by Louise Clark
And so, every day that he spent shadowing St. Luc weighed heavily on him. It was time to unmask the Vicomte de St. Luc and send him from England with his tail between his legs.
Nicholas's gaze swept the room again, paused at the Duchess of Chelmsford, then swiftly moved on. St Luc was no longer talking to his hostess, but he was a conspicuous quarry in a coat of striped cherry-and-white satin, white breeches and striped stockings. Nicholas scanned the crowd unobtrusively, and for a moment feared that the Vicomte had managed to slip away. Then he caught sight of the Frenchman talking earnestly to a woman who seemed vaguely familiar to Nicholas. Her hair was powdered and her back was to him, so that he could not identify her with complete assurance. He was willing to wager, however, that the woman was Regine de Trouville. He wished that he were close enough to hear what they were saying.
He had raised his quizzing glass to get a better look at the couple when a voice by his side broke his concentration. "Now that our charming Mademoiselle Stephanie has retreated to the country, the Vicomte finds other birds to pluck."
The sweet, melodic music ended and the dancers milled together, then parted. St. Luc and his lady merged with the crowd, and as the next set was formed, the lady joined it. St. Luc stood watching on the sidelines, with his quizzing glass raised. For Nicholas, it was impossible to tell if St. Luc had just made contact with a conspirator, or if he was merely watching a handsome woman. Nicholas turned to his irrepressible cousin, but kept St. Luc in view at the edge of his vision. "Tony," he said with a sigh, "to what do I owe this pleasure?"
Baxter grinned, unabashed. "I saw you eying the Vicomte and thought it might be necessary to save the fellow from your wrath."
"Did I look like a thundercloud?" Nicholas asked, raising one eyebrow in an eloquent expression of doubt.
"You looked like you'd already begun to rain," Baxter retorted cheerfully.
"So much for my ability to mask my feelings," Nicholas said wryly.
His cousin laughed. "I think perhaps I can read you better than most, knowing, as I do, of your dislike of the Vicomte."
"Perhaps," Nicholas murmured. The Vicomte was threading his way through the fashionable throng with ruthless charm. Nicholas was not sure what the fellow had in mind, but he intended to keep him in view. "Walk with me, Tony. We can talk as we go."
Baxter followed the direction of his cousin's gaze, pinpointed St. Luc and decided that whatever Nicholas was up to, he was ready to join in. "Have you decided to perform a service for all society and put a guard on the Vicomte, so that he is unable to prey on some other young woman as he did on Stephanie? I must say, Nick, I'm not sure your consideration would be appreciated by all."
Nicholas thought quickly. His cousin was far too close to the truth to allow the question to stand. Raising his brow, he shot an amused look at Tony. "Your imagination is getting the better of you, dear boy. What harm could the odious Vicomte do in the supper room? It is simply a misfortune that the wretched fellow has decided to partake of a bite to eat at the same time as I. Unpleasant, of course, but nothing can be done about it."
Tony shot Nicholas a disbelieving look, but as they entered the supper room, he apparently decided to leave the subject alone. "I heard a rumor that might interest you, Nick."
"Oh?" The Vicomte was busy filling his plate from the lavish selection laid out along the length of the dining table. There was no danger of his passing secrets here.
"Yes, indeed," Tony said, inspecting the delectables offered. "Apparently, there's a highwayman working the London Road, just outside Silverbrooke."
"A highwayman, you say?" Nicholas asked, his thoughts only half on Baxter's words.
"That's right. A thin, gangly fellow with an odd accent—Irish, perhaps—and an absurdly courteous manner. He thanks his victims after he's robbed them, then sends them on their way with a mocking bow. Rides a big black horse, I'm told. Sounds quite colorful, doesn't he?"
The long description penetrated Nicholas's preoccupation. He frowned, remembering the distress Stephanie had suffered after the robbery on the way to the Pendleton masquerade. "Different from the scurvy fellow who held you up, but no better. Tony, do me a favor."
"If I can."
"Go down to Silverbrooke and find out if the rumors are true. If they are, I will take steps to see that this villain is brought to justice. I promised Stephanie that she would never be in danger from that sort of criminal activity again. I intend to carry out my promise."
