Pale Moon Rider

by Marsha Canham

She imagined that the only time such a vulgar brigand could have spent in any parlor or ballroom was if he had robbed the inhabitants. She had all but resigned herself to yet another failure when the figure of the second highwayman had emerged from the darkness and mist. Her heart had vaulted clear up into her throat, and the sight of him—all black shadows, black clothing, black beast—had very nearly caused her knees to buckle with fright. She had known who he was without having to ask for confirmation of his identity as the phantom Captain Starlight.

  Yet it was no phantom who had led her to a canny vantage point above the mist, and no phantom who had listened with amused curiosity to her proposal. He had been careful to keep his back against the moonlight so that what little of his face was exposed was kept constantly in shadow. Only once had she caught the faintest impression of a bold, straight nose and dark eyebrows, an impression that could fit a thousand men without betraying a clue to their identities.

  He had kept his voice deliberately low as well, revealing nothing beyond its deep and mellow resonance. His words bore no distinctive accent—though she would hardly be the one to admit to any expertise in that regard—nor had he identified himself in any other way. He seemed taller than the average man, but that could have been credited to the combined effect of the standing collar and tricorn. Even the greatcoat he wore had disguised his frame insofar as she could not say if he was broad or lean, muscled or soft.

  Muscled, she decided. And lean, like the body of a jungle cat she had seen once in the zoo at Versailles. Everything about him, in fact, reminded her of some sleek, dangerous beast who kept to the shadows and struck without warning. Finn had related some of the stories he had overheard the servants telling, and it was said le capitaine could shoot the button off a coat at a hundred paces. Once, when he had been challenged by a master swordsman, he had left the hapless duelist gasping on his knees for mercy. He was cautious, deliberate, vigilant, and perceptive. He appeared and disappeared without so much as a swirl of mist to mark his presence, and sometimes—if the stories were to be believed—on nights when the moon was very high and bright, he could be seen galloping along the crest of a distant hill, laughing at the ineptitude of the soldiers he had left far behind.

  A shiver sent her nestling deeper into the corner of the coach, and she realized she had not paid heed to any passing landmarks. Careful not to lose hold of the lap robe, she reached up and tapped on the roof, and almost at once, a panel in the rear of the driver’s box slid open.

  “Mad’moiselle?”

  “Are we nearly at the crossroads, Finn?”

  “It should be just over the next rise.”

  “Vraiment” she said softly, “I am so cold, my toes are like blocks of ice.”

  “Harwood House is but another half hour away. If you would prefer to go directly home—”

  “No, Finn. No, in even such a short time, I fear my toes and fingers might snap off and my courage desert me altogether. A few moments by a warm fire, and I shall be fine.”

  He snorted, muttering something about headstrong foolishness, and before the panel slid shut, she could hear the cracking of the whip overhead to spur the horses to greater speed.

  The posting house that sat at the crossroads was an old timber and plaster building, with gabled overhangs defining the upper storeys and a steeply sloped thatch roof mounting clusters of brick chimneys. Slits of light glowed through the front window shutters, but it still required the impatient stamping of Finn’s boots on the wooden floor to bring a round-faced woman bustling out of a back room to greet them. The inn catered primarily to travelers who sought relief from the bone-rattling roughness of the turnpikes. There was also a scattering of locals who chose the Fox and Hound both for its isolation and for the discretion of the innkeeper, and it was apparent, by the way the woman cast a sly glance along Renée’s cloaked and hooded figure, she expected her to fit the latter category.

  “M’ lady is chilled,” Finn said in his most imperious manner, attempting to discourage the impression at once. “She requires something restorative to drink, preferably warm, as well as a few moments’ respite by the fire, if it can be arranged.”

  The woman raised the three pronged candelabra she was holding and inspected Finn’s face as well as his livery. When the smoky light flickered over Renée’s features, the woman clucked her tongue.

  “Lud,” she muttered. “You do look blue as a bruise, child. Come on through then, and I’ll put you as near the fire as you can get without charring. As for you,” she noted Finn’s red nose and purpling ears, “you can go through to the kitchen and our Violet will fix you up with a bowl of hot broth.”

