The Highwayman's Daughter

by Henriette Gyland

  Ned sighed. ‘I’m spent, Cora. I haven’t got any strength left in me; my bones are weary, my heart is pained with longing. This is my last request. Will you deny me, daughter?’

  ‘Father, you …’

  ‘I’m dying, my heart. I love you, but my place is with Sarah now. You have your life ahead of you. You must …’ He stopped, overcome by a sudden, hacking cough. Tears stung Cora’s eyes – she knew she could do nothing to alleviate his agony. Helpless, she watched as his ravaged body shuddered with the last of his strength.

  ‘You must live your life, Cora,’ he whispered finally and wiped away a speckle of blood from his lips. ‘Love a man; have children, lots of them. Remember me kindly and forgive me for stealing you away from your rightful place in society.’

  Cora took his hand. It was cold and dry, and she rested her cheek against it to warm it up. ‘There’s nothing to forgive. You’re my one, true father, and I’ll remember you with more than kindness; my heart will swell with love when I think of you.’ A single tear ran down her face, and she wiped it away; then resolutely she took Samson’s reins again. ‘Come, let’s find Mother.’

  When the sun rose, Ned drew his last breath.

  Cora had tried to make him as comfortable as possible. He lay on the ground beside her mother’s grave, his head on Cora’s coat and covered by an old blanket. He had stopped shivering, and his earlier pain seemed to have left his body. When he turned his eyes on his daughter for the last time, he had the look of a man who, despite deprivations in life, had everything he could ever wish for. With a catch in her throat Cora leaned closer to hear the final word on his lips.

  Sarah.

  Then he was at peace.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Cora sat hugging Ned’s body for what seemed like hours, but neither prayers nor tears seemed appropriate. Her father was at peace, reunited with the woman he had loved above all others. Shedding tears over his passing would be selfish.

  All the same, thought Cora as she laid him down gently and rubbed the feeling back into her stiff limbs, life without Ned would be dismal, and she knew she would miss him unbearably. Who would take her to task when she did wrong? Praise her when she did right? Or fuss over her first-born with that silly expression that grandfathers were often afflicted with?

  Love a man, he had said. She’d always wished for herself the kind of love her parents shared. She’d found it with Jack, and their night together was the life she wished she could have had. Her father was gone now, but another obstacle had been thrown in their way, one neither of them could overcome despite their depth of feeling. The tragedy was that she’d already discovered the kind of love her father meant, and never would again.

  With a stick she began digging a grave, but it hadn’t rained in days and the ground was rock hard. When the stick broke under the pressure, and she found herself on her hands and knees clawing at the dirt with her fingers, Cora realised the futility of her endeavour. Instead she went in search of a shovel. She knew that if she didn’t bury him quickly, wild animals might make short work of his body and she couldn’t bear that.

  The tears finally came, stinging, selfish tears, both welcome and unwanted at the same time, and she threw herself on the ground and cried till there was nothing left inside her.

  Rupert sipped his brandy, enjoying the peaceful Brooks’s atmosphere after his encounter with the highwaywoman. His mind kept wandering back to his unsettling encounter with her. It had left him rattled – who in their right mind wouldn’t be after looking down the barrel of a pistol? – but he was also puzzled by what he had seen.

  Her striking eyes and her general resemblance to his own father was too obvious to ignore. She could well be one of his father’s by-blows; from the little he knew of the captain he’d had a mercurial temperament, and Rupert wondered briefly how many more illegitimate children of his father’s there might be. Then he shrugged. It made no difference to him – they would have no claim on Rupert’s own paltry inheritance, most of which was gone now at any rate.

  He swirled the brandy in his glass, frowning as he did so. There was something else which nagged him, something on the periphery of his mind and tantalisingly out of reach. Sensing that it could be significant, he tried to recall the highwaywoman’s every feature. She had the same hair and build as his sister, which strengthened his belief that she was related to him, but there were other elements where she differed. The way she sat on a horse, for instance, as if she was born into superiority. Who else rode ramrod straight like that?

