“What was the name of the city where your sister and her husband have settled?” Georgiana asked.
“Barcelona, on the Mediterranean. Emma says it’s filled with artists and sunlight and the warmest people,” Elizabeth said wistfully. “And she says that once we visit, we’ll never want to leave. So when all this is over, and the Trust is fully funded, you and I and Nell will be leaving England—”
“To live in a city of artists, by the sea.” Georgiana smiled. “It sounds lovely.”
“And if we’re fortunate, it may happen even sooner than we’d hoped.” Elizabeth lowered her voice. “At the Rowlands’ tonight, during supper, I overheard some of the men talking. It seems my raids are making Montaigne nervous. He plans to purchase a single huge shipment of gin, sometime this summer, so he won’t have to risk his weekly coach runs anymore. If I could find out—”
“Don’t say it.” Georgiana winced. “Oh, Elizabeth, I know what you’re thinking, but he’ll have a score of men to guard it!”
“Even so, it’s worth considering. If I could find out when and where it’s to take place, I might be able to finish him in one final blow.”
“But won’t he keep the time and place secret?”
Elizabeth nodded. “He’ll try. But his solicitor is holding a masquerade ball next week, and I plan to attend, to find out if the man knows any of the details.”
Before they could discuss it further, the coach rolled to a halt in front of a line of stylish shops. The driver hurried to help them down, and Georgiana slipped him an extra copper for his assistance before sending him on his way.
Arm in arm, trying to appear as if they hadn’t a care in the world, Elizabeth and Georgiana strolled past windows displaying an opulent array of goods: clocks, pewter and china, millinery and ribbons, pyramids of fruit, the latest wigs. Several establishments still had candles burning, the shopkeepers cleaning up from the long day’s business, preparing to open for their aristocratic patrons at seven the next morning.
Finally they stopped before a pair of tall windows crowded with silks, velvets, Scottish plaids and fine English linens. The heavy sign hanging over the entrance read, N. Osgood, Draper.
Elizabeth felt a little jump of anxiety in her stomach, the now familiar combination of anticipation and fear that always accompanied her transformation into Blackerby Swift.
“Evenin’, ladies,” Nell called to them as she opened the door, a broad smile making her delicate features even prettier. She wiped at a strand of blonde hair that had slipped from her bun. “Welcome to Osgood’s. What can I interest ye in this evenin’? A fine Nor’ich crepe, perhaps? Or…” Her voice trailed off as she looked up and down the street. Assured that no one was about, she hustled them inside and closed the door behind them, locking it and pulling the shades.
“Where the blast ye been?” She planted her hands on her hips. “It’s almost eleven! If ye keep comin’ in so late, it’ll look suspicious.”
Georgiana puffed up like a ruffled hen. “We’ve taken every precaution. If we come too early, we might encounter customers. And we hire a different coach each time. No one has reason to suspect we’re anything more than a pair of ladies doing a bit of late-night shopping on our way home from Covent Garden.”
“Well, see that ye be a bit earlier next time,” Nell grumbled, smoothing the skirt of her blue cotton gown.
Elizabeth smiled, knowing that Nell’s gruffness was her way of saying she’d been worried about them. “If the two of you have finished your argument for the evening, would someone kindly help me out of this dress?” She reached behind her and fiddled with the laces as she walked through a maze of satin-upholstered chairs, past counters piled high with bolts of fabric.
Nell followed her to the back of the shop and unlocked a door that concealed a narrow stairway. The apartments above, which usually served as the shopkeeper’s home, held a most unusual array of items.
Elizabeth had already pulled the pins from her hair and was running her fingers through it as she turned into the small bedchamber at the top of the stairs. The room contained no bed, only a table, a washstand, and a small wardrobe in one corner… which opened to reveal a black tricorne sitting on a shelf, with a silver-embossed pistol beside it.
She took off the wedding band she wore and laid it next to the gun, trying to ignore the anxiety she felt as she slipped out of one false persona and into another.
With Nell’s help, she quickly shed her gown, stays, pannier and petticoats. “Why is it, you suppose,” she asked, trying to dispel the worried mood that creased her friend’s brow, “that women are the only ones who have to wear such uncomfortable undergarments?”
“Hmph,” Nell grumbled, taking a white cotton shirt, stockings, and black breeches from the wardrobe. “Because women always think they need to be improvin’ themselves, and men always think they’re bloody perfect just as they are. A man would never admit to wearin’ a special contraption to make his shoulders look bigger, nor his—”
“Nell,” Elizabeth admonished, knowing what other body part her friend was about to mention. “If Georgiana caught you talking like that—”
“She’d give me a tongue lashin’ that would last a fortnight.” Nell chuckled. “I know, Bess, I know.”
