Pale Moon Rider

by Marsha Canham

  “I say again, a blind Scotsman from Glasgow? What did they expect he was out to steal? Lamp oil?”

  Roth forced a polite smile. “My men are still under strict orders to arrest anyone who has no good reason for being out alone on the roads late at night.”

  “Yaas, well, dash me if I can see why should it matter to a blind man what time of the day or night he travels.” The cool gray eyes sought Renée. “A very great pleasure to see you again, Miss d’Anton. Might I say”—he executed a formal bow over her hand then raised her fingers and pressed them to his lips—“I find m’self agreeing with the corporal. I vow I have quite lost m’ appetite in light of such a glittering feast for the eyes.”

  It should not have surprised her that he was there. Nothing about Tyrone Hart should have surprised her, least of all that he would come to her house bold as brass, taunt the man who had shot him, and openly admire the jewels he had been formerly hired to steal. The fact he was admiring them caused her to take an involuntary step back and pull her hand out of his with more force than was intended. A rough link of gold snagged on the extravagant fountain of lace on his cuff and the ruby bracelet became entangled, a situation which allowed him to catch her hand in his and hold it tighter than before.

  “Allow me,” he said, raising her hand and angling it into the light that he might locate the errant link.

  Beside them, Vincent started to step angrily forward, but Roth halted the movement with a quick frown. He watched Tyrone closely, his eyes narrowing when the bewigged and powdered fop continued to turn the bracelet and examine the rubies after they were released.

  “Positively exquisite, m’ dear,” he pronounced. “Yet their beauty does you no justice.”

  A slow, smug smile curled Roth’s lip as he met Vincent’s gaze again, but there was only confusion in Renée’s as she reclaimed her hand and stared wordlessly up at Hart.

  The fact she had spent all day worrying about him, wondering if he had made it safely to Coventry, if his wound had caused him pain on the ride home, or if the boat had overturned and he had drowned … none of that had probably occurred to him. Nor would it follow that he would be the slightest bit aware that each time she looked at him she would see the gloriously naked lover she had assumed she had bid her final farewells to in the tower room last night.

  “If you gentlemen will excuse me,” she murmured, “I—I should see if my aunt and uncle are looking for me.”

  She whirled away before any of them had a chance to object and made her way numbly along the hallway, barely able to see where she was going through the pressure squeezing on her temples. At the entrance to the drawing room she realized her aunt and uncle were the last people she wanted to see at that moment, and she veered away before she reached the door. She kept walking, her shoulders stiff, her hands held rigid by her sides. She did not know where she was going until she found herself inside the music conservatory with her back pressed against the wall and her eyes closed tight against the emotions swirling inside her. Thankfully the room was empty. Chairs were arranged in a semi-circle facing the piano, suggesting there would be entertainment later in the evening, but for the time being she was alone.

  She stood in the shadows, gulping at deep lungfuls of air to calm herself, and was not aware of anyone beside her until she heard the door click shut behind him.

  “Are you mad,” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  “We have, I believe, already established the fragile nature of my sanity,” Tyrone said. “And as it happens, I was invited. A card was waiting for me when I arrived home, requesting the pleasure of my company to help celebrate the marriage of Lord and Lady Paxton’s niece to a London fishmonger. It did not say the fishmonger part, of course. A mild embellishment on my part, but—”

  “Tyrone—”

  “Ah, you remember my name!”

  “Your wound—!”

  “My wound only hurts when I laugh—which I have not had much occasion to do today. On the contrary, I have been scowling a great deal, shouting at Robbie and the servants, kicking occasional pieces of furniture—”

  “What if someone comes in?”

  “If they do, we will be standing here in rapt awe, admiring”—he looked above their heads and saw a particularly uninspired oil of a woman playing a lute—“this. It rather begs for comment, do you not agree? The artist must have painted it while taking poison and suffering cramps.”