  ‘Buggered if I know,’ he muttered. Swigging from his brandy, he nearly choked when the answer came to him.

  The highwaywoman rode exactly like his uncle, the earl.

  Absently he dabbed at the tears brought to his eyes by the alcohol burning in his throat. Perhaps the highwaywomen was his uncle’s by-blow and not his father’s. The two cousins shared enough of a family resemblance – their black hair and blue eyes – for this not to be completely unlikely.

  The thought caused him a great deal of mirth, because if he had guessed correctly and Jack had bedded the wench, that would mean his saintly cousin had committed incest. And even if it had no basis in truth, it would be fun to see Jack rattled.

  He chuckled quietly just as Jack entered the club’s lounge, and he quickly replaced the smirk with his most benevolent smile.

  ‘Cousin, how fortuitous. I was just about to go in search of a game of cards to pass the time. Now you can join me.’

  ‘Thank you, Rupert, but no.’ Jack sank down in a chair opposite. ‘I find I’m not in the mood tonight.’

  Rupert snapped his fingers at the club’s butler. ‘A restorative drink for my cousin,’ he said. ‘And put it on my bill.’ My uncle will cough up the money, he added to himself, then he turned back to Jack.

  Jack seemed a mere ghost of his former self. Despite his expertly tied neck cloth and expensive but understated wool jacket, he looked ragged. Dark circles underscored his eyes, and lines were etched from his nose to the corners of his mouth. Rupert wondered when he had last slept. Lost in thought, Jack only reacted when the servant returned with a glass of brandy and a crystal decanter.

  ‘Thank you, Forbes,’ he said, managing a smile; then he drained his glass in one and let the man pour him another.

  Watching with a bemused smile, Rupert could guess the reason for Jack’s despondency.

  ‘Trouble with the fair sex?’ he asked.

  Jack shot him a look. ‘That obvious, is it?’

  ‘When a man looks as long-faced as you do, it’s bound to have something to do with a woman. Always does.’ Rupert laughed.

  ‘You have no idea,’ said Jack.

  Rupert looked around him to check that the servant was out of earshot, then he leaned closer. ‘Actually, I do. This woman, she isn’t just anyone, is she? She’s the one who held us up. We made a bet, and you found her first. Congratulations, Jack. I owe you a hundred guineas.’

  Jack sent him a startled look. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I saw you in town, saving her from being trampled by horses. Later I, eh, chanced upon her, and she wore a coat identical to your favourite one. The midnight blue with the embroidery. I seriously doubt a woman of her ilk could afford such an item.’ He pointed to what his cousin was wearing. ‘And I see you’re not wearing it this evening. Did she steal it, or did you part with it willingly, after a tender moment perhaps?’

  He paused for effect, hoping to get a reaction from his cousin, but Jack merely looked at him, expressionless. The only testament to any emotion was a muscle moving in his set jaw.

  ‘What mischief are you up to now, Rupert?’

  Rupert put his hand on his heart, feigning innocence. ‘Not mischief. I was merely curious about her appearance; she’s so like your dear father. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the result of the earl sowing his wild oats once upon a time.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be so unusual.’

  Rupert narrowed h
is eyes, frustrated by Jack’s apparent sang-froid. ‘I know you have bedded her,’ he sneered.

  Jack paled visibly, but a sip of brandy seemed to restore him to his former equilibrium. ‘And you have proof of that, cousin? Because if you don’t, you ought to be careful before making such assertions. Very careful.’

  Proof?

  No, of course he had no proof. He only had his instincts and his powers of observation, as well as something very important nagging at the back of his mind. So why …

  It came to him in a flash. His and Alethea’s looks favoured their father with little of their mother’s looks. His father and the earl shared certain strong family features.

  But Jack looked quite different.

  He regarded his cousin over the rim of his brandy glass. Jack had his mother’s looks, and now that Rupert studied him more closely, he could see nothing of the earl in him. Was it simply that Jack was more his mother’s son, or was there something entirely different at play here? Could it be that Rupert’s own prospects hinged on the fact that Jack had none of the earl’s features?

