by Jane Feather
She grinned to herself, remembering the last occasion when he’d held up the coach that had contained the witch Cornelia and the Earl of Gifford’s rent rolls. Presumably Ben had information about another richly loaded conveyance crossing the heath.
Octavia gave the matter no further reflection. She ran to the armoire, pulled out her riding habit, boots, and cloak. Five minutes later, she was dressed. She pinned her hair out of the way in a knot on top of her head, slung her cloak around her shoulders, and drew the hood up over her head.
At the door she stopped. Highwaymen wore masks. With a chuckle of pure exhilaration, she took a black silk loo mask from a drawer and slipped it into the pocket of her cloak. Then she ran downstairs.
“Griffin, I shall not be here for dinner. Mr. Morgan is at the circulating library at the moment, but make my excuses when he returns. Explain that Lord Rupert and I have an unexpected engagement.”
“Yes, my lady.” Griffin opened the front door, concealing his surprise. “May I summon a chair for you?”
“No, thank you.” Without further explanation she jumped lightly down the steps and hastened to the mews. Her own dappled mare was fine for riding in the park, but not for a highwayman’s work. She would take Peter again. Rupert, of course, would be riding Lucifer.
She waited while the groom put her saddle on the big roan. Rupert rode the distinctive silver stallion around town as often as he rode Peter. Octavia found it an extraordinary piece of recklessness for a man who planned with such care and foresight, She kept waiting to hear someone who’d fallen victim to Lord Nick on his silver mount exclaim in recognition of the singular horse.
Rupert laughed when she expressed these fears, and his eyes glittered with enjoyment at the defiant challenge he was throwing to the fates. One needed to take risks if one were not to fall asleep at life, he said. Octavia considered a highwayman’s existence to be sufficiently risky without courting disaster, and yet she couldn’t help responding to the boldness of his challenge. A challenge she was now taking up herself.
She mounted Peter with the aid of the mounting block and walked him out of the mews. She hadn’t ridden him sidesaddle before, but the giant horse seemed no more perturbed by the unfamiliar weight and position of his rider than he had when she’d ridden him bareback with only a halter.
The five miles to the Royal Oak took less than an hour, and the April evening was drawing in as Octavia halted Peter at the corner of the street leading to the inn. The horse raised his head and sniffed the wind, then turned without guidance toward the inn and the familiar stable.
“No, wait a minute, Peter.” Octavia pulled back on the reins. Peter stopped, patient puzzlement in every muscle. If she made herself known at the Royal Oak, there was no telling what reception she would get. If Rupert was there, he would be bound to insist she stay at the inn while he went about his business on the heath. And if he wasn’t there, Ben or Bessie would be sure to make difficulties.
However, she didn’t think Rupert would be at the Royal Oak. It was not yet dark, and there would still be traffic across the heath. Lord Nick would already be in position, waiting for his particular quarry.
Octavia tied the loo mask behind her head. It had the most astonishing effect. She felt as if she wasn’t herself, as if she was a participant in some wild and dangerously exciting frolic. Which, of course, was only the truth.
“This way, Peter.” She turned him toward the heath.
Rupert, his own mask in place, sat Lucifer in the concealment of the stand of silver birch. A phaeton, a light postchaise, and a heavy carter’s dray had passed since he’d taken up his position. But he wasn’t waiting for them. He was waiting for the delayed mail coach that, according to Morris, had thrown a wheel in Farnham and was going to be crossing the heath after the evening star appeared.
He sat patient and impassive, and Lucifer, knowing his business as well as his rider, was immobile beneath him. Then from the distance came the sound of the post-horn blowing the tantivy. Lucifer pricked up his ears. Rupert drew the silk scarf up over his mouth; He waited until the drumming of the team and the heavy pounding of the massive iron wheels were so close, the earth seemed to shake. He drew his pistols. Then he moved out onto the narrow ribbon of road that wound across the heath in the gathering shadows.
