by Louise Clark
"As I mentioned to you last night, my lord," Longrin was saying, "blood was found near the site of the robbery. We are certain the victim's ball made contact and that the highwayman was indeed wounded. That is why I know the fellow will not be abroad tonight or, I believe, over the next few nights. Also, he will be abed with a sudden illness. Once I have found such a person, I am sure I will have my criminal."
"Your plan sounds quite despicable, Captain," Madeleine said stringently. "I disapprove of the very idea of a soldier prying into the privacy of our tenants. Why, what you are doing is nothing more than terrorizing these good people! You are as bad as the highwayman you seek. No, worse!"
Longrin colored. "Pardon me, my lady, if I sound curt, but I must ignore your outburst. Women," he added, speaking to Nicholas man-to-man, "have a tendency to be distressingly emotional about the oddest subjects."
Nicholas stood, dismissing the man. "My aunt expresses my feelings on this matter precisely, Captain Longrin," he said haughtily. "The people of Silverbrooke are my people, Longrin, and I know them well. I do not believe any one of them is the criminal you seek." Narrowing his eyes, he added a thread of menace to his voice, "Go carefully, sir, for if I find that you have arrested an innocent, I will make sure you regret the day you were ordered into this area. Good-bye."
Thoroughly chagrined, the Captain abruptly set his cup down, rattling the fine china. "Is that a threat, my lord?" he blustered.
"I do not make threats, Longrin. I make promises. Is that clear?"
Gritting his teeth, the dragoon officer nodded. "Your position is quite clear, my lord."
As Longrin bowed to Madeleine, Tony jumped to his feet. "I'll see you out, Captain." He looked over at Nicholas and winked. His cousin almost groaned and hoped luck had been on their side, and the Captain had not seen Tony's irresponsible hint.
"What a horrible man," Madeleine remarked as the door closed. "I expect Tony is trying to coax more information from him. I'm sure he will. The good Captain is not long on the diplomatic skills he abhors."
"What a damned problem of a man," Nicholas retorted, wandering over to the fireplace to look up at the brooding portrait of Charles Stuart above the mantel. "He'll chase his highwayman until he's caught him, or until he's convinced that the fellow has slipped away to victimize another area. Then, most likely, he'll follow him there. Until Longrin is satisfied that Silverbrooke is not the home of the robber, Stephanie will not be safe."
"Yes," Madeleine agreed slowly. She poured herself more tea. "Nicholas, there is another problem that has been concerning me since I learned of Stephanie's wound. I did not want to broach the subject while Tony was present, but now..."
Nicholas returned to his chair and sat down rather heavily. "You are worried about Stephanie's reputation."
"Precisely. In order to dress her injury you must have removed her outer garments, possibly even her shirt. Nicholas, for you to have seen an unmarried woman of Stephanie's class unclothed is a grave stigma on her reputation. Should word of this ever become known..."
He smiled. "Aunt, your concern does you great credit, but pray do not worry. I have sworn to Stephanie that I will protect her, and I shall. She will come to no harm from last night's folly. Or from the intimacy we shared. I swear it."
Madeleine's eyes narrowed. How much she had read into his words, Nicholas could not decide, but she nodded her acceptance of his promise. Her eyes were fierce, though, when she said, "I shall hold you to that, you know."
Amusement leapt into his eyes. "Aunt, you terrify me."
"Impudent man," she said affectionately, just as Tony reentered, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction.
"Longrin was as hot as a pepper, but I managed to cool him down. In response, he gave me some very useful information."
"Such as?"
"The highwayman always rides a black blood horse with no white markings and wears a dark blue coat."
"We know the color of Stephanie's clothes," Nicholas said absently, "but the details of the horse are a fine piece of detection. Anything else?"
Tony began to laugh. "Yes. The highwayman speaks with an accent, Irish perhaps. Longrin is almost certain the fellow isn't Irish though, but merely feigns an Irish accent to disguise his own. He doesn't do it very well, apparently."
