Pale Moon Rider

by Marsha Canham

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Renée’s sense of reality took another swift, unsettling spin. The Surveyor of turnpikes? The man in charge of designing, laying, and overseeing the construction and repair of roads throughout the parish was the same man who took apparent delight in robbing the travelers who used them?

  The buzzing in her ears seemed to have grown louder as she turned to Roth. “I beg your pardon, m’sieur?”

  “I said: You mentioned you had errands to run today. Nothing too urgent, I trust?”

  “No.” She swallowed hard to clear her throat and sat a little straighter. “No, I—I had heard there was a fair in town today and thought Antoine would like to see it. He has not been feeling well these past few days and—”

  “And you were intending to go alone? Without an escort?”

  “Mrs. Pigeon would be with us. And Finn, of course.”

  “Of course.” Roth’s smile was slow to form. “I only ask because there has been another incident.”

  “A coach was waylaid on the Lutterworth turnpike early last evening,” Corporal Marlborough explained. “Some of the evidence indicates it may have been the work of Captain Starlight.”

  “May have been?” Roth arched a brow.

  The young officer flushed. “There is some room to doubt he was the true culprit. The robbery was particularly brutal in nature and did not follow the pattern of any of his former outings.”

  “In your opinion.”

  “In m—my opinion, yes sir.”

  “Which I do not recall soliciting.”

  Marlborough’s flush darkened and he sat stiffer in the chair.

  “He viciously pistol-whipped one of the passengers,” Roth continued, “and shot another outright in the leg. All for a meager profit of three guineas and a cheap cravat pin.”

  “How appalling,” Tyrone exclaimed. “Early evening, you say? Are we not even safe venturing forth for dinner or a social game of whist without having to fear being dented on the head?”

  “I have increased the patrols,” Roth assured him. “Moreover, my men have been ordered to challenge their own fathers should they be found out at night without a reasonable explanation.”

  “I was accosted last night myself,” Vincent grunted. “By a brigade of your overenthusiastic militiamen on the road to Berkswell.”

  “Barely a company of ten men,” Roth countered wanly, “who were merely doing their duty. Had you troubled yourself to inform me you had arrived in Coventry early, it might have spared you the inconvenience of being brought to headquarters, where I, as it happens, was already inundated with half a dozen gentlemen all proclaiming their innocence and outrage at being waylaid.”

  “If you think I am going to account to you for every damned waking moment I am in this farmer’s market”— his gaze followed Roth’s as it flicked in Renée’s direction and the hand he had been about to slam on the table was withdrawn—“you have a deal of re-thinking to do.”

  Roth only smiled. “Speaking of heads being dented”—he leaned forward and set a silver flask on the table in front of him—“you would not happen to know to whom this belongs, would you?”

  Renée called upon every last ounce of will she possessed to keep her expression blank. She was still feeling faint from the corporal’s revelation that there had been another robbery—a brutal robbery—last night and wondering how to discreetly tear the cravat pin out of her chemise and fling it on the floor before it burned a hole in her skin. She did not need to be confronted with the silver flask Finn had left behind at the Fox and Hound Inn after knocking Roth over the head with the candlestick.

  “If you do,” Roth was saying, “I should dearly like to return it to the owner with my compliments.”

  “No,” she murmured. “I am afraid I do not recognize it, m’sieur.”

  He tapped his badly gnawed fingertips on the silver and glanced thoughtfully in Antoine’s direction. “You boy? Do you recollect seeing it before?”

  Startled that someone should have noticed him sitting so quietly at the end of the table, Antoine’s clear blue eyes lifted from the object he had seen too many times to recount and gazed steadily back at the colonel.

  Stick pins under my fingernails and tear out my toenails and I would not tell you.

  “What did he say?” Roth looked politely at Renée.

  “He said no, m’sieur. It is not familiar to him.”

