The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  Meg's heart was breaking . . . for Kincaid, for herself. For their love that she knew now could never last.

  "I . . . I guess I was afraid you wouldn't love me if you knew," he went on, caressing her back. "He always said no one would ever love me. He said I wasn't worthy."

  Meg didn't say anything. She couldn't. She just turned on her toes and kissed him. Then she left.

  Meg rested her head in her arms on the battered table piled with folded laundry. After fleeing their apartment, she had taken the new, painted green carriage Kincaid had just bought her, to seek Saity's advice. The whore-turned-laundress was the only female friend Meg had.

  "Holy bones, Meg." Saity shook her head, glancing out the window of the tiny shop she'd rented on the fringes of Whitefriars slums. "A sadder tale, I ain't never heard." She dipped a man's linen shirt in a pot of hot water and reached for a bar of laundry soap.

  "I'm so sorry to burden you with my terrible secret." Tears ran down Meg's flushed cheeks. "But I didn't know where else to turn."

  "There, there, now." Saity patted her shoulder with a wet, soapy hand. "A burden like that'en can be a terrible one for a woman to carry. I'm glad ye told me." She winked. "And I'm glad ye killed the bastard, too."

  Meg lifted her head from her arms. "Why did this have to happen?" she cried miserably. "We were in love. Kincaid was going to marry me, Saity. He said we would have children. He wanted my sons and daughters." She closed her eyes. "I miss my baby so much. And I know I can't replace him, but I wanted another so badly."

  Saity pushed back a lock of her blonde hair. She went on scrubbing the shirt. "He says he loves ye and you believe him?"

  Meg nodded. "I honestly think he loves me."

  Saity began to wring out the shirt, moving it to the rinsing tub. "So tell 'im you killed his father. Then go off and have your happy life with the old bastard's coin."

  Meg hugged herself for comfort. "I can't do it." She shook her head. "I just can't, Saity."

  "Why not?" She lifted the shirt from the tub, watching the water run off it in rivulets.

  "Because he'd hate me, and I couldn't stand that."

  "If he loves you and he hated his father, how could he blame ye?"

  "He won't believe me. His uncle said I did it in cold blood. He said my baby was already dead. Kincaid will believe his uncle. The earl is a very powerful man, Saity."

  "You don't know yer man won't believe you. Ye got to trust that love ye have between you."

  Meg pushed away from the table, getting up off the stool. "He's had this thing with his father all these years. His father kicked him out of the house and said he was going to disinherit him, only he didn't. Kincaid feels like he owes Philip. Even if he is dead."

  Saity wrung out the shirt and laid it over a line strung across the room. "You're right about one thing for certain. Men are funny about their fathers. Their fathers kick 'em around for twenty years, callin' 'em no good bastards, and a man loves his father anyway. It don't make no sense to me. But you're right, you definitely got a problem, Meg."

  Meg paced the uneven floorboards of the tiny shop that smelled of lye soap and wet wood. "Besides, I couldn't hurt Kincaid by telling him I was the one who murdered his father. It would break his heart."

  "Self-defense ain't murder."

  "I couldn't tell him I was responsible." She balled a fist. "I won't hurt him like that after all he's done for me." She looked up at her friend. "He saved my life. He made me realize I wanted to live. I just can't do this to him," she finished softly.

  Saity reached for a pair of soiled stockings. "Well, the only other thing you can do is run," she finally said sadly. "You ran from the earl, so run from Kincaid."

  "That's all I can think of, too," Meg conceded.

  "You know where you can go?"

  Meg looked out the large window, watching a boy and his father go by, pushing a two-wheeled cart filled with sheaths of wheat. "I was thinking of going to the colonies."

  Saity wrinkled her pretty face. "Where?"

  "The American colonies."

  Saity's eyes grew wide. "With all them redskins?"

  "I always wanted to go there. They say it's a land of rebirth. A place where a man or a woman can start all over again."

  "You'd do that? You'd get on one of them little ships and go across the world?"

  Meg watched the wheat cart roll down the muddy street. "I would."