  His head swam with possibilities, but each and every one of them saw him as the head of the family and the next earl. It might come to nothing, but if there was even a chance that Jack wasn’t the earl’s natural son, he would explore it. In the meantime, perhaps sowing the seed of suspicion in Jack’s mind would lead to a breakdown in the relationship between father and son, and the earl would appoint Rupert his heir. It was worth a try.

  To hide his agitation he smiled casually. ‘Perhaps all is not lost, dear cousin. Perhaps your sin is not as great as you think.’

  Jack glared at him suspiciously but remained silent.

  ‘Perhaps this … highwaywoman, or whatever she is, is not your half-sister after all.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Rupert, I’ve had enough of your conjectures. If you have something to say, spit it out. First you accuse my father of sowing his wild oats and me of committing incest, now you retract your statement. Make up your mind.’

  ‘I have. I put it to you that you’re not your father’s son.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Jack remained seated, but there was a hard, intense gleam in his hazel eyes, and he reminded Rupert of a large cat ready to pounce on its prey. Nevertheless, Rupert had his attention now.

  Emboldened, he continued. ‘Alethea and I look like our father; my father and yours share a family resemblance. But you? I don’t see any resemblance between you and your father. That woman of yours looks more a part of this family than you do. Do you not wonder how that can be?’

  ‘This is absurd!’ Jack protested, his shock visible.

  ‘Is it? As you said, sowing wild oats is not unusual.’ Rupert had trouble concealing a smirk and noted with satisfaction how Jack clenched his fists. No doubt he was longing to sock Rupert in the jaw, but was too well brought up to do that here at the club.

  He rose slowly. ‘What are you insinuating?’

  ‘I’m insinuating nothing, merely making an observation.’

  ‘Well, if you value your life, you’ll keep your observations to yourself. Another word from you on the subject, and it’ll be pistols at dawn, cousin or not.’

  With that he turned on his heel and left.

  Unconcerned, Rupert ordered another brandy. He enjoyed riling his cousin, but he doubted very much that the chaste Lady Lampton had done what he had suggested. She was devoted to her husband and had been for as long as Rupert could remember. The only way he could even hope to inherit would be if he somehow managed to push Jack and his father apart.

  ‘Had a falling out again, the pair of you?’

  Rupert looked around to see his godfather, Lord Feltham. He disliked the old curmudgeon, who was as fat as a barrel, with ill-fitting clothes, and in the habit of breaking wind. But Lord Feltham had been his mother’s choice of godparent. Rupert tried to stay on his good side, for the sake of her memory if nothing else. He rose politely and indicated the chair Jack had just vacated.

  ‘Uncle James, would you care to join me?’

  Lord Feltham eyed him through narrowed, piggy eyes. ‘Aye, don’t mind if I do, although I should like to know how you brought about such a fit of pique in your cousin that he can’t even spare a moment to greet an old man.’

  ‘A minor disagreement,’ said Rupert smoothly. ‘I must apologise on his behalf. Brandy?’

  ‘Thank you kindly.’

  Forbes brought the drink, and the two men soon settled down to discussing various gentlemanly pursuits as Lord Feltham had a keen appetite for certain sports, in particular boxing, which Rupert shared.

  ‘In my day we had proper fighting, between real men, not all these namby-pamby rules.’ Lord Feltham growled and waved a hand dismissively. ‘Why, only the other day I lost ten guineas because my man wasn’t allowed up again after the count of thirty. I was most put out.’

  Rupert smiled in what he hoped was an affable manner, but he gritted his teeth and wondered how soon he could make his excuses without appearing rude.

  The old man accepted his offer of a second drink, then a third and didn’t seem to be in any hurry to move on, to Rupert’s frustration. In the end, Rupert decided that the only way to escape was to make up a lie.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I’d better go after Jack. I don’t like being on bad terms with him, and it was such a silly argument in any case.’

  ‘What washit about?’ Lord Feltham was slurring his words, but seemed alert enough to expect an answer, so Rupert shrugged and explained.

