by Hope Tarr
Behind her spectacles, Faith Pinkerton, the village schoolmistress, rolled her eyes. “The robbery, Abby. Tell Chelsea how the rogue forced your driver off the road.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” The vicar’s wife’s plump hand flattened over her heart. “It was dreadful, simply dreadful. When that brute tore open our carriage door, I thought the end had come for the girls and me.” She leaned forward and added in a confidential tone, “And with Rosamund blossoming into womanhood, I am sure you can all understand a mother’s fears.”
Around the table, heads bobbed.
“He didn’t—” Mabel Minnington coughed discreetly, “—that is to say, he didn’t make any improper advances, I hope.”
Mrs. Pettigrew glanced to Rosamund, who had wrested the ball of thread away from her sister and was refusing to give it back.
Apparently satisfied that her offspring were oblivious to the dark undertones of the conversation, she continued. “No, but he had his lecherous eye on her the whole time. I must confess, ladies, the way he looked at my innocent child sent chills up and down my spine.” Mrs. Pettigrew’s gelatinous bosom shivered in recall. “’Tis a mercy she wasn’t ravished.”
“The brute!”
“Praise be!”
Chelsea bent her head to hide a smile.
Josephine lifted wicked eyes and announced, “Rosie has developed a tendre for One-Eyed Jack. In fact, she thinks she may be in love.”
A deep berry blush stained Rosamund’s plump cheeks. Dropping the thread, she reached out and swatted at her sister. “Be quiet, you stupid chit. You know I said no such thing.”
Giggling, Josephine dodged the blow. “You certainly did. Why just last night, you said you thought One-Eyed Jack was the handsomest—”
“Hush, both of you.” Mrs. Pettigrew pressed a palm to her temple. “You are giving me the headache.”
“Sorry, Mama,” Josephine apologized, sticking her tongue out at her sister as soon as her mother’s gaze shifted.
Chelsea’s eyes watered and her sides ached with the effort to hold in her laughter. So, the oafish Rosamund fancied One-Eyed Jack. If only the ridiculous child knew that the object of her adolescent affections was seated at her mother’s dining room table.
Giving way to an evil impulse, Chelsea summoned her most innocent voice. “Is One-Eyed Jack a large man, Mrs. Pettigrew?”
“Gargantuan.” Mrs. Pettigrew used her hands to sketch in midair a silhouette that could have belonged to the real Jack. Her broad shoulders quivered. “And if you could have seen his evil face…the one eye covered with a patch, the other black as pitch. Why, the very memory gives me the shivers.”
If the magistrate relies on Mrs. Pettigrew, I’ll never be caught. Chelsea chuckled to herself.
Faith Pinkerton bit off a piece of thread from her finished square. “The sooner that wicked felon is apprehended and brought to justice, the better it will be for all of us.”
Mabel Minnington surveyed the group and confided, “I have it on good authority that justice will not be long in coming.”
Around the table, six needles, including Chelsea’s, stalled. All eyes were riveted on the magistrate’s wife, all ears pricked for her next word.
“How so?” demanded Mrs. Pettigrew, face flushed.
Clearly relishing her new importance and wishing to prolong the moment, Mabel hedged, “Well, I really shouldn’t say more. You see, I promised John—”
“What fustian,” Mrs. Pettigrew interrupted. “Mabel Minnington, you know perfectly well you can trust us not to breathe a word to a living soul outside this room.”
Faith Pinkerton urged, “Yes, Mabel dear, do tell.”
“You can trust us, Mrs. Minnington,” said Rosamund.
Heart pounding, Chelsea added her voice to the chorus. “Pray, do tell, Mrs. Minnington.”
“If you all give your word that anything I say shall be kept in the strictest of confidence.”
Heads nodded in solemn assent.
“Very well, then.” Mabel Minnington put down her sewing. “My husband has devised a plan to trap One-Eyed Jack and put a stop to this highway robbery business once and for all.”
“What kind of plan?” Mrs. Pettigrew demanded.