Elizabeth couldn’t suppress a grin. It was Nell’s outspoken personality as well as her skill as a draper that made Osgood’s a favorite stop for London ladies. Nell had run the shop alone since her husband’s death four years ago, until a competitor began pursuing her with mergers—of several varieties—on his mind. When she spurned his advances, he swore out an enormous false debt against her and landed her in Fleet. Fortunately, her well-trained clerks had kept the place running until she could return, and her time in prison only added to her flamboyant reputation, attracting more customers than ever and driving her competitor out of business.
“There.” Nell helped Elizabeth into a matching black waistcoat and coat, then handed her the pair of light, square-toed jackboots they’d had specially made in her size. “Cor, Bess, ye look convincin’, but I hate that ye have to do this.”
Enjoying her first truly deep breath of the day, now that she was free of her corset, Elizabeth stood still while Nell brushed her hair and tied it in a queue at her neck. “It won’t be for much longer.”
“I still say ye should let me try me hand at it.”
“Except that you can’t ride a horse at more than a trot without falling off.” Elizabeth grinned.
“I know, I know. And there’s no way Georgi could pass as a man. She’d be as out o’ place as I’d be at one o’ them fancy society parties. Can ye picture her in a frock coat and breeches? Holdin’ a gun on some poor dandiprat?” She slipped into an imitation of Georgiana’s refined, sweet voice. “‘If you please, my lord, might I ask you to hand over your money, if it’s no inconvenience?’”
“Nell,” Elizabeth admonished again. Despite the fact that Nell and Georgiana had almost nothing in common, and baited one another constantly, she knew they felt a deep affection for each other underneath it all.
Nell helped Elizabeth into her greatcoat, then handed her the black tricorne and the silver-chased pistol. “Ye promise me ye’ll be careful tonight, now.”
Elizabeth accepted the heavy weapon reluctantly. She had hunted with her father from the age of seven, helping to keep their inn’s larder well-stocked with rabbits and partridges. Shooting at such small game, she had become rather a good marksman.
But the idea of hurting anyone in the course of her raids made her physically ill. When she had accidentally wounded that other highwayman three weeks ago, she hadn’t been able to sleep for two days.
She hadn’t loaded the weapon since then, and had promised herself it would stay that way. She would trust that the facade of ruthlessness, the threat of violence, and a fast horse would be enough to see her through.
“I promise I’ll be careful.” Elizabeth gave her friend a reassuring smile, and shifted to the Cockney accent Nel
l had spent weeks teaching her. “’Ere, now, ye cove. I’m a lass what’s always careful, don’t you know?”
“Don’t ye know,” Nell corrected crossly.
“Don’t ye know,” Elizabeth repeated, leading the way out of the room and back downstairs. She slipped the pistol into the right pocket of her greatcoat. Checking the left, she found the black mask that would complete her disguise once on the road.
Georgiana waited for them at the foot of the stairs, pacing, one hand on her forehead as if she felt faint. “Are you certain you have to go out, Elizabeth? I really do have a strange feeling about this tonight.” She stopped pacing and shut her eyes, wincing. “Oh, dear. This is quite strong.”
Elizabeth silently busied herself adjusting her tricorne. She looked at Nell, who frowned back at her. “I’m with Georgi. Let this one go, Bess.”
Elizabeth hesitated, then shook her head. This was too important. Every guinea, every shilling meant salvation to a woman or child who would otherwise suffer the horrors of Fleet or Ludgate or Whitechapel.
“It’ll be fine, really.” She buttoned her greatcoat and pulled up the collar, then gave each of them a hug. “Now you two stop worrying about me and start thinking about all we’ll be able to accomplish with Montaigne’s money.”
With that, she slipped out the back door and into the darkened streets of London’s fashionable West End. Her boots echoed on the cobbles as she walked past the well-kept shops and spacious homes.
Once a week, Montaigne’s coaches left London with orders for gin distillers in the north. Since his suppliers refused to deal in the paper currency that was becoming popular among London merchants, the coaches were always loaded with silver or gold.
And she was draining his gin business dry, shilling by shilling.
She hadn’t told Georgiana or Nell about her confrontation three weeks ago with the highwayman who’d called himself the Midnight Raider. They worried about her enough as it was. She could just imagine how upset Georgiana would be, after seeing how troubled she was over Elizabeth’s encounter with Lord Darkridge tonight…
She stopped a few paces further on.
Lord Darkridge… and the Midnight Raider.
She hadn’t thought to put the two together until just now. Between the darkness and the clouds, she had seen very little that night, but the deep voice was certainly similar. Both men were tall. And those intense brown eyes…
Could the infamous Marcus Worthington also be one of England’s most infamous highwaymen?
She dismissed the idea and walked on. What reason could a wealthy earl possibly have for risking his neck on the roads? He would have to be mad.
She stopped again.
Mad was precisely what everyone said the Earl of Darkridge was.
