The Highwayman's Folly

by Daria Vernon

  Allison popped in before Beth could condone her entrance. Her green eyes looked bigger than ever under the pile of upswept, flaxen hair. Her gown, as she often preferred, was golden to match.

  “Are you ready?” she asked eagerly.

  Beth nodded and stood.

  “You look so beautiful, Beth. Stefano will be tripping over the toes of his boots to dance with you.”

  Beth certainly hoped he would.

  The dancing had only just started when Beth noticed Hamm stalking her in the crowd to secure his dance. Thankfully, the Weldons were quite well-connected and a crowd it was. He was easily evaded. There was no shortage of young gentlemen bent on the same thing—an emphasis on young. Beth lit up inside as men of Allison’s age asked time and time to dance with her. She fairly glittered under their enthusiasm, enjoying that none of them realized her unlikely age of three-and-thirty. And—lucky her—they were all too fresh into society to know her reputation.

  With every turn on the dance floor, she could see Hamm pouting at the fringes, and she flung brilliant smiles at him like weapons. He didn’t quite deserve that. She was simply too drunk on her own happiness to be delicate. It was an emotion that she’d been so bereft of. Perhaps her spirits were high enough that she could spare him a dance after all. Even he could not drag her spirits down tonight.

  After twirling about the floor with a polite viscount, she pushed through the gathering in search of some fresh air. Before reaching the French doors that lined the back of the ballroom, she was stopped by the hand of Lady Weldon. “A gentleman is looking for you.”

  “Thank you.” Beth kept walking. Why bother to ask Lady Weldon what she already knew? Hamm would catch up to her sooner or later.

  She slipped out onto the back veranda. Clumps of revelers gathered in various spaces about the garden.

  A large pond stretched down the lawn, plumbed at either end with fountains that were turned on for the first time that night. The Weldons’ wealth was certainly a thing to behold. Beth followed a path alongside the pool’s edge. The warmth of cheerfulness was settling over her and she decided, for once, to allow it. The torches that were staked along the path cast their dancing amber into the water. A perfect evening.

  “Wondered if I might find you out here.” Hamm.

  Beth sighed and turned to the man who shadowed her. She dipped her head.

  “Hamm.”

  “Miss Clarke,” he nodded. “Are you enjoying the evening so far?”

  She tried to rein in her reaction, but it was already off like a pistol shot.

  “Immensely.” The word fairly oozed in its giddiness. She cleared her throat. “And you?”

  “Well, I only just got here, but it is very fine, yes.”

  Rubbish. He’d been stalking her for an hour at least. Beth had no way to conceal a roll of her eyes and felt suddenly very proud that her willpower had evolved enough to contain the impulse. “Mmm.”

  “I was wondering if you might like to dance with me?”

  “Of course, the next dance is all yours—”

  “Actually, I’ve already asked a young lady, Miss Coopersmith, for the next two after this, but the one after those?”

  So much for charity.

  “Find me when you find me.” Beth debated whether she should go on and free herself from his attentions indefinitely. She didn’t have to sift through her thoughts for long before she located her answer.

  “I want you to know that I’ve decided to go away.”

  “What? Out of town?” he asked, taken aback.

  “Out of the country.”

  “For the summer?”

  “Indefinitely.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Beth shrugged. It was unkind to blurt it out before telling her father, but Hamm was unlikely to start a rumor.

  “You can’t just—”

  Hamm was cut off by the jovial laughter of a group of men approaching them. Beth paid the group little mind, waiting for them to pass, until—

  “Ahh, there she is!”

  Beth looked around, trying to discern if she was her. It was confirmed when a delicate sherry glass was placed in her fingers by someone coming into the light of the nearest torch. The large hand lingered on hers. She followed the arm upward.

  Her heart stopped just as the music did inside the house.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” The voice gentled, intimate and lingering.