As he did so, the sound of galloping hooves came from behind him. He jerked his head, ready to pull off the road and be away into the trees before the inconvenient traveler took in anything about him. Then he recognized Peter.
Octavia reached him as the post-horn sounded again, an almost defiant clarion call to embolden the hearts of the coach passengers as they approached the notorious stand of trees.
“I’ve come to help,” Octavia said, laughing with exhilaration, her eyes gleaming at him through the slits in her mask. “But I don’t have any weapons. I can collect the booty while you keep them covered with your pistols.”
“Get off the road!” he commanded, and again she could no more have disobeyed the order than swum against a tidal wave. She pulled Peter into the trees as the horn sounded again and the bright-yellow vehicle swayed and lumbered around the corner at its customary speed of five miles an hour.
Rupert closed his mind to Octavia. He fired over the team’s heads, but the coachman was already hauling back on the reins at the sight of the dreaded figure on his silver horse.
The horses came to a stamping, steaming halt. There was a short silence—a silence that struck Rupert as unusual. Someone always screamed or wailed or blustered. But the coachman sat on his box, the postilions on the leaders; the passengers, riding precariously on the roof with the baggage, huddled into their cloaks but made not a sound. It was as if they were waiting for something.
Then he saw what they were waiting for. Five men had dropped stealthily from the roof at the rear of the coach and now leaped onto the road, out of the shadows. Five Bow Street Runners, primed pistols in their hands.
Octavia didn’t think. She came at them from behind with an echoing, fearsome war cry. They turned almost as one man, and she set Peter at them. The giant roan reared, his hooves flailing, the whites of his eyes rolling, lips drawn back from the bit. The Runners fell back. Rupert fired his second pistol, the bullet whistling through the crown of a hat.
It gave them a minute’s breathing space. But that was enough. Lucifer leaped into the gorse beside the road and was gone, racing through the trees. Peter needed no encouragement from his own-rider. His nose was against the silver’s tail as they pounded across the turf. Confused shouts came from behind them; a volley of pistols discharged all at once. Octavia ducked her head instinctively, even though she knew they were out of range of the clumsy weapons.
Her heart was racing, keeping pace with Peter’s thundering hooves. She kept her eyes on the silver shape ahead of her and allowed the horse to go as he would.
Then suddenly Lucifer vanished. One minute he was there, the next there was nothing but shadows and the bleak, gnarled specters of trees. Octavia’s heart seemed to stop, and terror filled her. She was alone on the heath. Lord Nick and Lucifer had vanished into the earth—the devil into outer darkness.
But Peter was plowing ahead. He turned into a thick screen of greening bracken. A white rock face glimmered, and then the horse plunged forward into a dark crevice and Octavia found herself in a small black space. She could smell hot horseflesh, hear Peter’s panting breaths matching those of Lucifer.
“Something of a surprise,” Rupert said evenly out of the darkness.
“They were waiting for you,” Octavia said. “They knew you would be there.”
“Yes, I believe you’re right. However, that wasn’t the surprise I was referring to.”
He sounded at his most sardonic. As cool and ironic as if they were sitting by the fire in Dover Street discussing the progress of an evening’s gaming.
Octavia decided now was not the moment to enter into a possibly acrimonious discussion about her presence. “Where are we?”
“In a cave.”
“A cave? On Putney Heath?”
“’Cave’ is rather a grand term for it,” he said. “It’s just a rocky outcrop in the middle of nowhere. With a hole in the middle.”
“Oh.” Octavia’s eyes were beginning to grow accustomed to the darkness, and she could make out the pale shape of Lucifer and his dark rider, so close to her, the stallion’s flanks brushed her legs. “How long will we stay here?”
“Until I say otherwise.” It was a very flat statement.
“But they couldn’t have pursued us on foot?”
“You consider yourself an expert on the methods of Bow Street Runners? Or are you perhaps prescient?”
Octavia winced.
“While we wait, perhaps you’d like to answer a few questions,” Rupert said pleasantly. “Like, for instance, what doubtless brilliant if not inspired piece of reasoning brought you here.”