  "Braver soul than me." Saity wrung out one of the pink men's stockings.

  "Oh, nonsense, Saity, you're brave. It was brave of you to leave Mother Godwin's and strike out on your own."

  "Ah, I'd never 'ave done it without you and Kincaid."

  "Nonsense. You're a bright, strong woman. You knew there was a better life for you out here."

  Saity waved a hand, obviously embarrassed by Meg's words. "We ain't talkin' about me right now. We're talkin' about you." She tossed the stockings over the clothesline. "I still think you ought to risk it and tell your man." She took a deep, thoughtful breath. "But if you won't do that, you're gonna have to have a plan. Ye just can't stand here and declare you're goin' to America."

  "You're right." Meg paced. "I do need a plan."

  "Ye got to have money. Ye got to find a ship and book yer passage. They don't just leave from London to America every day of the week."

  Meg twisted her hands. "I don't have any money."

  "So take some of Kincaid's."

  Meg looked up. "I couldn't do that. That would be wrong."

  Saity batted her eyelashes. "They ain't gonna take you for free, girl. Though I can't figure why they'd charge ye to starve ye on a ship and leave ye with a bunch of red savages."

  "I'll have to find out when the next ship is going. And the cost. Maybe I can make a few coins gambling. I'm not bad with the dice."

  "Good idea. Then you could just give your man back his money, and he'd never be the wiser."

  Meg leaned on the back of a rickety chair. "Oh, Saity. This wasn't what I thought was going to happen. After Kincaid rescued me, after we fell in love, I thought everything was going to be all right." She hung her head. "I was such a fool."

  "You weren't no fool." Saity pinched Meg's arm. "Ye took what the good Lord handed you. And you'll take what 'e gives you now." She reached for another soiled shirt. "You'll be all right, Meg. You come too far not to."

  Meg looked up at Saity, dressed in her ragged clothes, damp with soap and water, and smiled. "You're a good friend, Saity. Thank you."

  "Thank you, for all you done to put me here. Now, you leave it to me to find out about a ship."

  "And what should I do in the meantime?"

  "Ye go home to your man and ye love 'im until the last hour ye got with him, that's what you do. 'Cause a man like Kincaid don't come often to a woman." Saity sank the shirt into the water bucket. "They just ain't out there, I'll vow to that."

  Meg glanced out the window again. She ached for what she and Kincaid would have now, and she had to smile. Their time had been short together, but what Saity had said was right. Most women never knew the love Meg had shared with Kincaid. And for that she had to be thankful.

  Meg stepped out of the coach onto Drury Lane with Kincaid and Monti on either side of her, taking her arms.

  "Blast it, the play has already started," Monti complained. "My astrologer warned me it would be a day of delays."

  Meg laughed. "Oh, it's all right if we're a little late. You don't go the playhouse to see the performance anyway." She tapped her fan on his shoulder. "You go to flirt and you well know it."

  Kincaid laughed, ushering her across the street toward the entrance to the king's playhouse. There were dirty-faced beggars everywhere, putting out their hands, pleading for food or money. Kincaid pitched a few coins to them, parting the crowd to make way for Meg. "She's got you, Monti. She knows you better than you know yourself."

  Monti only sighed, smoothing the ribbon of his purple and yellow coat with the matching high heels. His cocked hat was ye
llow with a ridiculously large purple feather protruding from the back. His purple clocked stocking, sewn with the initials C R for Charles Rex, were tied with yellow bows.

  Once inside the playhouse, Kincaid led Meg upstairs to the balcony where he had rented a box. Meg had been to a play several times before, but was still fascinated by the bawdy excitement. The return of King Charles had not only opened the playhouse doors once again, but women were actually playing parts. It was the scandal of the city.

  The moment Meg was in her chair, she leaned over the rail to look down into the pit where the benches were filled with handsomely dressed men and women. She had been shocked the first time Kincaid had explained that the overly painted women were whores, openly selling their wares. But now that she had gotten used to the fact, it was just one more element of the playhouse that fascinated her.