  She raised her hand, resting it briefly over the cold breastplate of rubies, but finding no comfort there, let it slip down by her side again. “You could have refused the invitation.”

  “To be honest, mam’selle, I almost did. It is a cold and damp night and you are probably right: I should be at home in a warm bed with a hot snifter of buttered brandy.”

  “Then wh—why are you here?”

  His jaw clenched grimly. “I am here to rescue you, of course. Is that not what all heroes are supposed to do?”

  “Rescue me?” she whispered.

  “Noblesse oblige. The obligation of the nobility, is that not what they call it?”

  “You are not of the nobility,” she reminded him through a tremor. “You have no obligations to me or anyone else.”

  “True enough,” he admitted. “There isn’t an ounce of noble blood in me, nor do I harbor any vast admiration for the principles of honor unto death or the battlecry of the doomed: l’audace, toujours l’audace! But alas, you seem determined to make of me more than what I am, so”—he spread his hands and shrugged—“I am come to offer my services, common though they may be.”

  His perceived mockery was cruel and she turned away. “I do not want or need your help, m’sieur.”

  “No? You were planning to steal the rubies all by yourself? Pack them up in a bag and heigh away with a thirteen-year-old boy who can’t speak to defend himself and a sixty-year-old manservant who creaks when he walks? Just how far do you think you would get? And what do you think those two vultures out there would do to you when they got you back?”

  Tears shivered brightly along her lashes as she stared up at him. “Is that why you are here, m’sieur? Because of the rubies?”

  “If it were just the rubies, mam’selle” he said bluntly, “I could take them now and be long gone before Roth or your fiancé were able to revive you enough to tell them what happened. And if you still don’t believe me, leave the damned things behind. It might be a good idea anyway, to make greedy bastards less inclined to chase after you. The choice is yours, however. I honestly do not care.”

  The truth of what he was saying was in his eyes, but her emotions were no better off for knowing it.

  “What do you want from me?” she cried softly. “What more do you want from me?”

  “Nothing. Or maybe everything. I don’t know. We can work that out later.”

  “Later … ?”

  It was a query with consequences Tyrone did not want to think about now and he waved it away. “Robbie is bringing a boat; he will be waiting in the base of the tower at midnight. The water in the river is still high and the current is moving fairly swiftly; we could be in Coventry in under a half hour. I know I am not much of an alternative for Finn’s expertise, or even a preferred alternative, but I can get you out of Coventry, out of England, too, if that is what you want. It is the least I can do. I”—he hesitated, as if the words were teeth and he was extracting them one by one with rusted pincers—“owe you that much for saving my life. You have to understand, however, this is a new and somewhat singular position I find myself in—owing someone, that is. But despite what I may be and what you may think of me, I do pay my debts.”

  “Is that the only reason?” she asked quietly. “Because you feel you owe me a debt of gratitude?”

  “No. But it is the only one I can make sense of at the moment.”

  She continued to stare up at him, her eyes soft enough, dark enough to make him sigh and brush the backs of his fingers down the curve of her cheek.

  “Wi
ll it make you happier to know I am here with you because I cannot bear the thought of being somewhere else without you?” His fingers stopped at her chin and tipped her face up, holding it there while he kissed her. Neither one of them closed their eyes during the brief contact, and only Tyrone was able to manage a smile when he broke away.

  “You might come to my rescue here and say something before I make a complete fool of myself.”

  “What if you are caught helping us?”

  “I won’t be caught. And neither will you so long as you can endure the company of these pompous fools for another six hours without telling them all to go to hell. Do you think you can do that?”

  “If you will first do one small thing for me,” she whispered.

  “I am yours to command,” he said, spreading his hands wide.

  The invitation was there and she took it, leaning forward with a small half sob to bury her face against his chest. His arms remained spread in surprise for all of two seconds before they wrapped around her, holding her tight enough and close enough for her to feel the pounding of his heart against hers.

  “Is this what you wanted?” he murmured.

