She stifled a sigh, and kissed and comforted him. And knew that their one hope was that Blake Coville should offer for her.
* * *
A wind came up during the night increasing in strength until it whistled in the chimneys and sent curtains billowing on their rods. Long schooled to react to any unusual sound, Diccon was wide awake with the first creak of a protesting floorboard. A door slammed somewhere, and from Mrs. Cordova’s bedchamber, directly above his own, came the sounds of a casement being cranked shut. All then was quiet, save for the wind, but he could not get back to sleep.
He could see again that dainty orange gown, the ribbon in the soft curls, the brief look of alarm in the big green eyes when Mrs. Cordova had implied that Eric Warrington was in Town instead of being at Cambridge. Sir Lionel had accused Marietta of “putting on a Friday face.” It would seem that she had good reason for anxiety. All three ladies worked long and hard, and it was very obvious that they had been accustomed to a far more luxurious way of life. When Marietta wasn’t dusting, sweeping, polishing, mending, helping her aunt sew the effigies, or caring for Arthur, she had to organize the household and deal with tradespeople and duns. Miss Marietta, who deserved the very best the world could offer, had enough to bear. If this brother of hers was as rackety as her sire—
He frowned into the darkness. Sir Lionel seemed a fond parent, but he was the type of man who, having willingly shifted his responsibilities onto his daughter’s slender shoulders, might not be above pushing her into a loveless marriage so as to restore his finances. It didn’t bear thinking of that so exquisite a creature should be sold to a crudity like Innes Williard.
He tossed restlessly. His occupation and an innate shyness had prevented him from acquiring a reputation as a ladies’ man, but he was not a stranger to the fair sex. As an embittered seventeen-year-old he had loved deeply and with tragic consequences. Years after Grace’s death, a dashing and seductive émigré comtesse had laughed at and teased her “charming boy,” but taught him so much of the tender passion. Poor Danielle had then declared she’d taught him too well and that she couldn’t live without him. His quiet and then firm reminders that she was a married lady and they must be discreet had been brushed aside. She had instead pursued him so blatantly that he’d been unable to avoid a duel with her husband, which had unleashed a regular hornet’s nest of scandal in Mayfair and ire in Whitehall. He smiled nostalgically. Quite a woman had been the comtesse. Yvette in Normandy had been a very different type; youthful, uncomplicated, undemanding, not two thoughts in her pretty head, but glowing with joi de vivre. In Spain, the fiery Dolores had loved him devotedly—until she’d been taken under the wing of a wealthy rag merchant.
He had been fond of them all; and had loved only Grace. True love had not come to him again until now, when he was unable to claim it, and all but powerless to help the lady who had so completely stolen his heart. He should leave here quickly, and yet, if this was the only chance he would ever have to be near her, how could he bear to go? Well, he must, that’s all, because the longer he stayed to admire her courage and resourcefulness, her kindness, her beauty, the harder it would be to break away. Yes, he would be sensible. Tomorrow, he would leave. Or, perhaps the day after. Meanwhile, his throat was dry as dust. He got out of bed and pulled on the dressing gown that Yves had had the foresight to bring with his clothes.
Candle in hand he crept along the corridor although the wind was blustering so that there was small chance of those in the upstairs bedrooms hearing him. Light still gleamed from the door to the dining room. He paused, then moved on more soundlessly than ever. The door was ajar. Cautiously, he pushed it a little wider.
Marietta sat at the table sifting through what must only be a pile of bills and making notes on a sheet of paper. He drew back as she stood and crossed to the sideboard. She took out an ornate ginger jar, returned to her chair, and shook banknotes and coins from the jar. The counting of these was obviously disappointing, and she bowed her head into her hands, looking tired and despairing. His heart wrung, it was all he could do not to go to her at once and try to comfort her. But he was a stranger, newly come into their lives. How mortified she would be if she knew he’d watched her.
He backed away, therefore, and returned to his room, seething with anger that she should have to sit all alone in the middle of the night, struggling with all those bills and that pitiful little pile of cash. Probably trying to scrape together the funds to meet tuition costs for a brother who had carelessly left school to “go into London for a change, poor darling.” “I’d ‘poor darling’ him,” he muttered savagely.
