Pale Moon Rider

by Marsha Canham

  Up to that moment, she had forgotten the velvet-wrapped bundle she clutched in her hand. Thrown against the spokes, she reached out to save herself from the fall and the bundle went flying out of her fingers, landing in the gravel at her feet. The velvet had not been bound tightly around the brooch, and she stared in horror at the winking sparks of the serpent’s bright eyes where they glittered in the pool of lantern light.

  The next instant, Roth was spinning her again, shoving her back against the coach. His hand was under her chin, his fingers were digging into her throat, and his face was close enough to spray hers with spittle as he spoke.

  “I believe I warned you once before about testing the limits of my patience.”

  She tensed her body in anticipation of another blow and was convinced it would have come had they both not been distracted by the rumble of approaching hoofbeats. Within moments, a full patrol of dragoons emerged from the darkness behind them and halted abruptly enough to cloud the road with rolls of dust.

  Roth leaned forward and hissed at her one last time. “We are not finished with this conversation, madam. Not by a far cry.”

  He thrust her aside and stepped back just as Corporal Marlborough dismounted beside them and offered a smart salute.

  “We heard shots and came at once, sir. Good God … your face!” He started forward, but a glare from the amber eyes stopped him cold. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Fine, blast you. Did you see him?”

  “No, sir. We were less than a quarter mile back and saw no one. Was it him? Was it Captain Starlight?”

  “It was him,” Roth said, staring over the officer’s shoulder.

  Renée, pressed against the spoke of the wheel, edged her toe forward so that the hem of her skirt smothered the sparkle of the brooch. She dragged it back, careful not to look down or to draw the attention of any of the dragoons, but she needn’t have worried; most of them were waiting for Roth to speak again.

  “Are the rest of the men in position?”

  “Aye, sir.” Marlborough nodded curtly. “As per your orders, there are pickets set up every fifty yards from the crossroads forward, encompassing a two square mile perimeter. A flea could not pass through the line without us knowing it.”

  Roth’s grin, stained red with blood, was pure malice. “So much for the wisdom and advantage of choosing flat terrain. Remember, I want him alive. Wound him if you have to bring him to ground, but I want the bastard alive!”

  He walked to the closest dragoon and without preamble, reached up and pulled the man out of the saddle. “I want you, Marlborough, and four men to escort Miss d’Anton back to Harwood House. You are to remain there, alert and on guard, until further notice. As for you, my dear,” he swung himself up on the horse and turned to glare down at Renée, “be assured we will continue our discussion when this is over.”

  He offered a brusque, insolent bow and jerked the reins around. A shout started the horses racing away in another boil of dust, into the same darkness that had swallowed the fleeing highwayman.

  Corporal Marlborough, his shoulders easing slightly out of their enforced stiffness, looked decidedly uncomfortable when he glanced at Renée. She took a step toward the broken door of the coach, seemed to stumble a moment, but when the young officer rushed forward to assist, she straightened and glared away his offer of help.

  “I am quite all right,” she said coldly, tucking her own hand beneath the folds of her cloak. “It was just a pebble under my shoe.”

  As cold as Renée had been on her way to the rendezvous, she was twice as chilled on the seemingly endless ride to Harwood House, not the least because of the shattered coach door. She had nearly fainted before boarding the coach, certain Marlborough had seen her retrieve and conceal the brooch. Her jaw ached where Roth had struck her, and while it came as no surprise that he was an animal and a brute, it was still a shocking blow to what few shreds remained of her composure. She had never, in all her twenty years, been struck or manhandled and Roth had done it twice now. She had no reason to doubt he would do it again, or to doubt Tyrone Hart’s warning that if Roth suspected her of double-crossing him, she would see a side of him that would make his previous acts of brutality look mild by comparison.

  When the coach rolled to a halt in front of Harwood House, Finn was there, lantern in hand, waiting anxiously to greet her. From the look of utter and abject mortification on his face, she guessed he had been almost beside himself with guilt, and worry. From the wide gash on his temple, she assumed he had not agreed to the substitution peacefully.