Tony looked at him oddly. "I'm sure she would prefer your presence to mine at Silverbrooke."
Nicholas's lips thinned. Inadvertently, he glanced at St. Luc. "Unfortunately, I have business which demands that I remain in London, at least for the time being. I promise you, I will go down to Silverbrooke as soon as I possibly can."
To Nicholas's relief, Tony accepted this explanation, or seemed to. "Very well then, of course I shall go to Silverbrooke as your emissary. I'll leave at first light."
Nicholas nodded. Already his mind was preoccupied with how to draw the Vicomte into the open and complete the duty that had suddenly become a millstone around his neck.
* * *
The sun was setting in a glorious display of golds, oranges and reds. Stephanie was seated so that she had a perfect view from the long French windows in the Charles Room, the salon in which the portrait of King Charles II hung over the fireplace, dominating the room and reminding successive generations of Bremertons of the folly in tying their fates to that of a monarch. The sky darkened and Stephanie's inner agitation became more and more difficult to hide as she listened to Tony Baxter and her godmother exchange polite conversation.
The conditions that evening would be excellent for her purposes. There had been rain during the afternoon, making the roads soggy. Coach traffic would be slowed and more vulnerable to attack. The rain had ceased, though, and the fine evening was bound to coax people to extend their travels just an hour or two more. She itched to be on her way as the fire in the sky deepened tauntingly.
The presence of Tony Baxter, however, was causing her problems.
Tony's arrival earlier in the day had been greeted with less than enthusiasm by both the Dowager Countess and her goddaughter. When the team of fine horses and the handsome coach had been sighted coming up the drive, their initial assumption was that the Earl had returned. Both women were disappointed when the gentleman who emerged from the fine equipage was merely Cousin Tony.
Apparently undeterred by the lukewarm welcome he was accorded, Barter had announced that he would be staying for a week or two, then happily settled in. And now, after a pleasant dinner, it appeared that the Dowager had decided it was her duty to entertain her nephew. Stephanie wondered uneasily how long it would be before Madeleine decided she was tired enough to retire to her room, as was her usual custom fairly early in the evening.
The flames brightening the sky sputtered and died. Dusk began to deepen into true night. Stephanie fiddled with her teacup. As her spoon rattled on the bone china saucer, the Dowager raised her brows.
"Would you like another cup of tea, my dear?"
It was Stephanie's third cup of tea. She rarely drank more than one. "S'ilvous plaît, Tante Madeleine." The Countess's brows rose higher, but she poured anyway. Stephanie quickly looked down at her cup. A blush stole into her cheeks as she added sugar.
"You were saying, Tony, that Nicholas is involved in a project?"
An amused light sprang into Tony's eyes. The old Earl had perfected the art of interrogating his young nieces and nephews, and it seemed, since his death, that his Countess had decided to try her hand at the skill. She had not, however, managed to achieve the same level of perfection as his uncle. Or, perhaps he was just older now, and less easily intimidated. He spoke lazily, "On the contrary, Aunt Madeleine, I haven't mentioned what Nick is up to in London because I haven't the ghost of an idea myself. Devilishly interesting, is it not? The fellow spends months hidden away in the country, claiming that he cannot abide t
own life, and now he can't be pried away!"
"Perhaps he is taking up his proper place in society," Stephanie suggested, suddenly interested, now that the conversation had turned to a subject dear to her heart.
The Dowager nodded approvingly. "I feel that must be the case, Stephanie. Nicholas has always been a young man of high principles. My husband's premature death thrust the obligation of managing the Wroxton estates onto his shoulders unexpectedly, and he is not a man to avoid his duty. Now, however, I am sure he feels the estates are in good order, which allows him to look to other aspects of his responsibilities."
As the blackness of a country night settled beyond the window, Stephanie thought about the Dowager's statement. A warm glow suffused her heart at the reasonableness of it. Of course, Tante Madeleine was correct! The explanation made such perfect sense, for it explained the inconsistencies she had found in Nicholas, Earl of Wroxton, as she had come to know him better.
