Pale Moon Rider

by Marsha Canham

  “I shall endeavor to keep him at a safe distance,” Roth mused. “But you must also promise not to commit any violent acts, at least until he has served his purpose. Delicious,” he agreed, sampling the liquor. “Trust the Frenchies not to let anything so trivial as seven years of revolution deter them from making the finest spirits this side of sin.”

  Vincent swallowed the brandy then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The girl looks nervous. Are you sure she is going to hold up?”

  “She will do just fine. She loves her brother very much.”

  Vincent’s lip curled at the corner. “I still don’t see why you wouldn’t let me bring in some of my people. A few broken bones, a few twisted titties, and we would not only find this Captain Starlight, but we would have the pleasure of dealing with him ourselves instead of having to hand him off to the courts.”

  Roth glared at Vincent, finding it a drain on his patience to have to explain yet again why a private manhunt, complete with broken bones and twisted body parts would only draw unwanted attention to themselves.

  “You will still have your chance to slit his throat and knot his tongue into a cravat, if that is the vengeance you crave. But in the meantime, we have a militia three hundred strong at our disposal and the righteous indignation of the wealthy citizens of Warwickshire to help us flush this rogue from his lair and bring him to justice.”

  “Your brand of justice, maybe,” Vincent muttered. “But there isn’t another bastard within five hundred miles stupid enough to rob me and think he can live to laugh about it.”

  “Well, this one is still living and thriving five months after he undoubtedly laughed himself all the way home. Bound up in red ribbons, indeed. I won’t even hazard a guess as to which head you were thinking with when you thought to dally naked in a coach with a whore or to lavish jewels upon her.”

  Vincent drained his glass and poured himself a second. “I wasn’t lavishing. I was merely amusing her with a few trinkets.”

  “Yes, and to this day, I am still amused, still wondering why our property was not safely locked away”—he tipped his head to indicate the hidden compartment—“where a man with several hours on his hands would never have found them, let alone a road thief with minutes to spare at most.”

  “I had made the trip before and never met with any trouble.”

  “Next you are going to tell me you have never met a whore like Doris Riley, either?”

  Vincent looked him straight in the eye. “Frankly, no. I haven’t. Given the right incentive, she could suck the skin off a green apple.”

  “A commendable talent, I am sure. Had I known an avid pair of lips could make such short work of your common sense, I would have found another way of transporting our goods out of London. Now we are short nearly ten thousand pounds’ worth of gems and jewelry, and you sit there with a lewd grin on your face reminiscing about green apples.”

  Vincent’s ham-like fist closed around the brandy glass, looking for all the world like he would have liked to smash it into Roth’s face, and for a moment, the colonel’s amber eyes glittered, hoping the arrogant oaf would give him an excuse to draw his sword. Vincent was not quite that stupid, however, and Roth was almost disappointed when the glass went to the thick lips instead and shot back the contents.

  “I gather you have not heard from any of your contacts about anyone attempting to sell any more of the gems Starlight stole from you that night?”

  Vincent shook his head. “There are so many damned Frenchmen pawning their family heirlooms these days it is difficult to keep track of who is selling what, but no; nothing else has turned up apart from the one necklace, and we were lucky at that. Starlight appears to be rather well-connected himself.”

  “And clever,” Roth mused. “He has probably broken most of the settings down by now; if that is the case, he could sell the jewels one at a time as the need warranted and live comfortably on the profits for years.”

  “If that is the case,” Vincent muttered, “no one would be able to trace the stones back to us or connect them to the unclaimed treasures of dead aristocrats.”

  “In most instances, I would agree, and for that we can be somewhat grateful. But eventually, Starlight will have to find buyers for the bigger pieces, and when he does—”

  “The thefts will still be traced back to him,” Vincent argued. “He will take the blame, not us.”

  “No,” Roth murmured with disdain. “Not us. Not unless—and until—he tries to hawk a certain brooch that belongs to a certain suite of rubies that half of London saw you string around your fiancée’s neck.”

