have an idea, but you will have to put an end to the highwayman nonsense.”

  Adam huffed. “I’m listening.”

  “There are other ways to help. Under Crofton’s patronage you can set up a charity to give out
poor relief. Both myself and Crofton could advise you on investments to help fund it, and I daresay we would both make a donation to start you off.”

  James was quick to add his support. He might not have known the details, but he knew of what Marchent had suggested. “Absolutely, and Stokes would be an excellent man to help with the organisation and running of the charity.”

  Adam still appeared uncertain. “I don’t know.”

  “You will help a lot more people this way, without risking your neck,” drawled Marchent. “Also, if you hand your little stash over to me, I can perhaps persuade their owners that I could get the pieces back to them for a price, or use my connections to release their cash value.”

  “Why would you do that?” demanded Adam. “Those belong to your fellow nobles. You said yourself they did not belong to me.”

  “Most of my fellow nobles are idiots, who instead of using what they have to further improve their fortunes squander sums away. I like a good squander as much as the next man, but I know not to be stupid. These fools have basked in the glory of having their jewels stolen. That alone is enough to give me bile.”

  James stepped closer to Adam. “Please. I need to know you will be safe.”

  Adam sighed. “I think it is the best way.”

  “Then it is agreed,” said Marchent, rubbing his hands together. “We can even use your appearance to help Crofton rid himself of these bandits as a way to give the Chivalrous Highwayman the send-off he deserves.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Adam said, his eyes narrowing.

  Once again Marchent was grinning like the cat who got the cream. “There could be nothing more dashing than the courageous Chivalrous Highwayman meeting his assumed demise while trying to help his friend, the noble Earl of Crofton.”

  James laughed. “Oh, the ladies at court will love that.”

  “Not just the ladies,” said Marchent.

  “The plan is complicated enough,” warned Adam.

  “Consider it the closing act of the play. You stay out of sight as much as possible and spring forward once the worst of the fighting is over. Just long enough to punch a bastard or two. Then, once the ruckus dies down, you melt away, but Crofton has seen you have been injured and goes after you. Alas, when he tracks you down, all he finds is a body. He is too late to save you.”

  “I don’t like the sound of a body,” said Adam, his face a picture of revulsion. “I don’t even want to think how we would acquire one.”

  Marchent scoffed. “What strange sensibilities you have. Very well, we can set up a trail of chicken blood which, of course, goes cold, and the Chivalrous Highwayman passes into legend.”

  “I don’t believe Sheriff Lindon would allow James to risk going after me alone. He would likely send men with him.”

  “He will be busy, but you might have a point,” conceded Marchent. “Then I and that funny manservant of Crofton’s will accompany him. We will insist we go, and Lindon will have other matters to deal with.”

  “Brilliant, Marchent,” cried James, liking the idea of this very much, and the less involved Adam was the better.

  “You’re both mad!”

  Marchent sniffed, then smirked. “I think I’d prefer to describe myself as willing to take a calculated risk.”

  Chapter 28

  The change in weather brought with it new considerations for springing the trap. Rain had left the roads muddy and slow going, and that meant the coach would not be able to cover the same distance compared to when it was dry. Adam had been pleased, convinced it would work to their advantage, but for James it was hard to be as optimistic as he crouched in the undergrowth waiting for Tilly’s coach to enter the area which was a hotspot for bandit activity. Marchent was not far away. They’d ridden out once the coach had left, faster on horseback than four wheels, on the pretence they fancied a few hours of fresh air. Remembrance had come with them, his excitement obvious, overriding his concern for being on horseback. James had sent him off to join Lindon’s men, so he should be nearby, a skein of chicken blood in the satchel strapped across his chest.

  If it wasn’t bad enough that James was out here in the mouldy damp, not knowing where Adam was made it infinitely worse. He’d be lurking somewhere, having collected his horse from a stable nearby (its exact location he had refused to divulge). The horse was another bloody thing to deal with. She was a beautiful mare, and he supposed he could claim her for his own after today, but it was yet another distraction he didn’t need at this time.

  Lindon had men staged close by, their heavy feet and whispers hard to ignore, and it had taken Lindon himself working through the trees and quietly accosting each culprit for the noise to die down.