Tony Baxter had other ideas. Laughing, he said, "I suppose you could be right, Aunt Madeleine, if you consider spending hours at one party or another to be taking up a position in society."
Stephanie's happy glow faded. Confused and disappointed, she gazed out the window once more.
Night was truly upon them. Her impatience returned with a rush. "You look very tired, chère Tante Madeleine. Should you not retire to your chamber to rest?"
"Nonsense!" the Dowager said, her pallor belying her brisk statement.
"Perhaps you and Mademoiselle de la Riviére would join me in a game of cards," Tony suggested, an amused twitch to his lips as he deliberately stared at Stephanie.
She blushed, but saw the opportunity to escape. "Bah! I do not play cards anymore, Monsieur Tony. I will leave you and Tante Madeleine to enjoy your gambling." She rose slowly, pretending to be tired. Bending, she kissed the Dowager on the cheek. "Tante Madeleine, bonsoir. Monsieur Tony." With a curt nod, she made her escape.
Twenty minutes later, she had changed from her pomona green silk gown into the man's riding costume she wore for her late night excursions. As she crept down the stairs, her heart pounded, for she expected at any minute to meet either a servant, her godmother, or their guest. It was not until she reached the library that she felt secure enough to breathe easier. She hurried over to the tall French doors, where she had rigged the lock so that it appeared to be latched, but was not. Slipping outside, she gulped the clean evening air. Excitement filled her blood as she ran lightly across the terrace, then over to the paddock where her black mare grazed.
She whistled softly and Midnight Raider broke away from a cluster of other horses, enticed by the promise of carrots and sugar that Stephanie always brought with her. After the mare had crunched the snack, Stephanie led her through the gate before mounting her to ride bareback to the wooded area where she had hidden the tack.
As she saddled the mare, it occurred to Stephanie that her godmother's actions this evening had been odd. Since coming to the country, she had always retired early, even when Nicholas was visiting. Yet, tonight she had lingered, though she was clearly tired. Why?
The answer came while Stephanie was tightening the saddle's girth. She began to chuckle as she slid her foot into the stirrup. Could it be that the Countess had been chaperoning her goddaughter and nephew? In a smooth movement, Stephanie gathered up the reins and mounted. Did Lady Wroxton not know that her efforts were absolutely unnecessary? Stephanie had no more interest in Tony Baxter than in the Vicomte de St. Luc. Her heart was too taken with a certain gentleman with hair as black as the night, and eyes blue as a summer sky...
Stephanie dug her heels into the mare's sides more forcefully than was necessary. It was not until she had taken up her position in the woods bordering the London Road that her thoughts came back to the strange actions of Lady Wroxton. The Dowager Countess might not need to chaperon the two young people at Silverbrooke, but she was making the effort to do so. She had not made that same effort when Nicholas was at the Manor. And, since the Earl was as eligible a gentleman as his cousin Tony, there was only one natural conclusion—the Dowager Countess was matchmaking.
* * *
Stephanie stifled a yawn as she pushed a slice of deviled ham about on her plate. Tony Baxter was chatting in his inconsequential way about anything and everything. Did the man not understand the concept of silence?
Stephanie silently berated herself for being overtired and grumpy. Cousin Tony was a very nice man, most of the time. It was not his fault that he was keeping regular hours and getting plenty of sleep, nor was it surprising that he was full of boundless energy as a result.
Stephanie, on the other hand, was hard put to muster enthusiasm for even the mildest activity, such as enjoying the luncheon spread out before her.
Due to the Dowager's determined chaperoning, Stephanie had found herself escaping from the manor later and later in the evening, and, consequently, finding fewer coaches to rob. The proceeds of her nightly activities had risen proportionately slowly, so that she was frustrated, as well as tired.
Not only did she now remain at her post in the woods until well into the small hours of the morning, she also needed to behave normally during the day, which meant being active and alert. The lack of sleep, plus the pressure she was putting on herself, were telling on her usually sunny nature.
Baxter's mumbling sharpened into clarity as Stephanie's sense of self-preservation caught a stray word and focused in on what he was saying.
"...surprising to see fellows like that about, I thought."