"An accent," Nicholas repeated softly. The glimmerings of a plan began to form in his mind. "Suppose the highwayman reappears tonight, healthy and active once more. Suppose, too, that he is riding a different horse. What could the good captain think but that it was the horse that was wounded, not the rider? That would put an end to all of his plans to scour the neighborhood for those suddenly ill. Tony, I will need your help tonight. We're going to turn every assumption the captain has made on its head. I doubt he's flexible enough to put them aright."
* * *
A gentle spring rain had been falling when Captain Longrin had arrived at Silverbrooke Manor. It continued to fall as Nicholas sat on a large brown horse, with no particular markings to identify it. The leaves of the trees provided some cover from the wet, but Nicholas had been involved in activities in France where the weather had been far more unkind. He saw no reason to complain. Tony was not so sanguine.
"This is a devilish plan of yours, Nick," he grumbled, wrapping his cloak more securely about himself in a vain attempt to shield his body from the wet. "Who is going to be mad enough to travel on such an evening?"
"If nothing else, the dragoons should be out," Nicholas said grimly. "I want to rob a coach, or at least have them to see me tonight. I care not which."
Baxter sighed. "When you described your plan, I thought that it would be exciting. I was wrong," he noted gloomily. "Stephanie must have been truly desperate to spend so many evenings doing this."
Nicholas's lips hardened. "She was." The sound of horses hooves and the jingle of harnesses could be heard. He lowered his voice. "Right, Tony. You know your part?"
Baxter nodded. There was a gleam of excitement in his eyes now. "I am to watch for the dragoons, and should they appear, I will fire my pistol to warn you and then lead them away."
"If you absolutely have to," Nicholas corrected him gruffly. Tony was resourceful, but inexperienced in the role of fox to hunters. The last thing Nicholas wanted was to have Tony arrested as the highwayman.
The gleam of lanterns through the trees, which crowded close to both sides of the road, heralded the arrival of the coach. It was moving slowly, an easy target. Too easy perhaps? Nicholas waited, keyed up, but when the vehicle lumbered into sight he was not able to identify anything unusual that would indicate a trap. "Go," he whispered to Baxter. He did not wait to see what his cousin was doing, but put his heels to the brown horse's sides and burst from the shadow of the trees at a full, intimidating gallop.
The coachman hauled his beasts to a stop and put up his hands as Nicholas bore down on him. Nicholas slowed his mount and drew the pistol he had tucked into his breeches. With it he pointed at the musket prominently displayed on the driver's box. "Throw the musket onto the ground," he said, watching the man warily.
The driver cautiously lowered his hands; then, every movement slow and deliberate, he picked up the weapon. "I'd heard tell the scurvy rogue who was makin' a nuisance of hisself on this stretch o' road was done in last night."
Nicholas cocked his pistol. "Sure, 'n ye heard wrong, my fine bucko. Now, don't be doin' anythin' stupid!" he added, as the coachman's fingers closed around the stock of the musket. With deliberate care, Nicholas aligned the man in his sights and prepared to fire.
For the space of a few seconds that seemed to stretch into hours, the driver held the musket, poised. Across the distance separating them, his eyes dueled with Nicholas's steely glare. Then, with a stifled curse, he threw the weapon onto the ground.
Nicholas lowered his pistol, more relieved than he cared to admit. "Sure 'n ye be a sensible fellow, bucko. Better a live coward than a dead hero, I say."
The coachman retorted profanely, makin
g Nicholas laugh as he guided his horse to the doorway of the carriage. The remainder of the robbery was anticlimatic.
Unlike the fat man who had shot Stephanie, the victim in this robbery tamely handed over his purse and even offered Nicholas his snuffbox.
"Keep yer baubles," Nicholas growled. "'Tis coin I want and nothin' more." He eased his horse away and made sure he mimed the salute that Tony had once told him marked the highwayman as unique. Then he put his heels to the sides of his mount and raced for the cover of the trees.
He did not stop until he was well away from the site of the robbery. Then he guided his horse toward a prearranged meeting place. He found Baxter there looking gloomy.
"Not a dragoon in sight," he announced. "I rode about looking for them after you'd finished with the coach, but couldn't find one. I suspect they decided not to come out in the rain."
