Pale Moon Rider

by Marsha Canham

  “Mmm.” Roth pondered it a moment, then waved his cigar in a circular motion. “And what guarantee will I have that you will not simply steal the jewels back once you have the old man?”

  “You will have my word on it.”

  Roth chuckled. “You’re right: it is rather amusing. But even so, I still have a problem. I still need to hang someone for the crime of murder. And if it isn’t the old man, or the girl, or the mute … who else is there to step forward and take the blame? Who else might have been in the room at the time of the killing? Who else might have collaborated with the girl to rob her fiancé of a fortune in jewels? Who else might write out a confession and use it—along with the aforementioned return of stolen goods—not only to buy but to guarantee the freedom and future welfare of three innocent people?”

  “No doubt you have someone in mind?”

  “The capture and conviction of the infamous Captain Starlight would certainly add a singular feather to my cap, so to speak. Moreover, you have become somewhat of a personal challenge,” Roth conceded.

  “If it is a personal challenge you want, I would be more than happy to oblige.”

  “A duel? A fight to the death? You and me, with the victor taking all the spoils?” Roth tipped his head back and laughed. “How refreshing! A common thief with pretensions of being a gentleman! The insult alone makes the offer tempting, and I promise I shall give it some thought with regards to the method of your death. In the matter of saving Mr. Finn’s life, however, the time for playing games is over. You have my terms. Return of my property, a full confession, and yourself, presented without arms or deception of any kind. Once you have met those conditions, the old man will be released, set free and unharmed to whoever chooses to claim him.”

  After several moments of throbbing silence, Roth risked turning his head a fraction of an inch. There were only two candles alight in the room, neither of which were strong enough to reveal more than a figure in a black greatcoat, raised collar, and tricorn.

  “You must agree,” he mused, “it would make for a splendidly noble sacrifice, all things considered.”

  “Even for a common thief?”

  “Especially for a common thief. Think of the lore the name of Captain Starlight will garner down through the ages. Why, you might even come to rival that other fox … what was his name? Turpin?”

  There was movement in the shadows and a heartbeat later Roth found himself staring into the double barrels of the gleaming over-and-under snaphaunces. The colonel held his breath. He was confronting his enemy up close for the first time and he did not miss an inch of the awesome sight, from the fully extended arms and broad shoulders, to the raised collar and black-edged tricorn. He was a magnificent creature, even to the glittering stare that had been said to freeze a man’s bones to the marrow.

  “I am not in the habit of making sacrifices, Roth. Noble or otherwise.”

  “How unfortunate for Mr. Finnerty,” the colonel rasped. “For those are my terms. My only terms. And they are nonnegotiable.”

  One by one, a black gloved thumb cocked the four hammers, revealing four primed firing pans and four full loads ready to be shot simultaneously, capable of delivering enough power to obliterate most of Roth’s upper body.

  “If they are so nonnegotiable, perhaps you can tell me why I don’t kill you right now.”

  “Because if you kill me now, the old man will hang at noon tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “We have a full written confession, remember. The magistrate need only sign it. What is more, if you kill me now, the warrants for theft and accomplice to murder will remain outstanding against Mademoiselle d’Anton and her brother. Every port, harbor, and ship will be searched, every road patroled, every one of Vincent’s waterfront mongrels given the scent and told to find her. Moreover, every agent of the French government will be informed of the theft of the Dragon’s Blood suite; that alone would put the hunters on her trail like flies on shit. She would be running and hiding for the rest of her life.”

  Tyrone’s fingers squeezed a shade tighter around the front triggers. “I am sure you have been told this many times before,” he hissed, “but you are quite the rare bastard.”

  Roth savored the piquant rush of power, growing almost lightheaded with the strength of his erection.

  “Oddly enough, though, I never tire of hearing it. I expect you will want some time to contemplate your answer? I should not wait much past eleven o’clock tomorrow morning to deliver it, if I were you. After that, it might prove awkward to delay the proceedings. Now, if you don’t mind”—he gave way to the weight of his eyelids as he sank deeper into the water—“I would like to finish my bath.”