  “Mad’moiselle, I had no idea—” he began.

  “It is all right, Finn. It is over and done, and everything is all right. Where is Antoine?”

  “In his room, asleep. I thought it best not to worry him unnecessarily.”

  She nodded, grateful for at least one small mercy, and started toward the door.

  “Miss d’Anton—?”

  She stopped and stiffened but did no more than tilt her head to acknowledge Corporal Marlborough’s address.

  The young officer moved haltingly forward, daunted as much by the small, square shoulders as he was by the threat of murder on Finn’s face. “I … would just like to say that I—I am sorry if you were inconvenienced in any way tonight. I disagree wholeheartedly with Colonel Roth’s methods. He is not representative of His Majesty’s government and—and if you were insulted in any way or if he said or did anything untoward, I swear on my sword and on my family’s honor …”

  Renée whirled on him so unexpectedly, it was a wonder he did not damage himself snapping to attention. She said nothing, however. There was nothing she could say, either to express the full measure of the contempt she was feeling or to alleviate the young corporal’s indignation.

  Finn did so with a righteous sniff as he turned and followed Renée into the house. He took the lead when they reached the stairs, exchanging the lamp for a candelabra as they walked down the long corridor to the east wing. Without waiting to be asked, he lit additional candles in her room and added another fat log to the fire blazing in the hearth.

  Only then, when it was bright enough to see the dried streaking of tears on her cheeks, did he notice and dare to question the fine drops of blood on the front of her cloak.

  “It … is not yours, is it mad’moiselle?”

  Her eyes required a moment to focus. “Pardon?”

  He pointed tentatively to the blood. “Not yours?”

  She looked down as if seeing the droplets for the first time. "No, not mine."

  The whisper was more unnerving than the sight of the blood, and Finn quickly assisted her out of the cloak and bade her sit by the fire. He fetched a glass of wine from the sideboard and forced it into her chilled fingers.

  “I can only hazard a guess as to what happened after that insufferable Colonel Roth had me manhandled to a back room.”

  “He took your place,” she said quietly. “He wore your coat and a gray wig. Even I thought it was you, and le capitaine … he would have had but a brief glimpse and assumed it to be you as well.”

  Finn’s upper lip twitched. “We should have anticipated something like this. Roth is definitely not a gentleman, not in any sense of the word.” He paused discreetly to refill the glass. “And the captain?”

  “We were talking, and—and he must have seen something, for the next thing I knew he was pushing me aside and drawing his guns, and—and …” She looked up into the craggy old face. “He must have thought you were attempting to defend my honor, for I do not think he aimed his shots to kill, not at first. But then you … Roth … fired again, and he—he …”

  “Assumed, perhaps, that it was not your honor I was attempting to defend, but rather the reward of two thousand pounds I was hoping to gain?”

  She swallowed hard and nodded. “The look on his face in that last moment … it was very terrible to see.”

  “Dear me.” Finn straightened and ran a finger around his collar to loosen it. “I ca
n well imagine. Lucky for both of us, then, that he is dead.”

  Her head jerked up. “The capitaine is dead? How do you know this?”

  “Did you not just say he had a—a ’last moment.’ ”

  “Oui, before he called to his horse and rode away.”

  “He rode away?”

  “Oui. He fired his guns and forced Roth to duck behind the coach, then called his horse and escaped.” Her shoulders sagged forward again. “Of course, I do not know how far he went, for Roth had men waiting all around the fields. They seemed quite confident he would not be able to get past them.”

  “Then that should teach you not to put too much stock in the British army,” said a voice from behind them. “They were equally confident they could defeat Napoleon in Flanders and look what happened.”

  Finn jumped, sloshing wine out of the decanter as he spun around. Renée dropped her goblet on the floor, scarcely able to believe her eyes as the door to the dressing room was nudged open by a tall black boot and Tyrone Hart stood facing them, the twin snaphaunces primed and cocked in his hands.

  “M’sieur!” She gasped and leaped to her feet. “What are you doing here? How did you get past the soldiers?”