He sounded aggrieved and Nicholas grinned. "Well, you will be glad to know we can retire to Silverbrooke now. I've done what I wanted to do. The coachman will be sure to report the robbery at the first posting house he comes to and Longrin will hear of it. That's all I care about."
* * *
Over the next several evenings, Nicholas robbed coaches while Tony served as lookout. By deliberately widening the area in which the robberies took place, Nicholas slowly led the dragoons away from the vicinity of Silverbrooke Manor.
By the fifth evening, he was satisfied that Stephanie was out of danger. Only that afternoon, Tony had spoken to Captain Longrin, who admitted that he had misjudged the situation and was preparing to move his operation to a neighboring county. Stephanie was up and about, favoring her injured shoulder a trifle, but not enough for most people to notice. In a few days, Nicholas intended to return to London. There the possibility of suspicion would be well behind her.
That night, Nicholas returned to Silverbrooke feeling tired and not a little relieved that his midnight excursions were over. He stripped off his gloves as he ran lightly up the stairs. Tony had come back a few minutes earlier, while Nicholas had seen to their mounts. He suspected that his cousin would miss the excitement of the chase when he was once more in London, despite his nightly protestations of boredom.
Nicholas's movements were calculated not to rouse the stillness of the sleeping house, but they were not furtive. As a gentleman of rank and power, he had a great deal more freedom than a young lady of good breeding, such as Stephanie. Should he be seen returning to his home late at night, the servants would simply assume that he had been out for an evening of pleasure and think nothing more about it.
Reaching his suite, he opened the door without concern, but on the threshhold he stopped. A wraith-like form draped in a voluminous bedgown of fine lawn rose from the chair by the empty fireplace.
"Vraiment," Stephanie gasped. "It is as I thought."
Nicholas stepped into the room, carefully shutting the door behind him. "You shouldn't be here."
"All the servants can speak about is the highwayman and the horse that was shot, and the way he continues his fearless attacks under the noses of the troops." She released a ragged sigh. "But the highwayman was shot and marauds no more. I know, for I am he! So, I say to myself, who could this highwayman be?" She glided toward Nicholas in the dim light. Reaching him, she put her hands on his chest as she looked up into his eyes. "Why do you do this for me? It is perilous and not very exciting. I know," she repeated, for emphasis.
He caught her wrists in his hands. Easing away from the tempting proximity of her body, he said, "Unless the highwayman continued his midnight rides after the shooting, you might have been suspected. I could not allow that."
"You are a very different man from the one I first met in London," Stephanie murmured, her eyes scanning his hard features. "Then I thought you had abandoned the power and obligations of your position as one of the great nobles of England. But I was wrong, was I not? You have not abdicated your power, you have merely channeled it elsewhere." Her eyes were shadowed. "To more dangerous places, I think."
A wry smile quirked on Nicholas's hard mouth. "You are a fine one to talk of danger, ma chère."
His accent was perfect, Stephanie noticed at once. "I thought you did not know any French."
He laughed softly. "A few words." His lips brushed hers gently. "All the important ones." Stephanie put her hands on his shoulders as she pressed her body against his. Desire snaked inside Nicholas and he warned himself that there were different forms of danger. Still, he did not move as Stephanie's seductive voice flowed around him. "I cannot know where you gained the experience to outwit the soldiers, but I can guess. In France, non?"
"Stephanie, that part of my life is over," he said huskily, disturbed by the brooding he saw in her eyes.
At his words she smiled a little. "For that I am grateful. I would not want to lose both of the men who are—" Her voice wavered, then steadied. "Both of the men who are so very precious to me. Make love to me, milord Nicholas. Tonight I need to know that you are safe, strong, and warm beside me."
"Stephanie, this isn't wise," he protested raggedly. "We'll be returning to London in a few days..."
"And in London we will not be so private as we are here. Nicholas"—she touched his cheek entreatingly—"make love to me. Tonight, and tomorrow, and every night until we leave Silverbrooke."
"Temptress," he said, but he lowered his mouth to hers.