The magistrate’s wife hesitated a moment more, then blurted out, “As of tonight, one of the local lads will dress up as a woman and parade himself on the road to London in Squire Dumfreys’s coach. To anyone watching the roads, it will appear as though a wealthy woman were traveling alone, with only her driver. The bait will be irresistible. John is confident that sooner or later One-Eyed Jack will make his move. What the rogue won’t know is that some of the best marksmen in the county will be hidden in the hedgerows along the roadside, not to mention my own John crouched on the carriage floor, armed. When the blackguard gives his call to ‘Stand and Deliver,’ the men will come out of hiding and bang. Adieu One-Eyed Jack.”
A hush fell. Even Josephine and Rosamund stopped kicking each other under the table to absorb Mrs. Minnington’s revelation.
Chelsea, who had kept her eyes fastened on the square she was furiously stitching, gasped.
“Oh, Mama!” Rosamund shrieked, pointing to Chelsea. “Look, she’s bleeding all over the tablecloth.”
“Why, Chelsea, you’ve pricked yourself.” Tone vexed, Mrs. Pettigrew rose to inspect the damage to her best Irish linen. “Do try to exercise more care.”
“’Tis nothing, really,” Chelsea replied quickly, sucking the tip of the offending finger.
“Nonsense. We shall tend to that immediately. Rosamund, Josephine, one of you run and fetch a bandage and some salve.” She frowned down at the small scarlet stain. “And send the housekeeper in with a cloth and some water.”
It took every ounce of Chelsea’s self-discipline to remain at the vicarage for the rest of the afternoon. Every time she felt on the verge of catapulting out of her seat, she reminded herself that to leave abruptly would only arouse suspicion. So, she forced herself to sit still, sewing and making obligatory conversation, until the hall clock chimed the four blissful notes that signaled her release.
What a relief it was to unhitch the pony cart at last. Anxiety soon replaced relief when she reached home and began to take stock of her ill-gotten gains.
She closed the study door, and then went to the desk. Unlocking the drawer, she removed the pouch and spilled the contents onto the desk. The brief inventory confirmed what she had known already—she hadn’t anywhere near five hundred pounds. Aside from the money, the only articles of value were the pearl necklace and the pocket watch she’d taken from Montrose and his lady. En route to London, the viscount had lost no time in raising the hue and cry. The word that a dangerous highwayman was afoot had spread like fire. Thanks to Lord Montrose’s swiftness in alerting the authorities, most travelers passing through Upper Uckfield now took the precaution of leaving their valuables behind.
Thanks to Lord Montrose.
Having played football with the neighborhood lads every Shrovetide until she turned sixteen, Chelsea was no stranger to being knocked down and pinned beneath a strong male body. Even so, lying beneath Lord Montrose she’d been bombarded by new and confusing sensations. Nearly a week later, she could still summon the surge of excitement she’d felt at being crushed beneath his broad chest, his large hands wrapped around her, his long, muscular legs tangling with hers. The mere memory filled her veins with liquid fire.
Was this…passion?
Passion. Romeo and Juliet, Troilus and Cressida, Lancelot and Guinevere…Grand passions were invariably mutual—and invariably doomed. Focusing on the mutuality aspect, she asked herself if it were possible that Montrose felt even a flicker of the flame that still seared her? For a fleeting moment when their gazes collided, Chelsea sensed that his lordship’s hold on her was motivated by more than the desire to retrieve his valuables.
Foolish, stupid girl. You were disguised as a boy.
Recalling Montrose’s exquisite blonde traveling companion, Ch
elsea doubted that he would have looked on her more favorably even if she’d been dressed as a woman. Banishing that depressing thought, she allowed herself the luxury of slipping into pure fantasy. Embellishing on what might have happened if he’d succeeded in unmasking her made for a pleasant diversion from the torturous thought of Robert in the hands of a ruthless kidnapper. A knock on the door jarred her out of the reverie. She dropped the bag into the drawer, locked it, then gave the call to enter.
It was Jack, announcing dinner.
When she made no move to rise, he prodded, “I know that look, child. Somethin’s amiss. Out wi’ it.”
Chelsea flagged him to a chair. “You should sit first.”
Jack seated, Chelsea lost no time in telling him what had transpired at the vicarage.
He shook his head dolefully. “I knew it. I just knew it. ’Twas only a matter o’ time.”
