The Curious Rogue

by Joan Vincent

  You shall never see this rogue again, she told herself firmly. Know yourself to be fortunate.

  Sleep slowly descended, dispelling all her spinsterly reproaches. A dream of love and family crept into her dreams once more.

  The hint of dawn brought a grey light to the coach’s interior. The cloaked man had been studying the sleeping figure for some time, his thoughts oddly disrupted. She is not beautiful, he concluded, but most pleasant to gaze upon. I wonder if her eyes are dark like her hair.

  He shook himself. What had happened to his sense? Had that knock on the head a week past damaged his reasoning? This was only a chance encounter with a perfectly unreasonable chit who had neither the sense to be hysterical at his intrusion nor the folly to throw herself willingly into his arms. They would never meet again. He did not even know her name.

  I wonder if it is a harsh sound like Abigail, or something soothing like Letitia? he wondered, smiling. Certes, she is headstrong. His eyes narrowed as he continued to study her. Innocence... she has that look of innocence I had forgotten a woman could have, he realized, and became alarmed at the trend of his thinking.

  The coach slowed. They passed the outer cottages of a small village.

  I must go, he thought, and quelled the urge to stay. Leaning forward, he kissed her gently and then slipped quietly out of the coach, hurrying into the shadows before anyone could see him.

  * * * *

  Sir Henry Jeffries’ comfortably rambling mansion, Ashly, sat snugly atop a hill just outside of Ashford. It was early morn when his coach, carrying his niece, halted before the large double doors of its main entry. Elizabeth Jeffries stepped down from the coach before the butler, Niles, could reach its door.

  “How is Uncle?” she asked.

  “Improved, miss,” Niles answered, his face expressionless as he recalled the late hour of his master’s guests’ departure last eve. “He is resting now.”

  “Very good,” she smiled, walking towards the doors. “Please see to my portmanteaus. I believe I shall refresh myself before seeing Uncle. Will breakfast be served at nine as usual?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “If my uncle awakens, please tell him I had a pleasant journey. Except, of course, for the intruder....” A hint of a smile came to her lips.

  “Would there be anything else, miss?” Niles questioned with barely concealed interest.

  “No. Tell him I shall come to him as soon as I have breakfasted.” Elizabeth turned and walked towards the stairs.

  “Miss?”

  “Yes, Niles? What is it?”

  “I believe you would like to know that Lady Waddington is to arrive later this morn,” he informed her.

  “Thank you, Niles,” Elizabeth answered with a sigh, her already depressed spirits further dampened by the news of her aunt’s imminent arrival.

  The Green Room’s cheerful interior did not have its usual brightening effect on Elizabeth. Laying her gloves and pelisse on the bed, she washed her hands and face. With a heavy sigh the young woman moved slowly to the oriel window overlooking the valley below.

  Leaning against the edge, Elizabeth gazed at the fog-shrouded village of Ashford. The buildings were visible in brief glimpses as the heavy mist slowly drifted through the streets. A ray of morning sun splashed through a break in the clouds then was gone.

  My life has become like those buildings, enveloped in doubt, she mused. What has happened to all my certainty, to the days when peace and quiet were assured? At four and twenty there should be few additional questions to ask.

  Elizabeth’s thoughts drifted to the cloaked intruder, a gentle smile curving her lips. How tall he must be, she thought, recalling how his head had almost touched the roof of the coach. And his form, the fine line of his leg and that broad muscular chest. She sighed.

  How senseless—no, how unladylike, she amended, thinking of what her Aunt Waddie would have said to such thoughts.

  While Miss Jeffries had never worried about being unladylike, she prided herself on her good sense, which seemed to be sadly lacking in this instance.

  What kind of sense prompted her to be saddened when, awakened by the stranger’s gentle kiss, she had seen only the tail of his cloak as he slipped into the shadows. What caused this melancholy she had felt upon realizing that she would never see him again, her nameless rogue?

  Turning from the window, she raised her head, the line of her jaw hardening. Enough of this, miss, she told herself sternly. You could not even recognize the man if you encountered him again. Her heart begged to differ, but she quelled the instinct.