He sat on the bed and waited. About half an hour later he heard the stairs creak, but he let another half-hour drag by before venturing into the corridor once more.
There was no light in the dining room now, and the door stood wide. He groped his way to the sideboard and took down the ginger jar.…
* * *
“The thing is,” panted Capitan Rodolfo as he helped Diccon lift “Mrs. Hughes-Dering” into the donkey cart, “there’s not much good holding up a stagecoach if there’s no one in it.”
Diccon agreed to the wisdom of this, but pointed out, “We already have Freddy Foster and—”
“Sir Fred’rick,” corrected Capitan Rodolfo, straightening the mask which had shifted around, blinding him. “Not “Freddy.” We don’t know him!”
“Sorry. I forgot. How many more passengers will we need?”
The dashing Capitan hesitated. “I ’spect such a famous highwayman wouldn’t bother with a coach ’less it had at least three victims. Eh?”
“Probably not. In that case, I think we’d better fetch out Lady Dora Leith. She’s a passenger to delight any highwayman.”
The Capitan looked dubious. “I dunno if Etta’s finished her yet. We could bring Miles Cam’ron.”
“We could. But Capitan Rodolfo liked the ladies, don’t forget.”
“He did?” Astonished, the daring highwayman asked, “Why?”
“Well, he was a Spaniard, you know. A Latin.” This evoking nothing more than puzzled incomprehension, Diccon said with a lurking smile, “Latin gentlemen are particularly fond of the ladies. Capitan Rodolfo always kissed them, before stealing their diamonds.”
“Ugh!” exclaimed Arthur, revolted. “How ’gusting! Then I won’t be him! Who else? I dunno if Robin Hood held up stagecoaches.”
“I think they’d not been invented then, old fellow. You might consider The Dancing Master. He was very successful for a time, and so far as I know they never hanged him.”
Arthur was dubious. He would prefer, he said ghoulishly, to be a rank-rider who had met his end facing his captors with a scoffing laugh before swinging on the great gallows known as Tyburn Tree. Diccon provided some more likely candidates, but Devil Dice was dismissed as being “too new”; the Hounslow Horror’s preference to shoot his victims through the eye lacked appeal; and although his famous mare, Black Bess, was an inducement, Dick Turpin’s humble start in life as a butcher had a certain lack of dash. Diccon wasn’t quite as sure as his fellow-conspirator that Mrs. Cordova “wouldn’t mind a bit” if her “friends” were borrowed, and he pointed out that time was passing and it might be as well to press on with the scheme. Bowing to such logic, Arthur took off his mask and required that it be re-tied. “I’ll change to The Dancing Master,” he announced. “An’ you’re the stagecoach driver.”
This being decided, they went in search of the third passenger, and “Lady Dora Leith” was carried out to the donkey cart-cum-stagecoach.
It was a bright, if rather cloudy morning. The wind was still blowing, flapping The Dancing Master’s cloak as he climbed onto the seat beside Diccon. Lem Bridger had driven Marietta and Fanny to Cloud Village to pay the chandler’s bill and purchase candles, chicken feed, oats, and other such vital necessities. Mrs. Cordova had intended to stay at home, but when she had suddenly recalled an appointment and hurried off to Madame Olympias’ caravan, Arthur had seized
the moment to fill the doomed “stagecoach.”
The highwayman laid out the route, Friar Tuck joined the expedition and was appointed Stagecoach Guard, and, Mr. Fox having been bribed with an old shopping list, the conspirators set forth.
They had been gone only a few minutes when Sir Lionel wandered up from his workroom in search of someone to try out the new flea trap. The house had that oddly flat feel that tells of the absence of human beings. Sir Lionel shouted a few times, but then had a vague recollection of Marietta telling him that she and Fanny were going shopping. He supposed they must have taken Dova with them. Major Diccon also appeared to be off somewhere, probably with Arthur. It was good of the fellow to be so patient with the child, who seemed to regard him as his own personal property. He padded rather disconsolately into the withdrawing room. Not a soul. Not … a … soul! He brightened. This was his chance, by Jupiter! On the thought he ran up the stairs at quite remarkable speed, and within ten minutes was hurrying down again, clad in riding coat and buckskins.