  Finn looked guardedly at Renée. “I would prefer not to leave you on your own, mad’moiselle.”

  “It is all right, Finn,” Renée said wearily. “I will call if I need you.”

  “Are you quite certain?” He had lowered his voice and deepened his frown. “I am not the least comfortable with the surroundings.”

  Renée managed a weak smile. “I will be fine, Finn. Go and warm yourself. We will not be here any longer than necessary.”

  Grudgingly, he relinquished her into the proprietress’s care, and Renée was led through a stout oak archway into the parlor, a large room paneled with oak sheets and dominated by a huge wooden fireplace along one wall. Half of the room obviously served as a taproom, the other had groupings of small tables and chairs where customers could dine or simply converse in private. Apart from a solitary gentleman who sat in a corner reading a copy of the Coventry Mercury, the room was empty. Renée might not have noticed him at all had the light beside him not reflected off his shock of red hair, making it seem to burn as brightly as the candle flame.

  The innkeeper identified herself as Mrs. Ogilvie and pointed to a wooden settle positioned directly in front of the hearth. “Can’t get you any closer, m’lady, unless you’d care to sit inside the chimney corner.”

  “This is fine,” Renée replied as she sat.

  “I’ll return in a moment, m’lady. We takes proper care of our guests, as you’ll see.”

  Staring at the flames in the hearth and stretching her toes as close to the heat as she dared, Renée tried to control the fresh onslaught of butterflies that were rolling around in her belly. But there were just too many, and then Mrs. Ogilvie was bustling beside her, placing a cup of wine and a plate of cheese and bread on a small table. Nodding her thanks, Renée cradled the pewter goblet in both hands and took slow, measured sips hoping the spicy drink would kindle some warmth in the rest of her body. She had not removed either her cloak or her hood, and in short order, her face was rosy from the heat, and the dew-soaked toes of her shoes were beginning to steam faintly.

  A shadow approached the side of the settle and startled Renée into looking up.

  “Might I be permitted to refill your cup, my dear?”

  The red-haired gentleman was holding out his hand and, without waiting for her answer, took her goblet and filled it from the tankard of wine that had been hooked over the grate to keep warm.

  He cut an elegantly lean silhouette as he bent over the fire. His breeches were skin tight, while his jacket was tailored high in front to show the rich brocading of his waistcoat beneath. The collar was fashionably high, with deep lapels folded down in front to accentuate the multiple layers of a pleated white cravat that had been arranged to flatter the sharp, angular lines of his face. His hair, more orange than red this close to the brighter firelight, was plaited into a neat tail in back with two precisely rolled curls left to sit over each ear.

  He topped up his own glass and, careful to lift the long swallow tails of his jacket aside, joined her in the high-backed wooden cocoon of the settle.

  He saw where her gaze was fixed and smiled. “Ah, yes. I had forgotten … you have never had occasion to meet me out of uniform before, have you? And in truth, I find the regimental wigs rather more of an affectation than a statement of fashion.”

  Amber-colored eyes more suited to
a bird of prey than an officer in King George’s Royal Horse glittered with reflections of the firelight as he studied her profile. “Your driver had no difficulty finding the inn?”

  “No,” she said quietly. “None.”

  “I know it is a little farther out of the way than the last one, but I prefer to err on the side of caution.”

  Renée took a sip of wine and the hawk-like eyes slid down to the small bead of wetness that lingered on her lower lip.

  “To be seen meeting too many times in the same place would surely give rise to gossip and speculation,” he added. “Neither of which would suit our purposes.”

  Watching her face, he leaned back against the settle and steepled his fingers together under his chin. “Am I left to conclude by your apparent lack of enthusiasm that our little … venture … was once again unsuccessful?”

  Renée tried to keep the loathing out of her eyes as she turned, finally, to face him.

  “As it happens,” she said softly, “we were stopped not five miles from here.”

  For an entire minute he did not move, did not betray a reaction. Someone more intimately acquainted with the facial nuances of Colonel Bertrand Roth might have noticed the thin rim of white that began to glow around his nostrils, or the tiny blue vein that rose and began to throb in his temple. To Renée, it seemed as though he hardly troubled himself to blink.