  She nodded and Tyrone felt a flush of icy prickles shiver down his spine. She had not laughed at his arrogant declaration that neither one of them would get caught, and he wished he felt as confident as he sounded. It was a new and uncomfortable position to find himself in, being suddenly responsible for three other lives, and he wasn’t entirely certain he was suited to the task.

  The urge he had, in fact, was just to fling her over his shoulder and carry her to safety now, and in an effort to dampen it, he eased her gently to arms’ length.

  “Come now. Not even very bad art inspires a red nose and runny eyes. You don’t want to make me regret my noble impulses, do you?”

  A faint sniffle had him fishing in the delicate lace of his cuff a moment before producing a folded linen handkerchief. He opened it with a soft snap and carefully blotted the wetness that spiked her lashes.

  “What must I do?” she asked.

  “Tell Finn and Antoine to be ready by midnight. If you’re late getting to the tower …” He paused and waited until he saw the sudden flare of panic in her eyes. “We will wait.” He laughed and kissed her lightly on the tip of her nose. “I came here determined not to leave without you, mam’selle, and be damned, I will not, even if I have to cross swords with every man here.”

  “Mon dieu, do not even joke about such a thing.”

  “At best it would be a joke,” he said wryly, “for I have not drawn a blade in several months.”

  He noted the returning threat of tears in her eyes and backed away, tugging on his waistcoat and jacket to smooth the wrinkles, plumping out the folds of his cravat, insuring his wig was seated firmly in place. By the time he was finished Renée looked composed again, although there was a radiant new flush in her cheeks that he wagered a blind Scotsman from Glasgow could not help but see.

  He suggested she leave the conservatory first, and after giving her sufficient time to rejoin the other guests, he clasped his hands behind his back and sauntered out into the hallway as if he had just spent an utterly boring ten minutes studying an insipid rendition of a lute.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  At ten minutes past midnight, Renée excused herself, promising to return as soon as she had seen Antoine to bed. It was the first opportunity that had presented itself and as they hurried along the hallway, her heart was pounding and her feet felt weighted in lead. Finn had been pressed into helping the servants serve a late supper and see to the guests’ needs. He had seen her leave and had exchanged a subtle nod to assure her he would not be too far behind.

  Antoine walked nervously at her side. At first Renée had debated not alarming him ahead of time, for he was usually so quiet and withdrawn at these “family” affairs, any hint of excitement in his face or manner might draw a suspicious eye. But it was clear to her, as soon as she saw him following Tyrone’s every move, that he would have to be told, if only to remove suspicion from Hart. It had proved to be the right choice in the end. He had all but ignored the Surveyor of turnpikes through dinner and no one observing him would have cause to think him anything but bored with the tedious, polite conversations that surrounded him.

  Tyrone, on the other hand, sat with the Misses Ruth and Phoebe Entwistle and whatever they were discussing drew gales of laughter from the nearby guests, including Corporal Marlborough. For once, the officer seemed to be distracted from his usual intense study of Renée’s profile, and by the conclusion of the meal, he seemed hardly aware of her at all. Oddly enough, the glances began to go the other way. Renée would catch herself leaning forward to reach her wineglass or select a morsel of food from a platter, and her eyes would travel along the table to where Tyrone seemed to be enjoying his role as company wag altogether too well and appeared to be listening rather intently to anything Miss Ruth Entwistle had to say. Once, when she was caught spying, she saw a corner of Tyrone’s mouth twitch as if to chide her for her fickle thoughts. The impression did not diminish when the pale gray eyes reminded her—she had no idea how—that she had herself suggested there were more qualities to Miss Entwistle than appeared on the surface. He then went on to stare pointedly at the rubies, in particular the teardrop pendant that hung between her breasts, and by the time his gaze wandered lazily back to her face, she required the use of her fan to cool her cheeks.