  A hearty breakfast was what she needed. Hunger was the cause of these nonsensical thoughts. Elizabeth marched to the door and grasped the knob, then sighed, her shoulders sagging.

  Recalling the grip of his hand upon hers, she thought. He neither robbed nor ravished me and certainly didn’t frighten me. Her features lightened, a grin spreading across them. Mayhaps I could scandalize Aunt Waddie enough with the tale, she thought, to have her decide to return to London immediately.

  “Shameful creature,” she admonished herself out loud the next instant. Chuckling, she opened the door and ambled towards the breakfast room.

  * * * *

  Niles assisted Sir Henry into his old-fashioned frock coat. “Do you think it wise to go down, sir?” he asked.

  “Confound it, Elizabeth is no child. She knows the lay of things.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If only Madeline did not arrive today also,” Sir Henry muttered adjusting his stock. Checking his appearance one last time, he bobbed his head with approval and made for his breakfast.

  “Good morn, Elizabeth,” he greeted his niece cheerfully, brushing her cheek with a kiss. Taking a plate, he chose sparingly from the dishes on the sideboard before joining her at the table.

  Miss Jeffries pushed aside The Times, which she had been reading and gazed sternly at her uncle.

  “Just the thought of you with me for the next month worked a marvel on my health,” he blustered, a soft red hue covering his face to the top of his balding pate. “You see, I am eating sparsely this morn.”

  “You always eat sparingly, Uncle,” she reminded him, inspecting his lean, angular form for any hint of malady.

  “Still the same young woman,” he snorted, then beamed approvingly.

  She burst into laughter. “You are a wonder, Uncle Henry. I begin to see why your paternity is sometimes questioned. You differ so greatly from dear Papa and Aunt Waddie.”

  Choking, Sir Henry drank deeply of his tea. “Pray, my dear girl, do not go about vocalizing such indelicate thoughts. Especially not in front of Madeline. Your aunt would fly into the boughs and not be done with it for a week.”

  “But I have heard her say the same.”

  “That is different. She is a married, well, widowed lady. Now don’t cast such a black look at me. I mean to abide by our truce.”

  “No beaux... no dandies... not even a promising solicitor?” Elizabeth questioned suspiciously, her uncle’s matchmaking propensities sharply in mind.

  “Well... Perhaps a young barrister I met last month will call while you are here. But he has been invited only because of a common interest we share,” he hastened to add.

  “Women?”

  “Elizabeth!”

  “I’m sorry, Uncle, but each time I come you throw all manner of men at me. It is so obvious—so embarrassing—to be paraded about like a shank of beef. I am happy as I am.”

  “You know I do not mean to—”

  “Then don’t. Find yourself a wife or take a mistress. Aunt Lettie has been gone five years now. You have never adjusted to being alone.”

  “Which is why you should agree to stay with me permanently. I told you when your father died two years past that you were welcome,” Sir Henry told her earnestly.

  “Even with Papa gone I must still maintain the house for Morton.” Her eyes went to her plate.

  “Your brother doesn’t care a fiddle for that hou
se. Hasn’t cared for anything since he saw his first ship.”

  “And who do we have to thank for encouraging that interest? It was you who provided for his entry into the Naval Academy at Portsmouth, who arranged for his promotion on the Zenphone.” Elizabeth’s features softened upon seeing her uncle’s distress. She reached across the table and placed her hand atop his.

  “You are not to blame for what happened. I know the sea is Morton’s life, that it shall always be. You could not have done better by him. We both know Father had very little capital and could manage nothing. Something shall happen, you shall see. Morton may even manage to escape the French like Sir Sydney Smith did in ‘98.”

  “This damnable war. If only Malmesbury had been successful in ‘96, but the French were not wishing for peace then. Their treatment of the Old Lion in ‘97 was proof of that. Now both governments refuse to exchange prisoners. What stupidity!” His fork clattered onto his plate.