Only yesterday when he’d admired Orpheus, the Major had asked if he’d care to accompany him on a ride, offering to take one of their hacks for his own mount. Sir Lionel flattered himself that he had been used to cut quite a dash exercising his big black in Hyde Park. Of course, Moonlight had not been quite as sprightly as Orpheus. A fine animal, though, and plenty of spirit for a nineteen-year-old. Still, like any other man, Sir Lionel did not care to make a spectacle of himself and had been secretly relieved when Marietta had forbidden that Diccon should ride yet, thus enabling him to decline the offer. The Major had offered, though, and if he had meant to limit his invitation to a time when they would ride out together, he’d not said as much. Exactly.
The stallion rolled his eyes and stamped about a bit while he was being saddled up, but made only a small show of biting, or flattening his ears. Sir Lionel utilized the mounting block, then guided the big horse out of the yard. The stallion tossed his head and snorted, eager to run. Sir Lionel’s pulses quickened as he felt the power of the animal. If he was obliged to cling to the pommel a few times when Orpheus danced in a circle, why, there was no one to see, and he was at least keeping his seat. He managed to hold to a walk, then to a trot. When Orpheus broke into an impatient canter, his heart began to pound, rather, but—oh! the silken gait, the proud crest! What a horse! Perhaps, when they were up the hill a little way and past these trees he would dare to touch the smooth sides with his spurs. There, they were clear now, and—
An oncoming rider and a scream caused him to pull back on the reins, and his heart thudded into his boots. He knew that voice and thought a panicked, ‘Devil take it, she’s cornered me again!’
In this instance, he wronged the widow. Mrs. Isolde Maitland was a handsome woman with a superb figure, luxuriant auburn hair, and well-cut features. If her hazel eyes were bold, they were also large and bright, but they looked better than they saw. In fact, the widow was short-sighted, and as her brother repeatedly warned, she should wear her spectacles instead of hiding them in a drawer. She had not glimpsed Sir Lionel through the trees and was really startled when he burst into sight. It took only an instant, however, for her quick wits to seize this golden opportunity, and she said with a breathless little laugh, “My goodness, dear sir, you are so sudden! How you frightened me, you daring thing! You may go now, Murphy. I shall be quite safe with Sir Lionel.” A brisk wave of her hand dismissed her following groom who rode off, hiding a smirk. “At least, I think I will be safe,” she added coyly.
Sir Lionel said in a hollow voice, “You’re far from home, ma’am.”
“Can you guess why I so often ride this way?” she purred, urging her brown mare closer.
Orpheus snorted and bucked, and Sir Lionel clung desperately to the pommel. “Best not … venture too close,” he gasped, surviving the threat without a marked degree of skill. “He’s—he’s somewhat of a handful.”
“Ah, but not for such an accomplished rider as yourself.” She narrowed her eyes, peering at the grey. “What a large creature! And how well you look in the saddle, dear Sir Lionel. Though, I vow, were I your lady I would be terrified to see you up on such a brute. But then, I was ever protective of those I … love.”
Sir Lionel quailed inwardly, and took refuge in silence.
Undaunted, she swept on, “I’d no least notion you enjoyed a morning canter. I wonder if you will be so generous as to allow me to share your rides?”
“Oh, he ain’t—ain’t mine, ma’am,” gulped Sir Lionel, allowing Orpheus to trot. “Belongs to a fellow who stays with us. Temporarily, that is.”
“Ah, yes. My dear brother told me of your—er, guest. Not a very charming one, I gather. Poor Innes was rather hurt to receive such Turkish treatment at your hands. Under the circumstances.… But I told him that you’d not have allowed it for an instant! Sir Lionel Warrington, I said, is the very soul of honour, and would never permit his bosom bow to be insulted. Especially since our two families seem likely to become even more … close.”