  Her eyes locked into those of a distant memory. Everyone else around them faded as though painted out of reality. His features, blurred and distant for so long, came suddenly into sharpness—looking exactly as she’d remembered them and yet not at all.

  Rhys.

  She swayed and he placed a hand under her forearm.

  “Steady,” he said, nearly a whisper.

  “You two know one another?”

  If Beth broke her gaze, would he even still exist? Or would he recede into the darkness, some cruel mirage?

  “Bethany?” Hamm’s voice reported more sharply.

  “Yes.” She finally looked at Hamm. “Yes, I know him.”

  “Well, it seems Miss Clarke is too distracted at present to facilitate proper introductions,” said Hamm, and she saw his hand move across her to link with that of the ghost to her right.

  “Captain Hamilton Eadwald.”

  “Osbourne Booker.” Then Rhys gestured to the men behind him. First a gray and round gentleman, “Mr. Crofty,” then a thinner man of similar age, “and Mr. Sutcliffe. My colleagues.”

  The names fell through Beth’s ears like soft flour through a sieve. All she could think about was him.

  “Gentlemen,” Rhys went on, “I’d like to introduce you to Miss Clarke, the niece of our gracious hosts.”

  How did he—?

  The two men pushed into the circle and dipped their heads.

  “Booker, you didn’t tell us how lovely your friend was,” exclaimed one of the gentlemen, his voice colored by drink.

  “A selfish secret, I suppose.” His eyes didn’t let go of Beth’s. He brought the sherry to his lips, and she could see a tightness in his throat as he swallowed. The gesture reminded her suddenly of the glass in her own hand.

  She took a careful drink.

  “So, how exactly are the two of you acquainted?” Hamm put no effort into filtering the rudeness from his tone as he glared at Rhys.

  Rhys opened his mouth to answer, but Beth stepped in, feeling it necessary that the spell finally wear off.

  “Mr. Booker was my rescuer three years past.”

  Hamm’s face took on the color of her shift, much as hers had only seconds prior.

  “Was he now? Well.” He arranged his posture into that of a puffed pigeon, threatened.

  “It’s very good to see you again, Miss Clarke,” said Rhys. He had her free hand almost to his lips by the time she’d even realized he’d taken it.

  Hamm shifted on his feet impatiently, throwing his eyesight anywhere other than at them as Rhys kissed her fingers.

  The pressure of his lips aligned with the dictates of polite society, but the memories that his lips inspired were not quite so aligned.

  “I would very much like to have a dance with you later, if that can be arranged?”

  “Of course. There’s much to catch up on.”

  His eyes had, as yet, been so unrevealing, but now a flash of pain lit across them.

  “I hear the music striking up again,” she said. “Perhaps we can take to the floor right now?”

  “Darling.” Hamm chuckled at her as though she were loony and placed her hand roughly into the crook of his arm. “We’re set to have a dance now, recall?”

  The nerve. She’d be hanged before she’d dance with him now. She took the rest of her sherry in one swallow and handed the tiny
glass back to Rhys. “Hamm,” she said, wielding the nickname like a hatchet, “what of the young lady who holds you for the next two spots on her card? You mustn’t disappoint her.” Yet she found herself already being guided away. She couldn’t help but throw glances over her shoulder as she was led back to the house.

  Rhys receded in the distance. He stood in the throw of the torchlight, watching her go. Forlorn, like a dog left on the roadside.

  When they reached the veranda, Beth thrust Hamm away from her.

  “Bethany, what’s gotten into you?”

  Beth was about to rain hell on him. Her emotions were swirling like a storm within her, and this horse’s ass would be her first victim. But before she could bring the lightning down, Hamm was rescued by serendipity. Beth’s eye had caught a lovely skirt sashaying up from behind him.

  Beth’s face alit with frothy kindness, “Miss Coopersmith,” she said, reaching past Hamm to take the girl’s hand. “We were just looking for you. You have the next dance with Captain Eadwald here, don’t you?”