  Elizabeth’s face had darkened at mention of the French. The war had made little impression upon her at its start. In the second year, however, a cousin had joined the émigrés who had landed at Qiberon Bay, and the tale of how he had been wounded, abandoned by his companions, and then died had shocked her. It turned her not only against the French but against the royalists who flocked to England for safety.

  Her brother’s capture off Brest by the French navy intensified her opinion. She blamed her father’s death on the resultant heartache and worry. Elizabeth had hardened her heart further, becoming unrelenting in her prejudice, despite her uncle’s entreaties to be reasonable.

  “Let’s have none of your nonsense about the loyalists,” Sir Henry reminded her. “Madeline will probably bring a few with her.

  “Remember Morton’s last letter? How he told about the man who was giving him food and wine? What of those who smuggle his letters to the coast for us?”

  “They do it only for the money it gains them. That is the sole reason. If they did not help his letters, you could not send him money—money which they take. A Frenchman would never do anything for anyone without being paid,” she ended adamantly.

  “Elizabeth, you are showing an absurdly ignorant streak.” Her uncle shook a finger at her. “I prided myself on thinking you had better judgment than you are now showing. Just as all Englishmen are not good, all Frenchmen are not bad.”

  “That has not been proven to me,” his niece insisted stubbornly.

  He shook his head regretfully, for he regarded this unquestioning condemnation as most unfortunate. His fork halted halfway to his mouth, a sudden recollection of Niles’ comment coming to mind.

  “What did happen on your journey?”

  Colour surged to Elizabeth’s cheeks. “It was nothing,” she said, attacking the beef on her plate.

  “Come now, you wouldn’t blush so.... Certes you were not robbed?”

  “No, Uncle. A man simply bolted into the coach as we were leaving Folkestone,” she said, dismissing the incident.

  “A stranger? What was his name? I’m surprised that Brown allowed it. He knows I dislike your travelling unchaperoned. I must speak with him....”

  “Brown knew nothing about it,” Elizabeth defended the coachman. “The man simply climbed in when we slowed to round a corner. You don’t know him and neither do I. He was being chased by the king’s men and used your coach to escape them. I don’t wish to discuss this any further,” she ended, and rose. Throwing her napkin onto the table, Elizabeth strode from the room without a further word or look.

  Sir Henry stared after her. Even the royalists had never elicited such a strong reaction in her. Perhaps this man is the one I should he searching for instead of that new barrister, he thought. If only his name could be learned.

  “I would give much to meet a man that could unsettle Elizabeth,” Sir Henry mused aloud. “He must have been a most curious rogue.”

  Chapter Three

  The tall, dark man drew his cloak tightly about him as his hired hack plodded through a field near Ashford. Finding his thoughts more melancholy than usual, he reminded himself of the success he had had in his mission and of the little Parisian wench who had entertained him so well.

  But when he tried to picture her, there came instead the vision of the young miss whose coach he had left but hours before.

  Likely safe at her uncle’s now, he thought and grinned remembering how she had tried to take his pistol. Plenty of spirit there. He straightened as an idea struck.

  “It would be best if we got to London as quickly as possible,” he told the hired beast, “but then I’ve seldom done what is wisest.” He turned the steed towards Ashford and urged him to a gallop.

  Halting before the Crown and Sword, an inn on the outskirts of town, the man lithely stepped down and drew off his cloak. After tying it behind the saddle, he strode inside and tossed a coin carelessly upon the bar.

  The proprietor’s pudgy, dirt-stained hand closed over it, a toothless smile his greeting. “Take a seat, sir. I’ll fetch ye a pint o’ ale.” He drew a mug of rich, warm ale and carried it to the table.

  “Be ye travellin’ to London?” he asked, setting the mug down with a splattering jolt.

  “Perhaps.” The dark eyes forced the innkeeper to drop his gaze.

  “Ye look worn,” the fat man mumbled. He rubbed his dirty hands on his equally filthy apron. “Thought ye might want a room.”

  “You have a magistrate in Ashford?” The man’s gaze did not waver.

  “Magistrates all about England,” the innkeeper answered, unsettled by the light in the stranger’s eye. “What need ye be havin’ with a magistrate?”