Chelsea drummed impatient fingers on the desk. “Knowing the particulars, I’m certain we could elude their stupid trap. Even so, now that the word is out, it’s unlikely that we shall be able to filch anything that even comes close to the value of that pearl necklace. Even if we did, where would we find a purchaser of purloined valuables in this backwater.” But, in London…
Jack discharged a heavy sigh. “Thank the good Lord, ye’ve finally come to yer senses.”
“Indeed,” Chelsea murmured even as a new plan began taking shape in her mind.
Whitehall—and the War Office—were in London as well. She’d not yet received a reply to the letter of inquiry she’d posted five days before. But, if she were to arrive in person, she’d not be so easy to dismiss.
And, secreted in a dark hollow of her mind, a far less noble motive rattled. Lord Montrose was in London. The possibility of bearding the lion in his own den held an undeniable appeal, not to mention that the man was rich as Croesus. His abode must be chock-full of riches. Why, in one night alone, she could probably nick five hundred pounds’ worth—and then some.
“Woolgathering, Miss Chelsea?”
“Hem?” She looked up to find Jack’s one-eyed gaze boring through her. “Oh, I was just thinking that a change in plans might be in order.”
A worried frown stitched his brow. “What kind o’ change?”
Painting a mental portrait of Montrose’s face when he stepped inside his spacious—and empty—London residence, she found herself smiling. “While I had hoped to stay long enough to supervise the planting, I see now that we must away from here posthaste. Move our base of operations to somewhere where one more thief—or even two—won’t raise an eyebrow.”
Jack’s weary gaze followed her as she rounded the desk. “And where might that be?” he asked, although she felt certain he’d surmised her answer.
Just the same, she wasn’t eager to witness his stricken face. She dashed toward the dining room. “Why, London, of course.”
London. Anthony lifted the curtain and stared out the carriage window to the Thames. Black, sluggish, and swathed in gray mist, the river might have been a metaphor for his soul.
He’d hoped that being back in London would rouse his spirits but, like the country, the city failed to move him. Dr. Samuel Johnson had said that a man who was tired of London was tired of life. Well, perhaps Johnson had a point. Anthony thought back to his first visit as a boy of twelve. The tonnish men and women with their rouged cheeks, ornamental patches, and powdered hair; the monumental buildings and expansive pleasure gardens; the equestrian acrobats at Astley’s Amphitheatre—all had seemed part of a dazzling fairyland. He sank back against the leather seat. What he wouldn’t give to feel a modicum of that magic now.
Feelings, magical or otherwise, eluded him these days. He felt passionate about nothing and no one, least of all Phoebe. He’d just escorted her home from Drury Lane where a young actor named Edmund Kean had delivered a brilliant performance as Shakespeare’s Romeo. Attendance of the premier was by invitation only; His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, had headed the distinguished guest list. But neither the tragedy enfolding on stage nor the steady stream of glittering personages filing in and out of the royal box had held Anthony’s attention. Craving solitude, he’d begged off the postplay reception in the theater’s Green Room, much to Phoebe’s chagrin.
Alone at last, his thoughts returned to the robbery the week before. He’d felt something then. Anger, of course, but also curiosity and the vague stirring of lust.
One-Eye, you’d better be a woman.
According to the local authorities, there had been no reports of a one-eyed highwayman—male or female—in nearly thirty years. The trail, such as it was, had gone cold.
Jack or Jacqueline, where are you? Once more he stared into the night, half expecting the spritelike footpad to materialize at the foot of Westminster Bridge. Instead, in the hazy light of the streetlamp, he saw two silhouettes—one tall and gangly, the other squat and broad—dragging a blond-haired man down the stone steps to the towpath. Not caring for the odds, Anthony tapped his cane on the roof, and Masters halted a yard or so from the bridge.
The smacking sound of flesh meeting flesh pierced the quiet.
A desperate voice choked out, “Please, I haven’t got it.”
Pistol in hand, Anthony opened the door and leapt out, landing on his good leg.
“Milord?”
“Quiet.” He motioned Masters back to the box and crept forward.
Hand braced on the iron rail, Anthony peered down. Moonlight glinted on metal.