  “I don’t mind at all. And if you don’t hear from me by ten o’clock tomorrow morning, you can take this as my answer.”

  Roth glanced up in time to see the blur of one of the flintlocks swing hard and sharp across his face. The barrel caught him high on the same cheek marked with the barely healed slash from their last encounter. The force of the blow split the flesh open to the bone and sprayed a fan of blood across the wall behind him. His head whipped to the side, knocking solidly on the rim of the tub, dazing him long enough for Tyrone to unlock the door and stride out into the darkened hallway.

  Roth had dropped both the cigar and the glass of brandy into the tub. He tried to lever himself up, but he had been soaking for over half an hour and the calluses on his feet were spongy. He slipped on the metal and went under, spluttering and choking out a scream as the soapy water swirled into the open wound on his face. When he lunged upright, the plastered red streaks of his hair were bleeding into the dark red streaks of blood that ran down his neck and he screamed again, in rage this time—rage for the man he vowed to kill with his own bare hands.

  “You did what?”

  “I pissed Roth off,” Tyrone said, shedding his greatcoat in a swirl of black wool. It landed in a heap by the door of the library, followed a few angry paces later by the tricorn, the gloves and lastly the two guns, slammed down on the top of the desk. “Then I robbed a coach on the way home. Here”—he tossed a small canvas pouch beside the guns—“fourteen shillings and a gold ring. A rippingly satisfying night all around, wouldn’t you say?”

  Dudley was not all that surprised to hear that Tyrone’s meeting with Roth had gone more or less as anticipated. He was, however, mildly alarmed to hear about the unscheduled robbery. “May I ask what inspired you to take such a risk?”

  “That’s what I do, remember? I take risks. I put on my hat and my coat and my gloves”—he pointed contemptuously to each garment in turn—“and I wait in the shadows until some unsuspecting fool rides by. I sleep with loaded guns by my bed and I spend nights crouched in ditches while patrols of dragoons search the woods for me. I spit in the eye of danger and laugh at the hand of fate, and by God … I love it! I really do!”

  “I can see that.” Dudley pursed his lips and clasped his hands behind his back. “You want to tell me what happened?”

  “What happened?” Tyrone halted in the middle of pouring himself a hefty glass of brandy. “You want to know what happened? I’ll tell you what happened. I came out of that stinking brothel and rode north. I rode north for ten, maybe fifteen miles until I damned near blew Ares’ lungs out his throat. He isn’t talking to me by the way. Damn near bit off my hand when I tried to unsaddle him.”

  “No doubt he’ll forgive you in the morning,” Dudley murmured, watching the first glassful of brandy flow down Tyrone’s throat without a pause for a breath. “So you were sitting by the side of the road, and …”

  “And I’m asking myself why. Why do I care? Why do I care what happens to a hundred-year-old valet who wants to make a grand gesture to save his mistress? Why should I spoil his moment of glory?” He paused and waved a hand airily by way of explaining. “He has made a full confession to the fact that he shot Edgar Vincent in cold blood. He is to be hung tomorrow at noon if Roth does not hear from me ”r />
  Robbie only said, “Ah.”

  “By noon tomorrow we could be in Manchester. Roth has threatened to unleash the hounds, but we have a few contacts of our own. Getting her out of England would not be an insurmountable problem. And once we do, well, she is a young, beautiful woman, an exile from the French court and sister to a duc, goddammit—she would have no trouble finding a rich husband to protect her in New Orleans or wherever the hell it was she said she wanted to go.”

  “New Orleans,” Dudley agreed calmly. “And I believe it was Antoine who mentioned it.”

  “Yes, well, she will survive. They will both survive without any gestures, noble or otherwise, from me.”

  “I am still not sure what this has to do with robbing a coach.”

  Tyrone refilled his glass and carried it to the window, watching the scene play out in his mind as he retold it.