  “I am sorry to see you have lost all faith in me, mam’selle. Or did you think I would be so distracted by your sincerity and innocence that I would fail to take the simplest precautions?”

  She did not know what to say. The multiple collars of his greatcoat were folded back, the closure itself flung wide to reveal the silver-gray waistcoat and loosened jabot of frothing lace he had worn so primly at the soiree tonight. His face had been wiped hastily clean of cosmetics, but the swarthy, sun-bronzed complexion only served to emphasize the overall menace in the squared jaw and pale, blazing eyes. Once before Renée had compared him to a jungle-cat and the image was even stronger now, only this time, the jungle-cat was on the loose and in a full rage.

  “I did not betray you, m’sieur,” she whispered. “Neither Finn nor I knew what Roth was planning to do tonight; you must believe that.”

  Dark, thickly lashed eyes held hers for a moment, then flicked to the elderly valet. When they focused on the gash in his temple, Finn touched it gingerly with a forefinger and scowled.

  “Mad’moiselle speaks the truth, sir. I was silenced and brought back here without so much as a by-your-leave.”

  Tyrone glared a moment longer then aimed one of the snaphaunces at the decanter in Finn’s hand. “Is there another glass?”

  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

  “Why have you come here?” Renée asked again. “There are soldiers downstairs and likely to be more on the way when Roth discovers you have escaped his trap.”

  Tyrone cast a stony glance in her direction. “He could not set a trap to catch himself. And I came here, mam’selle … to have another taste of Lord Paxton’s fine wine. If you object to my company, you need only scream to bring young Marlborough here at a run.”

  She blanched at his sarcasm but did not back down from his steady gaze. His face was glistening with sweat and as she watched, a slick, fat bead ran from his temple to the collar of his coat. Where his hair curled forward over his brow and cheeks, it formed damp black corkscrews against the bronzed skin.

  “Mad’moiselle—” Finn hastened to rid himself of the decanter just as Tyrone’s legs started to buckle beneath him. “I do believe he’s about to—”

  He caught the highwayman high under the arms as Tyrone pitched forward. A groan that sounded as if it came from the bottom of Hart’s belly lasted until the wiry valet managed to ease his bulk to a less painful landing on the floor. The guns clattered to either side and the pale eyes rolled back until only the whites were showing.

  “Finn?” Renée rushed forward. “What is it? What is wrong?”

  “Oh dear gracious me.”

  The valet moved to one side as Renée knelt beside him. He pulled open the upper lapel of the greatcoat, showing her the huge red stain that had soaked most of the lower half of the silver waistcoat.

  “I fear he has been shot, mad’moiselle.”

  “Shot!”

  “Indeed.” He leaned over the unmoving body and thrust a gnarled finger through a hole in the front of the waistcoat. He ran his hand around behind the bloodied silk, removing it a moment later, his fingers smeared red. “I can feel a second hole, suggesting the bullet has passed cleanly through.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Do?” Finn stared at his hand, then at the highwayman again. “Well, I suppose we should attempt to staunch the flow of blood first. He seems to be leaking rather a great deal.”

  Renée ran into the dressing room and gathered up all the towels and linens she could find. Finn placed a thick wadding over the front of the oozing wound, but when he sought to do the same to the back, the bulk of the greatcoat hindered him.

  “We shall have to get him undressed—remove the coat, anyway.”

  While he worked to free Tyrone’s arms from the heavy woolen garment, Renée stripped the counterpane and blankets on her bed and tossed most of the pillows aside.

  “I would hasten to offer a word of caution, mad’moiselle,” Finn advised, not even looking up. “While I realize the servants are by no means the epitome of efficiency, it would not do for one of them to accidentally stumble upon an injured man in your bed. Indeed, it would not do to find him anywhere in the house at all.”

  “You are not suggesting we turn him out the window!”

  “I doubt he would survive the fall,” Finn remarked dryly. “At the same time, we cannot leave him here. If we knew how the blazes he got past the guards! Have you any scissors? He was jostled quite enough in removing the outer garment; I shall have to cut away the rest to save him giving up another pint of blood.”