  The same subtleness could not be applied to Edgar Vincent’s surly glares. He sat across the table from Renée, draining his wineglass as soon as it was filled, glowering at her in unbroken spans of two or three minutes’ duration before a comment would force him to break contact and respond to the intrusion. And on the same occasion she happened to need her fan, he stared deliberately down the table at Tyrone then back again, making certain she knew he had observed the exchange.

  When the last course was cleared, Lady Penelope Paxton led the ladies away to refresh themselves while the men enjoyed their porter and brandy. Afterward there was entertainment in the music room, a number of guests were called upon to play the piano forte and still others to accompany them in song. There were card tables set up in the drawing room—commerce and whist—as well as tables for checkers and billiards in the game room. Renée could rouse no interest in any of the planned activities. She was conscious of the stares the other women sent her way, most of them directed at the gaudy display of rubies. Their opinions were being confirmed, no doubt, on why the penniless Française was willing to marry so far beneath her class.

  What would they think, she had wondered, if they knew in whose bed, in whose arms she was willingly and happily prepared to go? A thief. A brigand slated as gallows-bait. A road hawk who had likely held his guns on the very people who sat laughing at his jokes, amused by his rolling eyes and wafting wrists.

  Ten o’clock crawled by, then eleven, and by then Renée had worn a fair-sized hole in the corner of the handkerchief Tyrone had pressed into her hand. The worst abuse had come when her uncle had called for attention and proposed a toast to the future bride and groom; she had been forced to allow Vincent to kiss her on the cheek, and afterward, she had scrubbed the spot red.

  With the supper cleared away, some of the guests departed. Those who had traveled longer distances had come prepared to spend the night and so were in no hurry to find their beds. They returned to their conversations and their games, while Renée listened to the chimes tolling midnight in the hall clock and excused herself to see to Antoine.

  “You will have to be quick,” she told him outside his bedroom door. “Finn should be up in a moment or two to help you change into warmer clothes.”

  She kissed him on the forehead and ruffled his hair, which earned her a wide grin and a soundless question.

  Do you like le capitaine?

  “Yes. Yes, I like him very much.”

  I think he likes you too. He said you were sous sa peau.

  “Under his skin?” />
  Here. He scratched vigorously at the nape of his neck. He says he always knows when you are close by.

  “Or he could simply have a rash.” Renée turned him and gave him a little push into his chamber. “Hurry now. Stay here until I come for you, and open the door to no one but me or Finn.”

  She hurried across the hall and ran straight for the dressing room. She retrieved her valise from the corner cupboard and pulled garments off the shelves, throwing them haphazardly in the case as she dragged it toward the door. She scooped her combs and brushes on top, along with the sandalwood box containing her powders and perfumes. Back in the main room, she felt beneath the bedclothes for the mended tear in the mattress. The few stitches she had used to refasten it came apart at the first yank and she withdrew the small canvas sack that contained, among her other treasures, the pearl brooch that completed the Dragon’s Blood suite.

  Seeing it, she reached around and worked the clasp of the necklace free. The bracelet and earrings were removed and all of the pieces returned to the velvet jewelry box. The box went into the valise and, after a last quick look around, she drew her cloak around her shoulders and headed for the door, reaching it just as a discreet knock sounded on the wood.

  “Finn! Thank goodness,”

  She swung the door open and gasped.

  Edgar Vincent was standing there, a bottle of wine in one hand, two glasses in the other. For all of the two seconds they stared at each other in surprise, a smile remained on his thick lips. But then he noticed the valise and the cloak, and his eyes, in contrast to her wide and horrified ones, narrowed down to two glittering slits.

  “Going somewhere, my dear?”

  Shocked, Renée stumbled back a step. A dozen lies went through her head, none of them remotely plausible enough to explain where she would be going this time of night.

  “Here I was hoping we might finish the conversation we had started earlier in the evening.” He held up the bottle and glasses. “I thought we could have a private toast to a long and fruitful marriage, but I see that perhaps the toast as well as the thought might be a little premature.”