  The play was already in progress, though the audience seemed to be more interested in themselves and those around them than in the performance. It was a light comedy where men and women danced in bright costumes singing merry songs. Pretty young Orange Girls down in the pit walked about with their tin boxes, selling fresh fruit and sweet cakes, getting nearly as much attention as the players on stage.

  In the balconies above and below her, Meg could hear men and women laughing and calling to each other. They came not to see the play but to talk and flirt. To gossip. Overall, the playhouse was loud and ill-smelling, but Meg delighted in the excitement.

  Kincaid sat beside her holding her hand, and though he had seemed preoccupied since his visit with his uncle a few days ago, he was obviously pleased that she was enjoying herself.

  Meg's heart twisted in her chest each time she thought of all the things she and Kincaid would never do again. And each moment she shared with him, she couldn't help wondering, is this the last time? The last time to tickle his feet, the last time to share wine from the same glass, the last time they would make love on the floor before a blazing fire? But she made herself enjoy each moment to the fullest. Now she was aware of every word that he spoke, every caresses of his hand. If they were not going to live out their lives together as Meg had hoped, at least she would have these memories.

  Meg was chatting with Monti about one of the women in the next box over when Kincaid leaned to speak. "Did you see who that was that just entered Lady Sutter's box, Monti?" He indicated with a nod.

  Monti scanned the seats three boxes over. "Gads, is that Horatio?"

  Kincaid was already getting out of his upholstered chair. "Indeed it is and I'll bet he can give me information on old Crocket." He squeezed Meg's hand. "I'll be right back. Horatio had been helpful in the past. Then he ran into a bit of trouble with a man's daughter and had to lie low in the country for a few months. Will you be all right here with Monti?"

  "Of course." She gave him her best smile. "Go and see to your business. But remember, you promised me supper at the Red Crow. Don't go anywhere without me or you'll risk my wrath."

  Kincaid leaned over her shoulder to brush his lips against hers. "You know I only live for you, my sweet," he whispered.

  Meg exhaled softly, enjoying the feel of his lips against hers.

  "Be right back." Then Kincaid was gone.

  Meg settled in her seat to try and see if she could follow what was happening in the play. Monti was now busy talking to two young women, blonde twins in the box directly to his right. From where Meg sat, it appeared he had a good chance at escorting one, or perhaps both of them, from the playhouse to supper.

  Meg listened to a song sang by one of the lead actresses, amused by her little dance. As Meg watched, her gaze strayed to a box to the far left of theirs, nearly across the playhouse. She was admiring a woman's floral, forest-green gown, when she suddenly realized she recognized the man entering the box just behind her.

  Meg's breath caught in her throat. "Sweet heavens," she whispered. It was him. Rutledge.

  Before she could look away, he made eye contact with her. Unlike that night in the tavern, he recognized her this time. She saw it in his eyes. Eyes she realized now were the same color as Kincaid's. The difference was, in Kincaid's eyes she had only ever seen kindness. Rutledge's were pure evil.

  For a moment Meg was stunned that she couldn't move. She couldn't lower her lashes. She couldn't look away. She didn't know what had come over her. It was as if she was daring him.

  The earl stood there at the rail of the box for what seemed an eternity, openly staring, openly accusing. Once he glanced at Monti, then back at her.

  At least he had not seen Kincaid. He didn't know she was there with him.

  Rutledge held her gaze a moment longer, then bolted for the door of his box.

  Meg jumped up at the same instant. "Monti, help me," she ordered, snatching his hand from one of the twins'. "I'm ill. I have to get to the coach."

  Monti rose from his chair, apologizing to the young woman. But Meg didn't wait for him. She was already at the door, the skirts of her grass-green sarcenet gown bunched in her fists.

  It would be a race to the playhouse doors.

  Twenty

  "You're ill? You don't run like an ill woman!" Monti hurried to catch up with Meg in the narrow hallway that now thronged with gaily clad men and women. The playhouse exploded with applause as the final curtain dropped. The sound was deafening. He grabbed for her elbow. "Slow down, Meg."