  “I had no idea at the time—”

  “You had no idea, period. You acted without thinking in another moment of flagrant, misguided braggadocio, the ultimate example of which—dare I call it inept lunacy—was to present your fiancée with jewels she and half the displaced émigrés in England would readily recognize as having once been the property of the late Duc de Blois.” Roth glanced sidelong at Vincent. “Did you bring them?”

  Vincent set his empty glass aside and leaned forward again, feeling behind the alcove that had held the bottle for a second catch concealed at the back of the cupboard. When it sprang open, he reached inside and withdrew a blue velvet case. A flick of one blunt-tipped finger released the tiny gold hasp, and as he lifted the lid, the light fell on a glittering bed of rubies and diamonds.

  Roth’s reptilian eyes widened in appreciation. The necklace was displayed in the center of the box around a mound of more crushed velvet. Seven rows of rubies, each circled by a ring of tiny diamonds, were strung on gold wire, the links of which had been fashioned to resemble overlapping scales. Each row of stones was progressively larger and heavier than the one above, descending to a deep vee in front where a single ruby the size of a robin’s egg hung suspended from what looked like the jaws of a dragon. Earrings were pinned to the velvet above the necklace and a matching bejeweled bracelet was tacked across the bottom.

  “Exquisite,” Roth breathed. “Truly priceless.”

  Vincent only chuckled. “If you think so, then you reveal your own ignorance, Roth, for these gems are only worth about … oh, a hundred guineas or so, all told.”

  Roth glanced at him sharply. “What do you mean? These are the Dragon’s Blood rubies, are they not?”

  Instead of answering, Vincent fished beneath his coat to an inside pocket, and a moment later held up an unmounted gemstone.

  Setting it on the floor of the coach, he struck it hard with the heel of his boot and ground the residue beneath three, four twists. When he moved his foot, the “ruby” had disintegrated into a coarse pink powder.

  “Glass,” he announced smugly. “On their own, they pass well enough, but next to the genuine stones, they look as real as red carbuncles.” When he saw the look on Roth’s face his lip curled up at the corner. “Surely you didn’t think I was going to put the real suite at risk?”

  “But you were, of course, going to tell me.”

  “I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” He snatched up the bottle and poured himself another healthy portion of brandy.

  “You might have told me before,”

  “And spoil the surprise? What difference would it have made anyway? You weren’t planning to steal them for yourself, were you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. What need would I have to steal a single set of jewels that I dare swear I could never reveal in public anyway—or sell in private—without waking up one morning to find a fish hook through my spine?” He paused a moment to regain his composure and offered a wan smile. “And the real stones?”

  Vincent pursed his lips and swirled the brandy around his glass. He tilted his head to indicate the compartment beneath the seat, and this time it was Roth who leaned forward and reached inside, withdrawing a second, identical square case, this one in black velvet. He sat back and balanced it on his knee while he unsnapped the clasp and lifted the lid.

  The three pieces were identical to the fir
st suite with the exception that these stones, when he tilted the box to catch the sunlight, came alive. The diamonds threw sparklets of reflected light onto the ceiling and walls of the coach, while the rubies glittered in every hue and intensity of red imaginable. He laid the box flat a moment and snatched up the first set of jewels, holding them side by side, angling them this way and that, noting the now-obvious differences.

  “Like I said,” Vincent used his glass to point to the fakes. “They will hold up on their own. And if anyone cares to look close enough, the Jew who made them for me even duplicated the patterns in the gold scales.”

  “Amazing,” Roth murmured, looking from one suite to the other. “They are perfect. Almost too perfect. But by God, this could prove to be an exceptional stroke of good luck. Only last week Paxton was caterwauling in a panic because he had heard someone was making inquiries. An agent for the French government, a man by the name of Dupardier had heard a rumor that the Dragon’s Blood suite had surfaced in London.”

  “Well, we have the fake gems to display now.”

  “Indeed, and if anyone asks to examine them, we will encourage them to do so to their heart’s content.”