As if to emphasize her words, she leaned nearer. “I should not flatter you, sir, but—I am just a silly girl with little willpower. So I will confess that I have such an admiration for you! It fairly wrings my heart to see a lonely gentleman struggling to deal with a large family without a lady at his side. Truly, you are the type to throw other men into the shade and make a girl’s heart beat faster! Yes, I own it, though it makes me blush! My dear brother says I must not betray my feelings or you will think me fast, but I told him—no such thing. Sir Lionel Warrington has been about the world, I said. He would understand a lady’s heart. I have no fears on that head, I said. And furthermore…”
On she went. Flapping her eyelashes at him in that appallingly coy way. The least misstep and she would claim he’d popped the question. And she wouldn’t be a gentle and loving wife as darling Elsa had been, for Isolde Maitland cared not a rap for anything but the title. He could speak plainly, of course, and advise her to set her sights on some other poor fellow. Only, burn it! he owed Innes that confounded five thousand! If only he could escape! If only he’d stayed at home! She’d never have caught him had he not ventured out.
CHAPTER VII
“Jus’ give me time to find a good place to lurk, please,” said The Dancing Master. “An’ then you come, an’ I’ll jump out waving my trusty horse pistol, an’ being a Very Vill’nous Rank Rider, an’ I’ll freeze your blood when I roar, ‘Stand an’ d’liver!’” He removed the “Guard” from his lap and climbed down from the donkey cart, practising his Villainous Scowl, then asked anxiously, “Has you brought something to d’liver?”
Diccon had persuaded Bridger to make a few purchases in the village, and he admitted to having some “valuables” stashed away, this bringing a beam to interfere with the scowl. “But you’d best not roar terribly loud, Villainous Rank Rider,” he cautioned. “Mr. Fox is sensitive and we mustn’t upset him.”
The Dancing Master nodded, and hurried off along the lane scowling busily.
Amused, Diccon watched that hop, skip, and jump progress. A fine little chap was Master Arthur Warrington. Briefly, he dreamed a dream of himself and Marietta comfortably settled into a charmingly refurbished Lanterns, and with little children playing around them.
He started when there came a distant shout. He was forgetting his duties. The Guard was sound asleep. He grinned and slapped the reins on Mr. Fox’s back, and the “stagecoach” rattled up the slope.
Safely hidden at the bend of the lane, pistol in hand, and mask in place, The Dancing Master waited, tense with excitement. The hoofbeats were confusing as they seemed to be coming from higher up the lane, instead of from below. But now they were upon him.
With a high-pitched squeal, he leapt from his place of concealment and roared, “Stand an’ d’liver!” whereupon several things happened very rapidly.
Two riders cantered around the corner from the north at the same instant that the “stagecoach” arrived from the south.
; Already irritable because of the slow pace and the human who bounced so ineptly on his back, Orpheus let out a scream of fright, and reared, his hoofs flailing at the air.
Diccon sprang up, shouting, “Out of the way, boy!”
Arthur hurled himself aside.
Friar Tuck awoke like an uncoiled spring and shot under Mr. Fox’s nose, yowling a protest.
Startled, the little donkey brayed shatteringly and tried to bolt, causing Diccon to be flung back on the seat.
Trying to control her scared mare, whose nerves were not helped by the wild gyrations of Orpheus, Mrs. Maitland shrilled, “Warrington, hold your brute still!” She squinted at the donkey cart. “Isn’t that … Dora Leith?”
Diccon grabbed for the reins, but the widow’s piercing tones further upset poor Mr. Fox, who essayed a buck. The cart rocked wildly, and “Lady Leith” was tossed out.
Arthur had been correct. Marietta hadn’t quite finished the “lady.” In fact, parts of “her” were only tacked in place. The fall was fatal.
Mrs. Maitland’s was not a kindly nature, but she had not seen this latest addition to Mrs. Cordova’s collection, and believed she witnessed a decapitation. Her shriek was ear-splitting and sent Orpheus into a shy that propelled Sir Lionel into a soaring flight cut short by the law of gravity. Fortunately, his plump form cushioned the widow when she slid from the saddle in a dead faint.
Marietta and Fanny had encountered Innes Williard in the village, and the gentleman had insisted that he and his head groom escort their coach on the return journey. They came upon the scene in time to see Sir Lionel sprawled in the dirt, clutching the widow in his arms.
“Papa!” cried Marietta, trying to open the coach door.
“Whatever are you doing?” gasped Fanny.
Not one to miss an opportunity, Mr. Williard thundered, “Unhand my sister, sir!”
“Eh?” said Sir Lionel, dazed.
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