  The coach had appeared, literally, out of nowhere. He had given Ares his head, urging the stallion to run like the wind in whichever direction the moonlight took them. When at last he had reined the lathered beast to a halt, the two of them had stood by the road, panting and heaving for breath, with Tyrone calling on every oath and expletive he could remember. He had heard a distant, yet familiar sound coming along the road toward them, and without thinking, he had raised his collar and taken both pistols out from beneath his coat.

  It had been a small traveling chariot drawn by a pair of matched grays. It boasted one postillion, a driver, and a liveried coachman, none of them too alert.

  He had waited until they were abreast then spurred Ares out of the shadows. He had cocked and fired one of the flintlocks into the air as a warning, and at his shout to stand and deliver, he heard a scream inside the coach and a cry from the outrider who nearly toppled out of his saddle in his haste to rein in.

  “This is a robbery, gentlemen,” Tyrone had snarled. “If you know what is best, you will lay down your arms and do nothing to tempt me to shoot off the tops of your heads.”

  There was another shriek from inside the coach, but he had ignored it, waiting until the driver had thrown his musket and handgun over the side of the box. The outrider seemed frozen in place, but thawed quickly when the pistols were trained in his direction.

  “It’s Captain Starlight,” he had cried, owl-eyed with fear. “It’s Captain Starlight! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Then he had thrown his weapons onto the road as if they were red hot and searing holes in his flesh.

  Tyrone had turned his attention to the narrow door. “Inside! I am not a patient man tonight. Do not make me ask twice.”

  The door was flung open and a young man of about twenty years disembarked, his face looking ruddy with indignation even in the dim glow of the lamp. His companion was an equally young, fresh-faced girl in evening dress, sobbing and terrified.

  “I demand you let us pass,” the young man had declared. “My wife and I have done you no ill will.”

  “You are on my road,” was Tyrone’s answer. “That is ill will enough. But I will overlook the offense if the weight of your purse is convincing.”

  “Y—you are a bounder, sir!”

  “I’ll not sleep tonight, knowing that.”

  “M—my purse is in the coach. I—I have to fetch it.”

  Tyrone had jerked the nose of the snaphaunce to indicate consent, shaking his head as the earnest young fool reached inside and bravely produced a pistol instead. By the time the valiant groom had balanced the weight of it in his hand and swung the weapon around, Tyrone had fired again, the flash of powder preceding the cannon-like explosion in the darkness.

  “You didn’t kill him, did you?” Dudley asked, drawing Tyrone’s stare away from the window.

  “No, I didn’t kill him; I just gave him a sting in his fingers. But I made him hand over his pathetic little purse with his fourteen shillings. His wife was weeping all the time, begging him to do whatever I asked if I would only let them pass unharmed. They were hardly more than children and there I was waving my guns around and scaring them half to death for fourteen shillings.”

  He took a deep swallow of the brandy and faced the window again. What he did not tell Dudley was that he had very nearly gone back and returned the miserable pouch. He had ridden away with the image of the child-woman’s face twisted with fear and he had had a sudden glimpse into the future, seeing himself as the one who was a hundred years old with nothing to show for it but a reputation for terrifying helpless young lovers.

  He should have gotten out of this business a long time ago. He should have just taken his profits, boarded a ship—bought a damned ship for that matter—and pursued his quest for adventure elsewhere, if that was what he needed.

  If that was what he needed?

  Now where had that damned thought come from? He was a thief, for Christ’s sake. A highwayman, a rogue, a heretic who lived from one breath to the next and thrived on danger and deception! What was the alternative? A cozy home, a warm hearth, a wife and—and seven mewling children clinging to his ankles at every turn?

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head as he stared out at the darkness. The thought of respectability, of hearth and home, had never even occurred to him as the faintest, most distant possibility. Not until he had stood in the shadows and watched a half-naked French beauty walk through a path of moonlight to press her hand against a windowpane. The look on her face had been one of such utter sadness and loneliness, he had almost forgotten why he was there. And when he had kissed her, he had forgotten why he had to leave.