  “Well, blast me if it isn’t a fine piece of work,” Tyrone declared. He reached over and plucked the flask out of Roth’s hand, angling it into the sunlight to peer at the guild mark. “English made, I vow. Wickes … or possibly Netherton. Sure you didn’t win it in a game of chance, Colonel?”

  “I prefer to make my own luck, thank you, not rely on a toss of cards or dice.”

  “Pity, that. I fancy m’self quite the deft hand at trumps. But pray tell me you’ve not forgotten about the soiree this evening at Fairleigh Hall?” He glanced across the table at Renée. “I beg you say you will be attending, mam’selle, for I should so like to know there will be a friendly hand there I can rely upon to rescue me.”

  “Rescue you from what?” Vincent asked gruffly.

  “Well, it seems Lady Wooleridge is determined to pair me off with her daughter—you must know the one: she sports as fine a mustache as my great-uncle Horatio. At any rate, her dear mama—who is not so dreadfully shy of nasal fleece herself—seems to think if we stroll the gardens together it must result in breathless infatuation and an immediate betrothal.” He shuddered delicately and rolled his eyes. “Can you imagine?”

  Renée had not been aware of any invitation, and started to say as much, but her reply was cut short by Roth. “Indeed, Edgar was just telling me he was looking forward to sampling Lord Wooleridge’s cellar tonight. And to winning back the thousand guineas he lost the last time they played hazard together.”

  “Gad, yes.” Tyrone widened his eyes appreciably in Vincent’s direction. “His tables have been known to go on for days at a time. Thank heaven I have never acquired a fondness for dicing games, although,” he waffled his wrist as if he was shaking invisible cubes, “it does show off one’s cuffs to good effect.”

  Roth’s teeth ground together momentarily before he turned to Renée. “You needn’t worry that you will be held hostage at the Wooleridge estate until the dice have lost their spots. I doubt Edgar would expect you to endure much past, oh, midnight or thereabout.”

  Renée’s heart gave one last resounding beat before it quieted to a dull thud. So that was why they were here, she thought. To make sure she kept her rendezvous with Captain Starlight.

  She thought of her valise packed and ready for flight, and she remembered the fly she had seen that morning trapped against the windowpane, the open air and freedom within sight but impossible to reach. Foolish as it was, she felt a pang of guilt now for not having taken the time to open the window and let it out.

  “I should probably find Finn and tell him our plans have changed,” she said quietly.

  “Mmm.” Roth had to swallow a mouthful of hot tea before he could speak. “Let the boy go instead; he appears to be finished with his meal, and I’m certain our conversation will do little more than bore him. Marlborough may go with him. Take the boy outside and … show him the horses, or … whatever.”

  Antoine waited for his sister’s nod then quit the room with as much subtlety as a cat running from a bucketful of scalding water. The corporal rose at a much more sedate pace, obviously resenting the perfunctory dismissal. When he was gone and the door closed behind him, Hart sighed extravagantly.

  “I am still somewhat in the dark as to why I have been included in this early morning concourse. Surely—ha, ha—you do not envision me hoisting a petard and joining the hunt for this rogue Starbright? Dash me if I can even recall the last time I held a pistol, much less hoped to fire one.”

  “You prefer swords, do you?” Vincent asked dryly.

  “I agree the rapier is by far and away the gentlema
n’s weapon of choice. Alas, I cannot profess to any excess of skill m’self, more’s the pity.” A pained expression came over his face as he massaged his wrist. “An unfortunate breakage in childhood left me with a lamentable weakness in the bone. Still and all,” he added, brightening, “I attend fencing instruction every month to keep apprised of the latest techniques and style. Only last week Lord Cavendish claimed it to be strictly de rigueur to keep one’s waistcoat buttoned fully to the throat while dueling, and that the proper footwear must include no less than a three-inch cuff on the boot. There was quite a heated debate on that point. The gallery, m’self included, was clearly in favor of two.”

  Vincent shifted in his seat and shot another bristling glance in Roth’s direction, but the colonel only laughed.