“Don’t you think that this is now as much—”
“Just a minute,” he interrupted. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I am asking the questions; you, Octavia, are answering them. I repeat: what, in the name of the good Christ, are you doing here?”
“I thought I could help,” she said lamely, shivering. It was cold in the dark damnness of the cave, and the sweat was drying on her body now that the excitement of the chase was over.
“Wrong answer,” he clipped. “Try again.”
Octavia grimaced in the darkness. “But I did think that.”
“No, you did not. Let’s see if you can come up with the correct word for what you were doing.”
Octavia tried to make out his expression in the darkness, but it was impossible. She could only deduce it from his tone, which was as cool and even as she’d ever heard it.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said with another miserable shiver. “It seemed to me that since we’re both playing this game together, then I should be involved in this aspect as well as all the others.”
“Interference,” he said. “’Interference’ is the word you’re looking for, Octavia, and the word I’m waiting to hear. Now, tell me exactly what you are doing here, please. And get it right, this time.”
“Lord of hell,” Octavia muttered. “Very well, I am interfering. Satisfied?”
“I can’t understand how I failed to make my feelings clear the last time it occurred,” he mused. “I had thought I was quite lucid, but obviously not. It must take a sledgehammer to get through to you.”
Octavia didn’t trouble to look for a response. He was far too intent on following his own train of thought to consider any defense she might come up with.
“Clearly, it was a fond hope to rely on the ’word to the wise’ principle,” he continued in the same musing tone. “I should have come up with some consequences to back the word.”
Lucifer stirred and whickered softly. Lord Nick stroked his neck. “You think we’ve been here long enough, old boy?”
He turned the horse to the faint crack of gray light in the rock face, and Lucifer moved forward, his neck stretched, his nose twitching. Horse and rider slid out of the cave, leaving Peter and Octavia alone. To Octavia’s surprise Peter didn’t immediately follow his leader, and she didn’t know whether to urge him forward. In view of the present atmosphere, she thought she’d remain where she was until instructed otherwise.
After a tense couple of minutes Rupert whispered tersely, “Come.”
Peter needed no encouragement. He moved out of the cave into the pale starlight. The usual nighttime sounds of the heath filled the air: the rustles of small animals, the hoot of an owl, the soughing of the wind in the pale new leaf growth.
“Will they have given up?” Octavia whispered.
“I doubt it, but they’ll not be beating this part of the heath for us.” He nudged Lucifer’s flanks, and the horse broke into a trot. Peter followed without prompting.
“Are we going to the Royal Oak?” Octavia broke the silence in a careful whisper.
“No. I don’t lead rats to my friends’ larder.”
Stupid question. Octavia bit her??. “What about the cottage?”
“No. We’re going home, by a somewhat roundabout route. I daresay you’ve forgotten we’re entertaining this evening.”
“Lord of hell,” she muttered again. “You didn’t give it a moment’s thought, either, when you dashed off without a word.”
“On the contrary. I gave it considerable thought. But I was foolish enough to assume you would be there to hold the fort until I returned.”
“Oh.”
“Of course, impetuous interference doesn’t allow for reflection.”
This was growing tedious, Octavia decided. “Are you still going to be unpleasant when we get home?”
“Probably.”
“How unpleasant?”
“Oh, I expect I shall strip you naked, flog you to within an inch of your life, and lock you in the attic for a week with a heel of stale bread and a jug of stagnant water for company.”
“You don’t think that’s a little extreme?”
“No.”
Octavia grinned in the darkness. She glanced at Rupert’s impassive profile, and her grin broadened. “You don’t think two against five to be rather better odds than one?”
There was no response.
“Peter and I did rather well, I thought,” she observed. “We went straight at them without so much as an instant’s hesitation. Of course, it would have been better if I’d had a pistol. Next time I must make sure I’m properly equipped.”
Still no response.