  The young woman beamed eagerly as she dipped into a flirty curtsy for Hamm. Beth went so far as to lift the girl’s hand and place it into his while giving him a look that could burn holes in him.

  “Bless you both.”

  Hamm was dragged swiftly inside by his partner. Beth peeled off her counterfeit smile as soon as she was turned from them. She examined the dark lawn but could no longer see the men by the water. Her chest tightened. Every moment Rhys was out of her sight felt like an assurance that she’d never see him again—that none of this was real.

  A hand gently touched her elbow and she spun.

  “Rhys,” she breathed.

  But it wasn’t. It was Stefano.

  “I’m sorry, did I startle you?”

  “No, I’m perfectly fine Mr. Weldon.”

  “Please, our families are so close. When we’re alone, Stefano will suffice.” Good. Because it’s what she’d always wanted to call him anyway.

  “May I have this dance?” He tendered his arm. His smile beamed brilliantly against his olive skin and she melted at the sight. Yet when she placed her hand in his arm, it was tentatively. Her ears still rushed at the dizzying complication that Rhys was here somewhere. She had to speak with him.

  Stefano placed a hand over hers as they walked together to the dance floor.

  “I have been waiting for this for awhile, you know.” His accent was eclectic. The Italian of his birthplace, the English from his youth, the Greek from his career. She liked to hear him speak.

  “For what? This dance?”

  “Of course this dance,” he said.

  They stood to the side for a moment, staking out their place in the Allemande that was now underway. Stefano lifted her hand and elegantly brought her onto the dance floor in perfect time.

  This wasn’t at all how she wanted the moment to be. She’d been waiting for this dance too, and now it was impossible to lose herself to it.

  Stefano’s steps were perfect. His smile, perfect. Everything, perfect, except that she kept forgetting to meet his beautiful hazel eyes. Instead, she cast low glances past him, hoping that on some turn, she’d catch a glimpse of her Captain.

  “My sister tells me that you feel inspired to travel?”

  Beth brought her attention back to him as best she could, but distraction still tugged at her eyes. She smiled.

  “Oh, Allison told you that, did she?”

  “Was she not supposed to?”

  “It’s perfectly fine. I just haven’t told my father yet. But yes, your sister inspired me, and I’ve just found out I’m leaving quite soon.”

  A turn of the dance brought their chests very close as their arms raised overhead. “So am I,” he said. A twinkle in his eye. “I hope Greece is on your itinerary?”

  She only nodded, blushing too much to speak.

  Then she caught sight of him.

  Floating through the sea of guests, Rhys stood shoulders above most—his stiff, modern collar, upright. He looked so different without the breadth of his greatcoat or cape. Without the slush of sleet on his shoulders, or dewy hair—so different from the last time she saw him.

  He was unaccompanied now and headed toward a low, wide dais at the end of the ballroom, where the Weldons sat to watch over the party with their well-heeled acquaintances from across the kingdom. Her father sat with them, along with others who deemed themselves too creaky in the knees for dancing.

  She stared distractedly as Rhys stepped up to the dais to greet her father, and she missed a step in the dance. Stefano locked his arm to steady her, his elegance concealing her faux pas.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I promise I am usually a much better dance partner.”

  “I don’t really care what kind of dance partner you are. I am sure you have many attributes that make up for one misplaced foot.” He smiled, but his eyebrows knit with concern. “Are you generally so hard on yourself?”

  She’d never had such a thing pointed out to her before, but the comment struck her painfully, as a well-placed arrow might. The music ended before she could answer and Stefano bowed deeply.

  “I see my sister waving for me.” He looked over her shoulder. “But I will find you again later.” He smiled and Beth curtsied before Stefano turned to escape the dance floor. Beth looked to the dais. Rhys was no longer with her father.

  A hand rested against the small of her back and she quickly pulled away. How dare anyone be so—

  But she turned, and it was him.