The Dowager was frowning. "Yes indeed, Tony. I had heard rumors that a footpad was in the area, but sending in a troop of dragoons seems a trifle extreme, don't you think?"
Dragoons! That was the word she had heard! Stephanie's heart began to thump with a dull fear. She was sure that both Tony and her godmother would notice her quickened breathing and wonder what was the cause of it. With studied casualness, she concentrated on the plate in front of her, eating food she could not taste.
Tony shrugged, apparently unmindful of Stephanie's reaction to his information. "Extreme? Yes and no, I suppose. Silverbrooke is close enough to London for the government to wish to keep the road free of pests. A robber in the area is something to be regarded as unacceptable by all law-abiding people. However, this highwayman seems to stick to robbing travelers, and then only those who can afford the loss."
Well, thought Stephanie, a portion of her natural spirit coming back, at least someone had noticed her good points.
"A veritable saint," the Dowager said sarcastically, pulling apart a roll. "I cannot think why we do not give the jolly fellow a medal! He clearly deserves one."
Tony laughed and Stephanie managed to work up a small smile. "You are very firm on this matter, Tante Madeleine."
"Well, of course I am! A decent soul does not go about robbing people, no matter what his excuse."
"You and the Captain should meet, Aunt Madeleine," Baxter remarked, still chuckling. "You have nearly identical attitudes. If the dragoons do happen to capture this highwayman, there will be no leniency for him. A quick trial, then a meeting with the hangman."
Stephanie wanted to ask what had happened to the vaunted British justice, but she was afraid of drawing attention to herself. Though the food she had just eaten was sitting uneasily in her stomach, she was afraid to leave the table lest her agitation be noticed and an explanation demanded.
"Really, Tony! How dreadfully ghoulish! Pray, moderate your remarks here at the dining table." The Dowager's sharp tone caused her nephew to apologize hastily. She sniffed. "This upheaval in France spreads its evil tentacles everywhere. We must be careful to keep our standards up, in all manner of activities."
"Indeed, Aunt," Tony murmured, looking guilelessly at the Dowager.
A muscle twitched at the edge of her mouth. "Dreadful boy. I am not so old that I need to be humored."
"In truth, Aunt, the thought never crossed my mind."
While the Dowager and Tony sparred,
Stephanie strove to regain control of her emotions. If she was to survive, she needed details about the Captain and his dragoons. Tony Baxter was apparently on good terms with the officer. There would be no better time than now to hear the worst.
"This soldier," she said hesitantly, "does he command many men?"
"Dragoon, Mademoiselle. The Captain would be vastly insulted if you made the mistake of calling him a soldier to his face."
"En bien. This Dragoon, then. You say he is a Capitaine. This is a position of some authority, non?" Tony was regarding her with a curious stare that made her very uncomfortable. She did her best to remember, and act upon, the instructions he had once given her on how to keep her countenance from disclosing her thoughts. A frown crossed his features and was gone. Leaning back in his chair, he spoke as if he had noticed nothing amiss.
"The Captain commands a full troop of twenty men, all mounted on strong, fast horses. His orders are to comb the area to capture the highwayman or, if that is not possible, to scare the fellow into another area, where he is less likely to disrupt important traffic."
"Mon Dieu, mounted men have been sent after this person?"
"Not surprising, my dear," Madeleine said, raising her brows. "It would be rather silly to try to capture a mounted desperado on foot, would it not?"
"Of course," Stephanie murmured, smiling apologetically at the Countess. "I did not think."
* * *
Later that day, Tony Baxter sat down at the desk in the spacious library to write a short, pointed note to London.
Wroxton,
A company of dragoons has arrived to protect the London Road. The capture of the highwayman terrorizing the area is expected at any time. I fear this may not be as simple a matter as it seemed when we spoke in London, and I trust you will soon be finished with the business that keeps you in Town. I suspect that Our Friend is somehow involved in the whole affair. There have been incidents of late night activities and a certain listlessness during the day which does not accord with Our Friend's usual character. When I mentioned the arrival of the dragoons today, Our Friend whitened and asked many questions about their strength. Your presence is needed here. Come as soon as can be arranged.