  “Have no fear, Hart. The only assistance we require from you is in the form of your maps. I confess I would not even have thought of you had an aide not mentioned the repairs you made recently on the Birmingham turnpike.”

  “Augh, yes. A frightful mess that was too. Holes large enough to swallow a coach-and-four whole, but not a spare pence to be found for new gravel until the earl of Kenilworth put his teeth through his tongue driving along it one rainy Sunday. Suddenly, they were all a-froth to have the workers conscripted, the gravel hauled, and the pocks filled. Gad. I had to use convicts to supplement the work force. But m’ maps”—his powdered lashes swept down in a gesture of false modesty—“they are admittedly the best to be had anywhere and should tell you all that you desire to know, not only about the road, but the surrounding terrain. Had you permitted me to stop in at my office first, of course, they would have been here now and I there, but you insisted on rushing about”—he emphasized the words by waving his fork in a figure eight—“and thus I had to dispatch my man Dudley to fetch them.”

  “The cripple?” Vincent asked.

  “He has a slight limp,” Hart acknowledged, glaring down his nose. “Which in no way impedes his mental abilities. And if I do say so m’self, his artistic touches allow us to command the top prices for our designs and reproductions. You will not find a more meticulous eye or a more skilled hand for capturing the wonders of nature in paint and ink.”

  “I am counting on that, sir, for our goal is to capture Captain Starlight,” Roth declared. “To do this we have to know every copse of trees, every outcrop of rock, every potential hazard or hiding place ahead of time.”

  “Indeed.” Tyrone looked more interested in the apple he was dissecting, and Renée suffered through another wave of lightheadedness. Roth was once again two feet from his quarry, blithely unaware he was about to discuss how best to catch him unawares in a trap.

  “And where, might I inquire, were you anticipating this final denouement to take place?”

  “I cannot be specific,” Roth said, “but I would hazard to say—and you can lay a heavy wager on it if you like— he will be caught somewhere within the boundaries of this parish, before the fortnight is up.”

  “How intriguing. And how teasingly vague.”

  “Necessarily vague, I’m afraid. Any one of a score of places within a five-mile radius of Harwood House and a ten-mile radius of Coventry offer the perfect conditions for an ambuscade. What we need to know from your maps and your intimate knowledge of the area, is which ones he is most likely to favor, affording the best chance of success and the most avenues of escape.”

  “But why the deuce do you suppose he would attack a particular coach on a particular road, on any particular night? His success, as I understand it, is mainly due to his extremely annoying lack of predictability—is it not?”

  “I am confident his sense of greed will win out over caution this time. The bait we are offering up should prove to be too tempting to resist.”

  “Ah. I see. Well, of course,” Tyrone paused long enough to run his tongue along the inside of his cheek to dislodge a small piece of apple, “naturally I will do what I can to help. I shall try m’ very best to think like a nefarious highwayman.”

  “A strain, I realize,” Roth said, smiling again. “But perhaps if you approach it like more of a game—”

  “A game?” The powdered eyebrows shot upward and the buffed fingertips danced together with delight. “If I predict correctly, shall I win a prize?”

  Vincent cursed and scraped suddenly to his feet. “I’ll give you a prize, you bloody ponce! I’ll let you keep your teeth.” He tossed his linen napkin on the table and glared at Roth. “I want a word with you. In private.”

  “Can it not wait five more minutes?”

  “No. It can’t.”

  Roth watched him stride angrily out of the breakfast room then carefully set his fork and knife aside. “Forgive me. I suspect we are all suffering from a lack of sleep last night. This should not take long.”

  He did not look at all pleased as he took his leave, following Vincent out into the hallway. Not more than a second or two passed before the door was yanked shut behind them and angry footsteps could be heard echoing along the length of the wood floor. While the sounds grew fainter, neither Renée nor Tyrone moved so much as a muscle. His eyes remained fixed on the door; hers stayed fastened to his face, fascinated to watch his features ease out of their pinched affectations. A clock nearby ticked off the seconds it took for her to rouse the ability to speak, and when she did, the words came out strained, cracking with anger and amazement.