  The music was already starting up again. She didn’t know what to say or do.

  Rhys bent over her, inappropriately near. His brown eyes pierced into her expectantly.

  “May I have this dance with you?”

  She gave him her hand, wordlessly, but winced as she realized they’d be dancing La Bagatelle. Rhys bowed, belatedly.

  The cheerful music clashed with the tensions roiling inside of her. Instead of resting her hand in his, she clutched his fingers in her fist, as though she could not stay upright without the support.

  They were the top pair, the first to glide down the row of smiling, oblivious faces. These people had no idea as to the cacophony raging inside of her, yet she felt exposed beneath their gaze.

  If Rhys shared any of her anxiety, he wore none of it on his exterior. Though it did not take long to conclude that her Captain was not light of foot. She couldn’t take her eyes from him, while he couldn’t take his eyes from the progress of the other dancers.

  As they circled up with another pair to prance around like fools, she thought she might die. Faintness was taking her over, and she imagined herself as a little finch about to fall from a fence post. She linked arms with the next partner and almost forgot to release herself from Rhys as she spun away.

  The man she’d been passed off to was a slender fellow, fair-faced, with a royal bearing. When he finally looked up to meet her eye, she saw recognition on his face. He scowled before snatching his arm from her. Finishing the turn, he hissed, “I do not dance with twice-ruined women.”

  The man bowed curtly and left the dance floor, throwing the symmetry of the dance into a brief chaos.

  Beth looked around while the others danced past her, rearranging themselves to salvage the group’s composition. Rhys was now at the end of the longways dance, but seeing her alone, he broke from his place. She shook her head at him. No. It was too much.

  She maneuvered back into the crowd, picking up speed as she went. Back on the veranda, she clung near to the house until she escaped around its corner. She ran up the west lawn, unlit and undecorated. She ran until she reached the rotunda that she and Allison had shared secrets by. She collapsed against a pillar to weep.

  Blood roared inside of her, uncomfortably heated and rapid. The sensation had not slowed even once in the quarter hour since she�
�d laid eyes on Rhys. Since that moment, she’d been passed from the company of one man to another with the ease of passing a handkerchief—Rhys, Hamm, Stefano, Rhys—and finally she’d landed with a stranger who had learned of her past and had a vile opinion of it.

  Even as she’d imagined how she might settle into a sinful reputation on the Continent, she’d still possessed some competing notion that the passing of time might cleanse her. Yet, as she’d passed the first half of the night dancing in bliss, rumors had apparently been loosened somewhere in the ballroom—a bag of snakes sent to slither and multiply.

  Tears ran hot down her cheeks. They could be ascribed to no singular feeling as their origin. They all came naturally, like a river’s current. There was no clarity to any of it, no words to her thoughts—just pure feeling surging through her, sickening her like a poison.

  “Beth?”

  The out-of-breath voice was gentle and cautious. She turned to face Rhys where he’d approached from the hill.

  “How dare you!”

  She shoved him hard.

  Unguarded, with his back to the hill, he fell to the grass.

  She loomed over him, chest heaving. He didn’t move yet, but she knew he was fine. The air was still—the murmur and lilt of the ballroom, distant.

  At last, he pushed himself up. Standing, he gave her more space and brushed himself off.

  Her eyes flitted up and down. There he was. Alive. Intact. Handsome. Real. Different. The same.

  Her tears dried and her blood cooled.

  “Have you nothing to say?”

  He just stood there, lost and waiting.

  “You didn’t say goodbye.”

  “Beth . . .”

  That cautious voice he kept approaching her with—she hated it. It broke her heart.

  “You were very, very ill when I got you back to Greenthorne. I did say goodbye and—”

  “I know, but—” Her voice cracked.

  “Beth, I didn’t get enough at the end either. I didn’t—it was very hard for me to leave.”

  “Then why didn’t you come back?”

  She saw his eyebrows raise in the moonlight. He dared to take a step toward her.