  The birds overhead were in fine voice, the fruits of autumn meaning they had nothing to complain of, but in a few short months winter would be upon them. James mind wandered again, thinking of whether he’d decamp to London for a few months to see out the worst of the weather and not get trapped at the hall by the storms they’d had the year before or the bitterly cold weather after. He hated the cold, but he also hated the idea of not being able to move freely between Crofton Hall and London, and he didn’t want to be absent from court for too long. The king did not think the weather a good enough excuse.

  James rechecked his flintlocks. The pistols were still sound and he knew he was doing it more out of nerves than need. He’d been out here nearly an hour—his timepiece felt as if it was ticking extra slow—but again, this was nothing to do with reality but having to wait.

  He stilled as he heard the faint rumble of carriage wheels in the distance. There’d been a number of others passing by already, but each time he had to be prepared to act. The rumbling got louder and he peered carefully out of the undergrowth and recognised, by the fancy monogram, that this was the one with Tilly onboard. And there, next to the driver, was Clement. The devious bastard hadn’t left with the coach, so he must have caught up with it and spun a story to as to why he was needed aboard.

  A plethora of dull thuds heralded multiple horses approaching—a different litany from those that would pull the coach. It could still be ordinary travellers, but James wasn’t one to believe in coincidence, and his body thrummed with adrenaline, spoiling for the fight. Any thought of fear was surpassed by a torrent of hate as he recognised the bandit astride the stallion out in front as the louse who’d taken his father’s ring and threatened to kill him. He knew who he was now—Silas Clement—and James would see the bastard pay for his crimes.

  It took every ounce of restraint not to charge out of the bushes and fire his pistols at the thug’s head, but he held still when the crack of gunfire brought the coach to a halt, the horses bucking and whinnying in distress as they were surrounded by a gang of seven men on horseback. More men arrived on foot, all of them armed. The driver and footmen were pulled from the top of the coach, and although they put up a fight they’d been told not to resist too much, to avoid being injured.

  Clement had his hands up, but he grinned at the main bandit, his brother Silas, as he approached him, obviously thinking no one could see him. James couldn’t hear what was said between them, but Clement nodded at the coach to indicate something and then pulled a small velvet pouch from his jerkin. James knew that was the emerald. The bastards had fallen for Adam’s plan, and now James was going to see them swing for all they had taken from him and the suffering his father had endured on his death bed for not being able bring them to justice himself.

  Lindon’s whistle pierced the air. Now was the time for vengeance.

  With a pistol in each hand, James emerged from the undergrowth as a swarm of men equally armed descended. He ran forwards, heading straight for the bandits as gunfire cracked around him, the stench of powder and shot erupting. Some of the bastards scurried for cover, quickly being chased down by the sheriff’s men. He saw Marchent to his right pull a man from his horse and punch him so hard he sank to the ground. James ploughed on, heading for Clement’s brother, who had his bac
k to him.

  The scene before him was chaos. Those men who’d discharged their weapons were fighting hand-to-hand to get away and the horses were panicking in the noise and confusion. Clement had successfully dodged two men, but Marchent was on his tail. James headed for Silas. The bandit still on his horse had the advantage of height, but James was not to be deterred.

  He dodged out of the way of a grappling pair, surging on, only to stop dead still as Silas suddenly turned and saw him. Silas raised his arm, the flintlock pointed at James’s head. James’s mouth ran dry and it was as if everything around him faded away as he stared down the barrel.

  “I should have killed you last time we met,” sneered Silas. “Another useless noble with more money than sense.”

  The trigger clicked and James braced for the impact, but for the once the Gods must have been smiling down on him as the pistol failed to fire. Silas swooped and hit James across the face with the butt of the pistol, and the shock and pain sent James stumbling backwards to land heavily on his arse.

  A blur of black made him doubt his vision until he belatedly realised the Chivalrous Highwayman had arrived and had charged Silas, sending the pair crashing to the ground. James knew Adam would never be able to stand back if there was a chance of James being in danger, but watching his lover grapple with Silas made his stomach roll worse than the nausea from being pistol-whipped.

  He scrambled to his feet, taking up his own gun. He tried to focus, to pick out Silas as they rolled on the ground. A shot fired, but it wasn’t James’s, and he raced towards the two men who had stilled in a grotesque parody of a lovers’ embrace.

  An age passed, before Adam groaned and pushed the body away. James raced to him, not caring that he shouldn’t be running towards an infamous highwayman. Adam’s hat was off, though his mask had somehow remained in place, but before James could enjoy the relief that Adam was not dead, he saw the hilt of a knife in Adam’s thigh and Adam’s grimace of pain.