  Vincent grimaced. “Is that why you summoned me here like a stableyard lackey? On the off chance that someone in this”—he searched for the appropriately derogatory words—“blazing hotbed of society will come at us with a quizzing glass and an overabundance of curiosity?”

  “I summoned you here,” Roth said tersely, “because I have only just discovered that we have another problem.” Vincent sighed. “What now?”

  “Well, as you can appreciate, when Dupardier started asking questions, I thought it prudent to make some of my own inquiries and it seems the estimated value the Jew gave you for the rubies was somewhat in error.”

  “In error? How?”

  “Apparently he did not take into account the long and somewhat illustrious history of the jewels or the family dynasty to which they belonged. Sold individually, the bracelet, necklace, earrings, and brooch would indeed fetch a combined sum of perhaps forty or fifty thousand pounds. Sold as a complete suite however”—he paused and gave his head a small shake of disbelief—“I have been told it could easily bring four times that amount.”

  “Two hundred thousand pounds?” Vincent’s brows crushed together in a frown. “For a few strings of rubies?”

  “Ahh, but it seems these are not just any rubies, dear fellow; evidently they date back to the Crusades. The unmounted stones were captured in the fall of Jerusalem and presented to Eleanor of Aquitaine by her son, Richard the Lionheart. They were eventually given to her champion, a dark knight of some repute, in payment for a lifetime of loyal service. The knight then bequeathed them to one of his sons, Eduard FitzRandwulf de Blois, who eventually had them fashioned into the suite you possess today.”

  “So they’re old, is that what you’re telling me?”

  Roth’s fine rack of teeth made a disdainful appearance. “They were called the Dragon’s Blood suite after some dark family secret, lost to the ages, but they are considered to be one of France’s most important treasures because of the pearl.”

  “The pearl?” Vincent’s frown deepened as he looked into both boxes, seeing only rubies and diamonds.

  “It was mounted in the brooch,” Roth explained patiently. “It was a gift from Aquitaine to her granddaughter, Eleanor of Brittany, who in turn presented it as a token of gratitude and affection to the same Eduard FitzRandwulf de Blois after he staged a daring rescue to save her from certain death at the hands of her uncle, King John. There is a further rumor concerning a son born to Eleanor of Brittany, who eventually married one of the de Blois offspring, but—”

  “You are losing me quickly, Roth. Is there a point to all of this?”

  “The point is that the value lies solely with the one piece, and more specifically, with the pearl, named after the princess—the Pearl of Brittany. It is, I am told, of such a unique color and size, there is no other like it and without the brooch to prove the provenance of the suite we might just as well have a boxful of pretty glass.”

  Vincent’s frown deepened. “I don’t even remember seeing the damned thing.”

  “I do. It was quite exquisite.”

  Vincent blew out a brandy-soaked breath. “So now you’re saying we not only have to catch this bloody highwayman, we have to find the brooch?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And if he refuses to cooperate, or he tells us he has already disposed of it?”

  “Then we shall give him two hundred thousand slow, painful reasons to regret he ever crossed our path.”

  Vincent pondered this a moment before he reached down and pulled a thin, razor sharp knife from a sheath secreted in the top of his boot. “It will be my pleasure,” he grinned, “to filet the bastard like a fish, layer by layer until he is a mass of screaming jelly. He will end up telling us things we never wanted to know.”

  Roth, who had seen his companion’s handiwork on more than one occasion, offered up another wan smile. “Yes, well, keep the blade well honed because I made the same promise to Paxton if he attempts to double-cross us again.”

  Vincent chuckled and returned the knife to its sheath. “I would have thought you, of all people, would have considered greed to be one of the stronger virtues in a man.”

  “Greed, yes. Stupidity no, although I am surprised his spine turned out to be stiff enough to try cutting us out of the d’Orlôns fortune.”

  “Could be he just turned sentimental on us,” Vincent snorted derisively, “thinking they were all dead. I wager you could have blown him over with a feather when his poor dead sister’s children appeared on his doorstep.”