“Of course, I don’t know how to fire a pistol, but I daresay I could learn…. What do you think, Peter? Do you think I could learn? Do you think Lord Nick might be persuaded to teach me? … Yes, I’m so glad you agree. It makes much better sense to alert us to these excursions beforehand. Oh, you think it would be sensible to plan them together … to come up with a strategy so that we don’t have to act impulsively, since impulsive doesn’t seem to find favor? Yes, I quite agree….
“Ah, do you think we’ve made him laugh, Peter? Is that the ghost of a smile …?”
“Octavia, your father has a great deal to answer for,” Rupert remarked. “I’ve always recognized that you were schooled with a very light hand, but I hadn’t realized until now that you must have been allowed to run completely unbridled.”
Octavia chuckled. “My father’s views on child rearing are rather eccentric.”
“Negligent, I would have said.”
“Jesting apart …”
“Who is jesting?”
Octavia scratched her ear and tried again. “To change the subject slightly—do you think the Runners set a trap for you? They don’t usually accompany mail coaches, do they?”
“Not as far as I know.”
They were riding along the south bank of the Thames, through narrow streets quite unfamiliar to Octavia. Ahead, she caught the glimmer of light on what must be Westminster Bridge. They’d approached it by a most unusual route.
“So they must have been expecting you?” she persisted.
“Or someone,” he agreed. “Most surprisingly. Sir John Fielding’s Runners don’t usually show sufficient intelligence to set traps.”
“Did Ben bring you the information about the delayed coach?”
They turned onto the bridge before Rupert answered her with a curt affirmative.
“But you don’t think …?”
“No, I do not.”
“Well, who would have told Ben?”
“Morris, I imagine.”
“Could he …?”
“Possibly.”
Octavia fell silent. If Rupert suspected Morris of betraying him to the Runners, there was no need to belabor the point. Rupert was again taking them through unfamiliar streets, approaching Dover Street by way of back alleys and unfrequented squares. It was most unlikely that the Watch would be on the lookout for them, but he was taking no chances.
“Are we ver
y low on funds?” Octavia asked somewhat tentatively.
“Nothing that I can’t put right at the gaming tables,” he responded.
“But you won’t take to the road again until you find out if there’s a spy at the Royal Oak?” She couldn’t keep the anxiety from her voice.
Rupert turned to look at her under the glow of an oil lamp. The slate-gray eyes glinted with amusement. “Believe me, Octavia, when I make that decision, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Ah,” she said. “I seem to have made my point.”
“But I doubt I’ve made mine,” he commented dryly as
“Oh, I thought we were at peace,” Octavia said, dismounting.
Rupert merely raised an eyebrow and swung off Lucifer, handing the reins to the groom. The house was brilliantly lit.
“It looks as if the party is going on without the benefit of a host and hostess,” he observed, striding to the side door, Octavia on his heels.
Griffin was in the hall as they emerged from the side corridor. “My lord…’ Lady Warwick.” He bowed. “Mr. Morgan is looking after the guests in the salon.”
“My rather?” Octavia looked at Rupert in horror. “But what if Rigby and Lacross are here?”
He took her arm, drawing her toward the stairs away from Griffin. “Go up and change,” he ordered quietly. “You can’t appear in riding dress.”
“Yes, but what if they’re—”
“Go and change,” he repeated in the same tone.
Octavia hesitated for a second, then ran up the stairs. The sound of voices, laughter, the chink of glass came from the salon as she continued up the second flight to her bedchamber. If Dirk Rigby and Hector Lacross had met and recognized her father, then they’d know who she was. Surely they would then be suspicious of the hospitality they were offered? They wouldn’t trust Rupert anymore.
And what of her father? How would he have reacted if he’d recognized them? And surely he would have recognized them, even after three years.
She pulled the bell for Nell and began to throw off her riding dress. What could have possessed her father to assume the role of host? He never showed the slightest desire to take part in the life of the household, apart from joining Rupert and Octavia for dinner when they dined alone. He’d always been reclusive, even at Hartridge Folly shunning the company of all but his few intimates. Octavia had gone into local society chaperoned by the squire’s wife, whose eldest daughter was her own age.