“You might as well ’and it o’er.” The lanky footpad waved the knife in front of the young man’s frightened face. “We’ll get it soon enough when your brain’s turned to mash.”
The handsome visage crumpled. “I’ll get it. I swear I will.” He swiped at his swollen mouth. “Only I need more time.”
“Time’s run out, ducks.” The thug turned to his bullnecked accomplice. “Go to, Luke. Just see you save me enough o’ ’im to gut.”
“Aye, enough to gut.” The second man raised his bat.
With nowhere to run, the victim sank to his knees, arms raised to shield his head.
Anthony aimed his pistol skyward and fired. The two attackers froze.
The bat lowered. “Gorm! What was that?”
“A gunshot, you idiot,” snarled the man with the knife. “Let’s get out o’ ’ere.” He rushed the stairs.
Anthony ducked behind a post just as he gained the bridge.
“But I b’aint finished.” The remaining ruffian turned back to the huddled figure and hefted the club.
Christ, it would have to be the large one who stayed behind. With no time to reload, Anthony tossed the pistol and ran down the stairs, heels skittering on the slimy stone. Reaching the path, he launched himself forward.
The bully gasped. Turning, he swung blindly at Anthony’s head. Anthony darted to the side. The weapon swished past his left ear. Unbalanced, the big man careened forward. The bat thudded to the ground. Seizing his chance, Anthony smashed his knuckles into the flaccid belly. He took a bruising punch on his upper arm before landing a blow to his opponent’s jaw. Blood and saliva sloshed from the footpad’s slack mouth. He toppled backward into the black water, raising a fountain. Anthony waited. A low gurgling sound and the sluggish movement of heavy arms confirmed that he was progressing toward the opposite bank. Anthony hauled the young dandy to his feet.
“Christ, Reggie, can’t you be trusted to steer clear of trouble for a fortnight?”
The Honorable Reginald Tremont—known as Reggie to his family, friends, and creditors—grinned through his bruises.
“G-guess I should have g-gone with you to Sussex after all. Would have s-saved a perfectly good pair of t-trousers.” He cast a mournful glance downward to the muddied knees of his silk striped pantaloons.
“Not to mention saving me from nearly having my head bashed in.”
Stale alcohol oozed from Reggie’s pores much like the blood oozing from his split lip. Bending, Anthony hooked his future brothe
r-in-law’s arm over his neck and helped him to the carriage.
Masters, face white, opened the door to the compartment.
“Milord, are you all right? And the young master…?”
“We’re both fine, Masters. Just lend me a hand, will you? Tremont is drunk as David’s sow.”
“I’m not s-so very d-drunk.” Reggie allowed himself to be helped inside.
Anthony settled into the opposite seat and passed Reggie his handkerchief. “In that case, I’ll see you home.”
“Home!” Reggie paused in wiping away the blood, alarm cutting through his stupor. “If Mama were to see me like this, she’d…Well, I’d rather not think about what she’d do. Please, Anthony.”
Deciding that young Reggie had suffered enough for one night, Anthony relented.
Stripping off his torn glove, Anthony sucked his bloodied knuckles. “Very well. I’ll take you to White’s, but only if you promise to behave. One bout of fisticuffs an evening is all I can manage.”
“Your club?” Reggie brightened. “Capital plan!”
“On the way, you can explain what the devil that was about, and spare me your lies. Those two were professional bullies, and I gather they were hired by someone to whom you owe money.”
Reggie’s sheepish expression made him look even younger than his two-and-twenty years. The previous London Season had been his first, and he had delved into the epicurean indulgences of wine, women—and gaming—with the unbridled zest of a sheltered young man tasting freedom for the first time.
“The proprietor of that new gaming hell in Jermyn Street,” Reggie admitted after an awkward pause.
“I suspected as much.” How he reminds me of myself at his age. It was a herculean effort, but Anthony managed to compose his features into a stern mask. “Confess. How much are you in for?”
This time Reggie had the grace to hang his head. “Two hundred pounds, give or take a few quid.”
“Two hundred, hem. And I suppose you expect me to make you a loan?”
“Just until the next installment of my allowance.” Reggie looked up, blue-gray eyes beseeching. “I swear, I’ve learned my lesson. No more gaming. This time—definitely the last.”