  ‘I merely commented that I thought it curious that he looks so unlike his father, in a family where all the males seem to resemble each other a lot. He flew into quite a rage over it.’

  Lord Feltham chuckled. ‘I should think so. Although …’

  He paused suddenly as if he had said too much; Rupert’s interest was piqued.

  ‘Although?’

  Lord Feltham cleared his throat. ‘Your aunt could have had any man she liked, you know. She was the belle of the season, but I do recall her having a particular regard for the youngest son of the Marquess of Dereham. I’m quite surprised she married my esteemed friend in the end, but I suppose it must have been agreed between the families. There were rumours, though.’

  Pretending not to be the least bit interested in such gossip, Rupert inspected his fingernails. ‘How so?’

  ‘Some say she walked to the altar an unwilling bride,’ said Lord Feltham with a hiccup. ‘That would have been no surprise, hardly anyone marries for love after all. A fêted beauty like Lady Alice, as she was back then, would always fall prey to the ballroom gossips, especially when she had beaux such as the son of a marquess and an earl dancing attendance. Those spiteful old tabbies,’ he added and belched for emphasis.

  ‘The youngest son of the Marquess of Dereham …’ Rupert mused. ‘What became of him?’

  ‘Oh, he’s the current marquess now. As bad luck would have it, or perhaps as luck would have it, depending on your perspective’—he attempted to fix Rupert with a sharp look but his eyes were slightly out of focus—‘his oldest brother died in a riding accident, and the second brother was killed fighting the Scots in ’45, leaving him to inherit everything on his father’s death.’

  ‘By which time his sweetheart was already a wife and mother,’ Rupert commented drily, pretending to have no inkling where this was going. However, he wanted to keep his godfather talking and feigned innocence. ‘How can this possibly have a bearing on why my cousin takes after his mother and not his father?’

  Lord Feltham glanced around the room; then leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, ‘There was some talk.’

  ‘About my aunt and the marquess?’ Rupert raised a haughty eyebrow, but he had trouble concealing his excitement as he imagined his inheritance getting closer and closer.

  ‘Mm-hm.’ His godfather sat back in his chair with a self-important smirk. But his grin faded as if he realised only now who he was talking to, and he added br
iskly, ‘But that was nothing but idle nonsense. Your aunt is a lady. It’s inconceivable.’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ Rupert said and blithely ordered another round of drinks. His mind was in turmoil. Could it be that Jack was the son of the marquess and not Lord Lampton? If it was true, he would have to find a way of confronting his aunt under circumstances where she couldn’t deny it.

  The question was how.

  He stayed at the club for a while longer, until he could extricate himself without rousing the old man’s suspicion. It wouldn’t do to underestimate Lord Feltham, even in his inebriated state.

  As he left the club, asking for his hat and cane, a thought occurred to him.

  ‘My cousin, Lord Halliford,’ he asked the doorman, ‘is he still here?’

  ‘No, sir, he left about an hour ago.’

  ‘For my uncle’s town house at Devonshire Place, I presume,’ Rupert said loftily.

  The doorman shook his head. ‘I believe it was his lordship’s intention to return to the family estate at once.’

  ‘At this hour?’ Rupert hovered by the door uncertainly. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure, sir.’ As if sensing Rupert’s indecision, he added, ‘How may I be of service? Do you require a conveyance yourself, a hackney coach perhaps?’

  A hackney coach.

  How Rupert hated that word, hated not having his own private carriage. How they must laugh at him behind his back, he thought, as resentment gnawed away at him, but he controlled himself. If his conjectures were right, it wouldn’t be for long, and then who would have the last laugh?

  Was it possible Jack had decided to confront the countess with what Rupert had insinuated? If so, Rupert wanted to be there when the scandal broke. His aunt and uncle may have brought him up as their own, but now it was time for him to take his place as their heir.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  As he was jostled from side to side in his normally comfortable carriage, it seemed to Jack that Benning found every pothole and stone in the road on purpose.