  His instincts had warned him then and he had ignored them. They were warning him now, and, as he turned and hurled the half-empty glass into the fireplace, he knew he was going to ignore them again.

  Dudley stared calmly at the spray of shattered glass and the sudden burst of flames where the liquor splashed the burning logs. “What did Roth demand?”

  “The jewels, the pearl. Me.”

  Dudley almost missed it. “You?”

  “And a full confession in writing or he sets Vincent’s hounds loose on Renée and her brother.”

  “And in exchange?”

  “The three of them go free, with full pardons.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “No farther than I can smell him. But if I go through with it, he will have to agree to some of my nonnegotiable terms, such as the time and place for the exchange, the proceedings witnessed by an officer of my choosing who will respect the terms of the agreement even if the colonel does not.”

  “Roth will never agree to all that.”

  “If he wants me badly enough, he will. And I made sure he will want me badly enough.”

  Dudley started to rake a hand through his hair, but stopped halfway, leaving one tarnished lock flopped over his eye. “What do you mean … if you go through with it?”

  “I don’t really see that we have another choice, do you?”

  “We can hire some men of our own and when Roth shows up, we grab the old man and show them our dust.”

  “How far would we get? An old man, a young boy, two women—one of them pregnant—me not in peak form and you …”

  “A cripple?”

  Tyrone frowned. “I was not going to say that. But you have to admit we would make for an easily identifiable group of travelers.”

  “Well, there must be something we can do!”

  “I gave my word.”

  “What?”

  “I gave Roth my word. If he met all my conditions, I would meet his.”

  Dudley glared and pointed his finger. “You’re not thinking clearly, that’s your problem. Two weeks ago, this would never have happened. You would have laughed, spit in Roth’s face, and blown a hole in his scrawny chest.”

  “Two weeks ago, you were the one laughing. Your fondest wish, if I recall correctly, was to be able to say ’I told you so,’ that one day someone would get far enough under my skin I wouldn’t be able to get her out. Well, I am admitting it. It has happened. And the only thing
I am thinking about now is how to get her out of harm’s way and guarantee her safety.”

  “At the cost of your freedom? Your life?”

  “I gave him my word,” Tyrone repeated tautly. “Something I have bandied about all too freely these past few years. Something that has not meant too much either until recently.”

  Dudley stared, too shocked to answer for a full minute. “This is a hell of a time to turn noble on us. And what about Miss d’Anton? How impressed do you think she will be when she finds out what you plan to do?”

  “She isn’t going to find out,” Tyrone insisted quietly. “Not now. Not ever. I’ll want your word on that, Robbie. I do not want her to have any reason to doubt we will all be together tomorrow, toasting yet another triumph at Roth’s expense.”

  “But—”

  “She is young, she is beautiful. She will survive. These past two weeks have been an infatuation, like playing; with fire, and she will get over it. I doubt it would have worked out anyway. I could hardly have expected her to—to …”

  “Love you just for the surly, mean-spirited bastard you are?” Dudley supplied dryly.

  Tyrone’s eyes narrowed. “Among other things.”

  “One of those being, of course, the lack of blue in your blood?”

  “It does pose a certain barrier.”

  “When she was standing over you in the tower room, aiming a gun at the door, prepared to fire on anyone who entered, I did not get the impression she cared too much about her rank in society, or anyone else’s.”

  “It is a moot point,” Tyrone countered evenly. “I have made up my mind.”

  “Aye, well, it’s not like you to just give up so easily. Dammit, you can’t just walk up to Roth with your tail between your legs and offer up your neck to the noose!”

  “I have no intentions of dying at the end of a rope. Not if I can help it.”

  “Well thank God for that!”

  “Actually, I have always found the thought of hanging quite offensive. I would much prefer to end it with a bullet through the head or a blade through the heart.”