Their lovemaking was by turns sweet and fiery. They played and explored one another as they had not been able to do their first night together. By the time Nicholas joined Stephanie cascading over the precipice, she knew that whatever her future, her heart would always belong to Nicholas, Earl of Wroxton.
He nuzzled the damp skin on her shoulder with decided masculine satisfaction, "The taste of you intoxicates me," he muttered.
Stephanie laughed softly. "That, milord, is as it should be."
He laughed too; then for a time there was silence. Stephanie thought he had drifted off to sleep when he said quietly, "Promise me you will not put yourself in such danger again."
Swallowing, Stephanie said, "I cannot."
"Because of your father?"
"Yes."
He caught her up in his arms so that she could see his expression clearly. "You guessed before that I had knowledge of France."
She nodded.
"Then know this, Stephanie de la Riviére. If the political situation there becomes more violent, I will go to Paris myself and meet with your father. If he wants to leave France, I will make the arrangements. I will not allow you to endanger yourself further in this cause. Nor would your father thank me if I did."
A small smile quirked her mouth. "You are very forceful. Do I have a choice?"
He laughed and kissed her nose. "No."
They lay quietly for a moment, then Stephanie said softly, "Nicholas."
"Hmmm?" His eyes were closed. The dark lashes rested against the hard line of his cheek, making his expression somehow vulnerable.
"Nicholas, was there ever any letter from my papa, appointing you my guardian?"
His eyes flew open in shock. "God's Teeth. I'd forgotten about that."
"Then there was no letter." There was satisfaction in her voice, "I'm glad."
"The letter," he said regretfully, "was the idea of my reprobate sister. I was needed in London and we knew that Aunt Madeleine would never allow me to stay at Wroxton House unless the official relationship between us was unblemished."
She touched his cheek and sighed, a gentle whisper of contact that was gone too soon. "And so it shall be when we return. We cannot meet like this in London, milord."
"I know," he whispered. He drew her against him. "For now, we have the present. Let us make the most of it."
Chapter 13
"It is quite certain that the Austrians will be in Paris by September." The slender young man seated beside Stephanie was suitably grave as he made his pronouncement. "With the French army in its current state of disarray, it would be foolish to believe
otherwise."
Lord Lougheed held a minor post in the Foreign Office, which was the only reason Stephanie listening to him with such painful intensity. Normally, she found that people in England lacked any understanding of France's complex politics. She reminded herself that it was not only the English, but the émigrés themselves who were blindly certain that France's desperate declaration of war against Austria had been the beginning of the end for the revolutionary government.
Stephanie, however, could not join in the general jubilance. In the three years since the Estates General had been called to help the King sort out his financial woes, the revolution had lurched from one crisis to the next. Each time was the end, according to the supporters of the old regime, and each time the new order managed to survive the crisis, becoming stronger and more angry than before.
"I had heard Prussia was to enter the war on the side of Austria. Is that true, Monsieur?"
"The Emperor has sworn to place King Louis back on his throne," Lougheed said carefully, answering her question with commonly known information. "My dear Mademoiselle, what matter who saves France from its own excesses? By September the revolution will be over and you may return to your home." He touched the small, unobtrusive knot in his neckcloth as he added hastily, "Not that we are anxious for you to be gone, you understand."
A shiver ran through Stephanie. September was a little over four months away, four long, hot summer months during which anything could happen. "I hope you are correct, Monsieur," she said softly, meaning every word.
Lord Lougheed preened. He was a conservative young man, both in his manner of speech and his clothing. The chocolate-brown coat he wore was of the finest cloth, and fashionably cut to fit close, but the stand-fall collar was not very high and the skirts of the coat tapered to a decent length. With the dark-colored coat he wore a beige, double-breasted waistcoat with wide lapels, and tan breeches. To emphasize his dislike of the changes taking place in France, as was the fashion, his shirt sleeves and neckcloth were both fringed with the finest lace. "You may rest assured I am, my dear Mademoiselle. Now that the French forces have lost their officer corps, winning the war is impossible. The rabble won't fight without the proper discipline, you know. And discipline means seasoned officers who know how to command."