  After a moment, he slowly leaned forward, forcing the words out through his teeth. “Are you certain it was him? Are you certain it was Starlight?”

  Renée’s focus shifted from his face to his hands where they had dropped to grip the caps of his knees like claws. She concluded he must have passed several nerve-wracking hours waiting here at the inn, for his nails had all been chewed down past the quick; the left thumb was savaged so badly, a drop of fresh blood was being squeezed from the torn flesh.

  “It was Captain Starlight,” she said. “I am quite certain.”

  “Quite certain? I remind you, there have been more than a few enterprising fellows taking to the roads these days thinking a gun and a black horse will cause their victims to throw money at them in terror.”

  “It was le capitaine. And I am absolutely certain because I spoke to him.”

  “You spoke to the bastard!”

  “Was that not what I was supposed to do, m’sieur?” she asked angrily. “Was that not the purpose for this entire masquerade?”

  Roth settled himself back against the riser of the bench and clasped his hands beneath his chin again, ignoring her question for a more pressing one of his own. “Did you see his face?”

  “No. He had his collar well up and his hat well down. He was all in black and …”

  “Yes … and?”

  “And—” she hesitated, thinking Roth would not want to hear that the highwayman was bold and dashing. “He was extremely careful, m’sieur, that I should not see more than what he wanted me to see.”

  “Not very enterprising of you, my dear. I had hoped for a little more ingenuity on your part.”

  “What would you have me do, Colonel? Reach up and remove his hat, turn his face to the light, and demand his name?”

  Roth pursed his lips. “So. You spoke to him. And you told him … what?”

  “Exactly what I was supposed to tell him: that I wanted to hire him.”

  “And?” The glowing whiteness where he pressed the pads of his fingertips together belied the almost nonchalant tone of his voice. “He didn’t think it an odd request?”

  “He thought it very odd indeed. He wanted to know why I should want to do such a thing.”

  “Were you convincing? Did he believe your explanation?”

  A flush crept into her cheeks. “Why should he not have believed me? It was the truth, for the most part. I am being forced into a marriage not of my choosing; I am being used like a pawn in a game of terrible consequences and if I refuse to do either of these things—”

  “If you refuse, Mademoiselle d’Anton,” he interjected, “your brother will be taken before the King’s Bench and put on trial for attempted murder.”

  Renée’s anger, her rage, her hatred for Roth at that moment rose like a lump in her throat and threatened to choke her.

  “Antoine did not attempt to murder Lord Paxton.”

  “He was found kneeling over your uncle’s body. The gun was in his hand, the barrel was still hot and smoking. My God, woman, you were there, you saw it.”

  “I heard the shot and I ran to see what had happened, but whoever shot Lord Paxton had already fled through the back door. Antoine was—”

  “Holding the gun above the earl’s head, likely preparing to make amends for his poor aim.”

  “He was moving the gun out of the way, trying to see if Lord Paxton was still alive.”

  “Indeed, head wounds do tend to bleed like the devil. Which is why they can be so deceiving … and undoubtedly disappointing to someone who would have only had a chance to make one clean shot.”

  “Antoine did not shoot him,” she said, closing her eyes against the weight of her frustration. “There was someone else in the room.”

  “Is that what he told you in his inimitably quaint way?”

  She opened her eyes again and reacted with unblinking disbelief to Roth’s casually vicious remark. No, Antoine had not told her anything, not in the conventional sense of the word. Antoine had not been able to speak a single word or make the smallest sound since the day they had fled Paris. Roth knew this. He knew it and his eyes glittered with pleasure at the pain his cruel words caused.

  “He is only a boy,” she said softly. “He is not yet fourteen years old.”

  “English law is quite strict in its penalties for attempted murder, regardless of the age of the accused. He could be imprisoned for the rest of his natural life or transported to penal labor colonies in Australia. Or he could be hung. He could also be set free, Mademoiselle d’Anton, dependent entirely upon Lord Paxton’s generous nature.”

  “Which will improve considerably if I agree to help you capture Captain Starlight?” she asked in a whisper.