  “I cannot believe your audacity, m’sieur,” she hissed. “Coming here like this. Posing as the Surveyor of turnpikes. Has no one guessed?”

  “No one in the past four years since I purchased the appointment,” he admitted grimly. “And it was not my idea to come here today, mam’selle. I had barely made it home through my back door when they were pounding at the front. I lost another five years of my life when the coach turned into your lane, for they did not tell me ahead of time where we were bound and by the time I guessed, it was too late to do anything without raising any suspicions. I am”—he paused for emphasis—“truly sorry, Renée. If I could have spared you this, I would have. Although I must confess, you did very well. Better than me, I warrant, since I fear I have sweated rings down past my breeches.”

  “I could have fainted dead away. Or screamed. Or given you up a hundred different ways.”

  “But you didn’t,” he murmured. “You were very brave and I find myself with a desperate craving to kiss you right now.”

  She looked at him in horror. “You must not say such things. Or even think them. It is difficult enough sitting here looking at you and knowing …” She swallowed a small gasp and squeezed her lashes tightly shut.

  “I meant what I said, Renée. I had no way of warning you.” He waited a moment, and when she still had not opened her eyes he edged forward slightly. “Courage, ma petite. You are not going to faint on me now, are you?”

  She opened her eyes and looked at him. Sunlight was striking the side of his face, making the ridiculous carousel of rolled curls glow like a bubbled halo, but all she saw was a mad, reckless fool who did not have the sense or sensibility to be frightened. She tried to draw a deep breath, but her corset was binding, the sun was hot, and the room stifling. Any air to be had was stale with the smell of cooked mutton and pooling grease.

  “Did you rob that coach last night?”

  His face hardened a moment. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Did you do it?”

  “You mean, did I pistol-whip one man, shoot another, then come here and make love to you all night? I would have to be a pretty cold-blooded bastard to do that, don’t you think?”

  Her hand was pressed against her bodice, the fingers splayed like a pale star over the blue velvet. The cravat pin was biting into the tender flesh of her breast and she could not think at all.

  He was suddenly standing, towering over her. “Come. Walk with me.”

  “Wh—here?”

  “Anywhere; it doesn’t matter.”

  He did not give her the opportunity to balk as he tucked a hand benea
th her elbow and levered her firmly to her feet.

  Once out of the sickly yellow glare of the breakfast room, the air was noticeably cooler and less cloying, and Renée was able to hold a breath long enough to bring some color back into her cheeks. Tyrone’s supporting hand remained rigid under her arm as they walked along the hallway, his long strides forcing her to take two steps for every one of his.

  Halfway along the corridor he steered her toward a set of closed doors and after a quick glance in both directions, ushered her inside. Renée opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a forefinger, cautioning her to silence until he quickly assured himself there was no clear view into the room from the terrace outside or gardens below. Satisfied they could not be seen by any prying eyes, he retraced his steps to where Renée stood trembling by the door, and with the softest of muttered oaths, crowded her gently up against the wall, took her face between his hands, and kissed her.

  “Pretend it is a game, by God?” Vincent’s boots made angry crunching sounds on the gravel drive as he approached his carriage. “That bloody ponce has enough difficulty pretending he is a man!”

  Roth paused a moment at the door of the coach, then climbed the step and joined Vincent inside. It was an enormous berline built for comfort, made of black mahogany, its surfaces varnished to a mirror gleam. Large enough to travel six, the seats were padded leather and sank pleasantly beneath his weight. There were windows on each side panel as well as the doors, making the interior as bright as the grounds outside and as Roth watched, Vincent leaned forward and pushed a hidden clasp beneath the lip of the seat opposite them. A wooden panel slid open to reveal a cupboard containing gold-rimmed glasses and a bottle.

  “Cognac,” Vincent grunted. “New shipment in last week. The real stuff, straight from France. Strong as hell and just as necessary if I am not to smash that bloody fool to pulp the next time he flutters at me.”