  “It was a full year’s work convincing the Duc d’Orlôns and his sons to trust our network of couriers. And with what he finally put into our vaults, we could have lived like kings the rest of our natural lives. We still can if you do your part and put a brat in her belly right away.”

  Vincent spread his hands. “I shall give it my best effort, you may be sure. But what if the brat is a girl?”

  “You can drown her, like a kitten, and try again. We need our own legitimate heir and the sooner the better. I don’t trust Paxton to keep to his end of the deal, not when he has already tried once to cut us out.”

  “It’s a good thing you found those papers in his office.”

  Roth nodded. “If he had successfully applied to make himself the boy’s legal guardian, he would have had sole control over the estate until the boy came of age. When I confronted him with it, the bulbous bastard actually found the ballocks to say he saw no reason why he should have to share with us anyway, since he was, as his dead sister’s only living relative, the legitimate trustee. I tell you”—Roth clenched his jaw at the memory—“he is lucky I did not put the bullet through his ear instead of just taking off the lobe. Lucky for him as well that I was content—for the time being, anyway—just to see him piss himself yellow and beg for mercy.”

  “Unlucky for the boy to have come running into the library when he did.”

  “On the contrary, if we had not found a use for him, he would be long dead by now. This way, the boy shouldered the blame for the shooting and the girl proved willing to do whatever it took to keep him out of gaol. Even marry you,” he added sardonically, “despite the lingering odor of the waterfront that clings to you. Once you have your own legitimate heir, however, all three of them become expendable. The treasure in the vaults will be discovered and the lineage traced to the fruit of your loins”—he raised his glass in a mock toast—“grandson to the late, lamented Sebastien d’Anton and the newest little Duc d’Orlôns.”

  Vincent frowned. “You said all three?”

  Roth glared at him. “Good God. You are not going soft on me as well, are you?”

  “She is a very beautiful woman. I could be content taking her to my bed every night.”

  “You will be bored within the month. Ladies of the nobility are not
inclined to get down on all fours or suffer splinters in the back from being slammed up against a stable wall. And I warrant the only thing she knows to do with an apple is eat it. Of course, you could always use a little gentle persuasion on her, but bruises tend to attract unwanted gossip.”

  “You would know this firsthand, of course. What was that woman’s name, now? Angelina? Ernestina? Was there even enough left of her face for a proper identification when you got finished with her?”

  Roth’s eyes glowered a warning. “That was ten years ago, and she was a whore.”

  “It was seven years ago and she was the daughter of a prominent magistrate. You are forgetting, Roth, I know all of your dirty secrets. I even know where some of the bodies are buried—the ones who couldn’t quite bear up to your demands.”

  Roth flushed as red as the rubies and Vincent was about to laugh at his own wit when the soft crunch of gravel outside the window forestalled any movement or sound from either man. Roth, with his hand already curling around the hilt of his sword, reacted first. He was on his feet and out of the door before Vincent could heave himself off the seat, and by the time he did, the colonel already had the point of his blade against the throat of a man pinned to the side of the coach.

  “Who the devil is he and why is he sneaking around like a cur?”

  “I was just about to ask the same question,” Roth said on a snarl, edging his blade upward, forcing the man up on tiptoes.

  “Weren’t doin’ nothing’, sar. Weren’t sneakin’ no-wheres neither. Were just walkin’ up to the ’ouse, is all.”

  “Do I know you?” Roth demanded, his eyes screwing down to slits.

  “Th—the name’s Dudley, sar. Robert Dudley. Mister Tyrone, sar, ’ee said as ’ow I were to fetch ’is maps an’ bring ’em ’ere, an’ fetch ’em I ’ave. Right ’ere, sar, see?” He fumbled to point at a bulging leather pouch slung over his hip. “Tied my ’orse to the post, I did, an’ were just tryin’ to walk past quiet-like is all. I ’eard voices, ye see, an’ didn’t want to disturb no one.”