  “A small enough price to pay, I should think.”

  “If you have never been betrayed, I suppose it would be considered a small thing.”

  “Oh, come now. You cannot compare the illustrious Captain Starlight’s position to that of the political eradications in France. He is a thief and a cold-blooded murderer, with no uncertainties whatsoever regarding either charge. He is destined to swing from a gibbet, regardless of whether you assist in his arrest or not. For him, there is no choice, no possible salvation. On the other hand, your brother …” He shrugged meaningfully. “As you say, he is only a boy. He has his entire life ahead of him. A life you can make easy for him … or very, very difficult.”

  Renée regarded him the way she might look at something repugnant on the bottom of her shoe. He quite literally made her skin crawl, which it did now as he leaned forward and blinked once, very deliberately, like a reptile.

  “You might also want to take into consideration the part I have played in all this,” he recommended softly, running the tip of one spidery finger along the sleeve of her cloak. “Why, if I hadn’t been in London the evening of the … incident … there might not have been a calmer head present to prevail over Paxton’s anger. Your brother might have been hauled away upon the instant to a rat-infested cell in Newgate instead of the comparative luxury of your uncle’s estate here in Coventry.”

  “He is still watched, day and night, by your men, by the servants. He cannot set foot outside the door without someone questioning his intentions. Or following him.”

  “For his own protection, I assure you.”

  “For your convenience, you mean. What good is a hostage if he cannot be taken upon the instant?”

  The bony finger finished its lazy meandering along her arm and curled upward again to rest under his own chin. His face was only inches from hers, close enough for her to smell the pomade he used on his hair, and close
enough for her to see the top layer of dried skin on his lips crack as he smiled. The smile itself was an artificial and postured display of too many teeth crammed into too small a mouth; it made her think of a picket fence with all the stakes toppled together.

  Roth noted where her gaze lingered and he leaned even closer, emboldened by her apparent interest. “With the weather so unpredictable these days, I took the liberty of arranging a room for myself overnight. We … could have a private supper sent up and … discuss how we might be of further help to one another in the future.”

  It was not the first time he had made an overture, nor was he the first man coarse enough to suggest she use her body to win favors. Renée had come to realize, in fact, that being French, she was commonly expected to be a harlot, or at the very least, a woman not fettered by any moral inhibitions. She was not unaware of her own beauty, but had come to regard it as more of a curse than a blessing, especially when men three times older than herself pushed her into corners and offered her trinkets for a lusty fumble under the stairs. Or when clearly repugnant reptiles thought there might be a feather’s chance in a windstorm that she would willingly accompany him to a private supper in a cheap tavern.

  “Colonel,” she murmured in her very best harlot’s voice, “if I thought for one second I could keep the contents of my stomach intact while I played whore for an Englishman, I would just as easily have sold myself for the glorious procreation of Robespierre bastards.”

  Roth stared. The laugh started low in his throat, and because it was so seldom the product of genuine mirth, it sounded more like a harsh, grating bark when it left his lips.

  “You have wit, my dear, and the true pride of the ancien régime. I imagine some men admire those qualities in a woman, although I would have thought someone in your position would be inclined to show a tad more humility—unless, of course, you have grown fond of the sound of whispers behind your back and the sight of villagers who spit in the streets as you pass.”

  Renée felt a surge of warmth in her cheeks that had nothing to do with her proximity to the fire. The inhabitants of Coventry held no love for French émigrés. Most of the villagers had sent a husband or a brother across the Channel to fight in a war that had too many uncomfortable similarities to the embarrassing loss they had suffered at the hands of the American colonists. If the French wanted to abolish the monarchy, if they wanted to do away with the greed and corruption of the aristocracy and put the government into the hands of the people, who were they to interfere? Why should English common folk have to send their men to fight and die in a foreign land when their own nation was ruled by a king who was given to fits of madness and the major portion of the wealth was in the hands of the ruling nobility, as it always had been. The villagers did not understand why, if their country was at war with France, there were so many French nobles seeking asylum, and more important, why these émigrés had full bellies and warm beds while they still went barefoot and ate crusts.