  To judge by the quantity soaking his clothes and beginning to seep onto the floor, it did not look to Renée as if he had another pint to spare. She fetched the scissors and watched anxiously as Finn sliced through the elegant silk waistcoat and fine linen shirt beneath. A bright bubble of fresh blood welled up in the candlelight and in an attempt to keep her stomach from rebelling against the sight of the blackened, ravaged flesh, she focused her attention elsewhere—on his face as it happened. Where his hair had fallen away from his brow she could see a fine rim of white following his hairline, chalking the dark roots in places where the hairs extended too far down onto his forehead. He must have left the party shortly after she did and raced like the wind to make the rendezvous on time.

  Remembering something else, she reached awkwardly under the hem of her gown and removed the velvet-wrapped bundle from where she had tucked it into the top of her stocking. She unwrapped the brooch and cradled it in the palm of her hand, her gaze blurring as she realized he had taken this terrible risk just to give her her freedom.

  “Dear foolish m’sieur Hart,” she whispered.

  “Luckily, no. The shot missed the heart, mad’moiselle, though I warrant not by much.”

  She blinked and looked up. “Non. Hart is his name. M’sieur Tyrone Hart.”

  Finn’s eyes widened out of their creases. “Surely not the same Mr. Tyrone Hart who was here today with the colonel and Mr. Vincent? I only had a brief glimpse, but nonetheless—”

  “Regardez. Imagine a powdered wig and white face paint. Put lace at his throat and a foolish pout on his lips and … voilà! He plays the perfect fool to make fools of them all! And look what he has given me tonight!” She held out her hand and uncurled her fingers, letting the soft luster of the pearl shine in the firelight. “He gave it to me so we could sell it and have enough money to sail away to America.”

  “How extraordinary,” Finn murmured.

  “That is why we cannot let Roth’s men find him. We cannot. We must hide him and keep him safe until he is well enough to look out for himself.”

  “Hide him, mad’moiselle?” Finn was shocked. “Keep him safe until he is well? Do you have any idea what that would entail? The man nee
ds a doctor. Even if we stop the flow of blood, the wound requires stitching and dressing. And then there is the small matter of your own safety, and Antoine’s.”

  “I have thought of little else these past few weeks,” she said softly. “But I cannot run away now and leave him here to die.”

  “Are you forgetting your uncle is due to arrive shortly? He will be bringing guests and more servants.”

  She dismissed it with a small shake. “They will all be kept too busy in the family wing to trouble themselves over us. There are four perfectly good rooms at the end of our hall that no one would think to use—”

  “You cannot rely on that, child.”

  Renée sat back on her heels. “Then he will stay here and I will lock the door and claim I have caught the plague.”

  Finn sighed wearily but knew there was no point in arguing. He cast a sullen eye around the bedroom, thought of his own, thought of the small storage closet at the end of the corridor, but dismissed them all as not being completely safe from unwanted intrusions. He looked down at the highwayman again and suspected his concerns were quite possibly premature. The rogue would likely be dead by morning anyway and the dilemma they would be facing then would be how best to dispose of the body.

  A sudden, startling crack of thunder had both Finn and Renée jumping and staring at the window. Fat, glistening drops of rain began to splatter against the glass but they barely had time to recover their wits from the one shock when a second, equally ominous pounding began to rattle the bedroom door.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Robert Dudley did not start to worry until the chimes on the library clock tolled five times. He had dozed off in front of the fire, a glass of brandy in his hand, and wakened with a start, dropping the glass and its remaining contents on the hearth. With a muttered curse, he noticed the time. Then, with a hasty glance at the empty desk behind him, realized he was alone.

  Tyrone’s town house was an unremarkable three-storey building located at the outermost end of the socially acceptable district of Coventry. The decor and furnishings on the first two levels were suited to a bachelor who preferred to take his entertainment away from home. The library was cluttered with books and maps and drawing boards; an adjoining parlor was slightly more presentable, but lacking any personal tastes or touches. Visitors to #33 Priory Lane saw nothing to suggest Tyrone Hart was anything but a bored public servant who worked at overseeing the maintenance and repair of local transportation routes.