  Meg took Monti's arm, still rushing. They had reached the staircase and she was pushing her way through the crowd, down the stairs. "I have to get out of here, Monti," she murmured desperately. "You have to help me."

  "What, someone's looking for you?" Monti glanced over his shoulder. "Who is it? Not that husband of yours? Because if it is, I shall just have to run him through with my—"

  "He's dead," she hissed between her teeth. "My husband is dead and buried, God rot his bloody soul. I've told you that, I've told you both a hundred times. Why won't you believe me?"

  "We just thought maybe that was why you didn't want to wed our highwayman," he answered under his breath. "Not that Kincaid cares if you're married or not at this point."

  At the bottom of the steps, Meg elbowed a woman in an orange taffeta dress. "So sorry." She pushed through the crowd, pressing toward the door where she knew outside the coach and driver would be waiting. "Excuse us. Pardon."

  Monti held tightly to Meg's elbow, remaining at her side. When a tall woman with an elaborate coiffure turned to make a rude comment, Monti stuck his tongue out at her. "Christ's bones," he muttered. "That woman should have checked her charts before she left her bed this morning."

  Reaching the double doors that were held open by men dressed in royal livery, Meg stepped out into the twilight. "Where's the blasted coach?" She hurried along the street lined with coaches, both hired and private.

  "Meg."

  "It's got to be here somewhere. Kincaid told the driver to wait."

  "Meg."

  "That's why we pay him the two pound six a year for, right? To be at our beck?"

  "Meg," Monti whispered in her ear. "Are we running from the ugly fellow with the misshapen mouth?"

  Meg was too scared to turn around to see. She knew it was the earl of Rutledge. Who else could he have been referring to?

  "What if we are?" she snapped. "Oh, thank the sweet lord. There it is!" She ran across the filthy street toward their newly painted green coach on the far side.

  "Oh, it matters not to me," Monti panted from the exertion of the run in his high heels. "It's only that I like to be able to spot the enemy from across a room." He took a quick look over his shoulder again. "And that cuttlefish certainly isn't hard to spot, is he?"

  When their driver saw Meg running for the coach, he started down off the bench to assist her, but she beat him to the door. "Drive on!" she ordered.

  "But, Mistress, Mr. Kincaid—"

  "I said, drive on, Axle! You can return for Mr. Kincaid later!"

  Meg leaped into the coach without assistance, with Monti right behind her.r />
  "Drive on!" he shouted as he slammed the door.

  As the coach rolled away, Meg glanced out the window to see the earl running beside the carriage. He reached with his fist to hit the door.

  "Faster," Meg shouted, banging the paneled ceiling with her fan. "Faster, Axle!"

  The two horses increased their speed and the coach went careening around the corner, leaving the earl behind in a spattering of mud and dung from the street.

  The Earl of Rutledge halted on the street, clutching his chest as he attempted to catch his breath. There was an odd aching that trickled from his breast down his left arm. "Bitch," he muttered, wiping the spittle from his mouth. "I knew I'd find you, Margaret. I just knew it."

  "Sir, are you all right?"

  Percival heard a familiar voice behind him. It sounded like his dear brother Philip, but of course Philip was dead. That perfect little slut had murdered him. Percival turned, the ache in his arm easing. "James."

  "Sir, are you all right?" His nephew hesitated to offer his hand as if he found the thought of touching his own uncle repulsive.

  "I'm all right. There's my coach." Percival pointed to the vehicle with the Randall coat of arms painted on its door.

  "Let me escort you." James walked beside Percival.

  "You'll not believe this, nephew." Percival straightened his back, the pain gone. "I saw her! She's here. Right here in the city just as I suspected all along, the clever tart."

  "Her? My father's wife?"

  The earl's footman opened the coach door for him. "Your father's widow."

  James stood on the street putting his head through the doorway. "Where did she go?" He looked down the street now congested with theatergoers and their vehicles.

  "I don't know." Percival sat down on the leather bench, still puffing. "Will you join me? Friends and I are going to the Plump Partridge to dine."

  His nephew hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. "I came with someone, though where she is right now, I'm unsure."