  “His name?” the other commanded.

  The innkeeper debated his answer, then stiffened as the man leaned back in his chair. He watched the man’s hand come to rest near the butt of a pistol in his waistband. “Jeffries it be, sir. Sir Henry Jeffries. I best be about me duties,” he added and began to edge away from the table.

  “Does he have a niece?”

  “I’ve heard tell he does,” the innkeeper answered slowly.

  “Do you know her name?”

  “Seems me heard tell o’ it... but then his lordship be a mite above me an’ we don’t deal together, common like.” He rubbed his double chin.

  A coin appeared as if by magic in the dark man’s hand. He flipped it to the innkeeper.

  “‘Lizabeth, sir. Miss ‘Lizabeth Jeffries.” The man beamed greedily. “There he more ye wish to be knowin’?” he asked hopefully.

  “Bring me bread and cheese,” the other commanded coldly, his face impassive.

  With a regretful grimace, the innkeeper turned away.

  What a fool you are, the man condemned himself. He ran a hand slowly through his thick coal-black hair. Exposing yourself needlessly to learn a chit’s name, and it being Elizabeth at that.

  A strong proud name just like the lady. The innkeeper’s return interrupted his thought. He hungrily devoured the cheese and bread. Finished, he quaffed the last of his ale, and after placing coins on the table, strode from the inn. Outside he swung easily into the saddle and spurred away.

  “That be a most curious sort,” the innkeeper mumbled as he scraped crumbs from the table onto the litter-covered floor. Wonder if Sir Henry be interested in knowin’ the like o’ that sort are askin’ after his niece?

  The thought was still on the man’s mind a short time later when five soldiers entered the inn.

  After ordering ale, the sergeant asked, “Have ye seen the like o’ a tall, dark man? A mean look he has and likely carryin’ a pistol. He would have come by way of Folkestone.”

  “With hair as black as the devil’s stone?” the innkeeper asked.

  “Aye, an’ eyes that match it.”

  “Who be he?”

  “By name, Martin. He moves back an’ forth ‘tween here and France like there ‘twasn’t no war. But he went too far when he threw Lord Fromby into the Channel. His lordship’s set a fire to the tail on them in London
, and we’ve ten score men sent to capture him.”

  “Ten score... all fer one man?” the other questioned sceptically.

  “‘Tis the country’s honour at stake to hear his lordship,” the sergeant returned, thumping his hand upon the counter.

  “What did ye say this Martin did to Lord—”

  “Fromby was bein’ patriotic like an’ gettin’ information on some smugglers, so he says, when this Martin came and ‘umiliated him. Pulled his fancy wig off.” He winked.

  “His lordship be balder ‘n a hen’s egg, so it’s told since. Then the bloke threw him over the side.” The sergeant ended there, thinking it imprudent to add that his lordship had been in the company of some ladies of doubtful reputation who had preferred the assailant. Nor did he think it wise to mention that tattle in the barracks had it that Lord Fromby, for all the personal insult he had suffered, was more likely angered because the man had also made off with his ship and the cargo his lordship had arranged to be smuggled in.

  “Have ye seen the man?” he asked again, his ale finished.

  “Aye, not two hours past. Headin’ fer London he likely were.”

  “If ye see him again, send word to Colonel Trumbel at Dover. Lord Frombv’s puttin’ a large sum of guineas to the man responsible for catchin’ him.”

  * * * *

  His third rented hack of the day was well lathered by the time Martin reached London. He had gone over six and thirty hours without sleep. Instead of reining his tired steed towards his quarters, he made for a house on the edge of Mayfair which he had rented for a young lady with whom he had an amicable agreement.

  Discontent had lain heavily upon Martin all day and pressed him harder as he neared his destination. Even memories of Teresa’s softly curved body and willing ways could not dispel this vague but stubborn dissatisfaction.

  Entering the house by the back door, Martin took the main staircase two steps at a time and strode purposefully down the corridor towards the master bedchamber.

  The powdered and painted demirep seated before the dressing table saw his image in her mirror. “Martin!” she squeaked in a strangled voice,