Forcing the thought from her mind, Elizabeth kept going. She had enough real problems to worry about. There was no sense scaring herself with phantoms.
She arrived at the stable where she kept her horse, and twenty minutes later she was riding along the Great North Road, her heart beating fast, her every sense alert for some sign of Montaigne’s midnight coach.
~ ~ ~
The full moon splashed silver-blue light over the hills. Elizabeth caught the sharp scent of crushed leaves on the breeze, heard the cry of a night bird, the swish of wings overhead. Somehow it was all unnerving… yet at the same time, enticing to her senses.
She tied on her mask. It was almost frightening how easily she became part of the night. How gently she surrendered and allowed the darkness to envelope her. Blackerby Swift took over, and Elizabeth slipped away. Playing Lady Barnes-Finchley was an unpleasant chore, but if the truth were told, the freedom she found in this other role, and the risk, stirred something deep within her.
Luck was on her side this night, and she only had to ride a few miles north of the city before she spotted the coach ahead. It was a short, squat carriage with two men up front and an armed footman on the rear axle. She bent low over her horse’s neck, slipping her hand into her pocket and grasping her pistol. Her heart hammering, she urged her mount into a faster pace.
She raced up beside the coach. Drawing the weapon, she took aim at the driver. “Yer money or yer lives, gents!”
Only then did she notice, too late, a pair of men riding far in front of the coach. Guards!
“It’ll be your life tonight, Swift!” one of them shouted. He raised a gun, its barrel glinting in the moonlight.
Elizabeth pulled hard on the reins and her gelding reared. The guard fired as she wheeled about. The shot went wild. She dug her boots into her horse’s flanks and the animal leaped forward.
The footman’s blunderbuss roared, spewing a load of lead shot. Elizabeth gasped as several pieces struck her leg. The rest hit her horse in the shoulder and its high-pitched neigh shattered the night.
Flooded with stark terror, Elizabeth ignored the fiery pain in her thigh and urged the gelding to keep going, galloping back the way she had come, desperately trying to gain distance. The guards raced after her.
She left the road and turned into the fields, hoping to lose them in the trees beyond. She darted a look over her shoulder and now saw a third rider behind the other two.
Oh, God, no! How many guards were there?
She spurred her horse onward. Two more shots rang out, one right after the other. Something hit Elizabeth’s side with a force that half knocked her from the saddle. She yelled in pain and shock, clutching at her horse’s neck, clinging to his mane and the reins while he bucked and pitched in panic.
Her foot twisted in the stirrup. She tried to kick free, terrified of falling helpless beneath his hooves. But she couldn’t hold on any longer. She fell to the ground, yanking her boot free at the last second. Her horse galloped away.
She rolled onto her back, dazed with agony, moaning. Where were the guards? They would be on her in an instant. She clamped a hand to her side, feeling the wetness that soaked her shirt. There was blood all over her waistcoat. Her coat. Everywhere.
She heard another shot and looked toward her pursuers, certain she was about to be killed. To her astonishment, she saw that one of the guards had disappeared. And the other was locked in a hand-to-hand struggle with the third rider, both of them still on horseback. The third man wasn’t a guard—he was masked and garbed all in black. Another highwayman?
The guard was getting the worst of the fight. Flailing wildly at his opponent, he snatched the man’s mask away.
Just before she passed out, Elizabeth realized with stunning clarity that the highwayman was Marcus Worthington.
Chapter 4
Marcus reined his stallion to a sudden, rearing halt, the acrid scent of gunpowder from his now-empty pistols clinging to the air around him. One of the guards lay moaning on the grass a few yards back. The other—the man who had shot Elizabeth—wasn’t making any sound at all. The coach had vanished into the darkness, its driver having left the dangerous job of bringing down the highwaymen to his guards. But where…
Finally he saw her: a short distance away on the moon-washed hillside, her slender form crumpled and still… and so small in that ridiculously large greatcoat.
Marcus froze, fighting an impulse to go to her. He should just ride off. This was what he had wanted: an end to Blackerby Swift’s career. Why was he even hesitating? Someone would find her on the morrow. The hangman at Tyburn would do the rest.
She might even be dead already.
“Hellfire and damnation,” he ground out, dropping the reins and jumping down from the saddle. He covered the distance in a few strides. Knelt beside her. He couldn’t explain why, but he couldn’t leave Elizabeth—if that was even her real name—to die like this. The thought chilled him.
She was still breathing. Still alive. He quickly unbuttoned her greatcoat and started to unbutton the frock coat beneath when he felt the blood. Blood on his hands. His chest constricted. He looked at his palms and a rush of memories came down on him with numbing suddenness.
The moonlit hillside disappeared from his vision, replaced by the gold damask wallpaper in his father’s study, flecked with blood, the polished floorboards, red with it. His father’s blood, everywhere. The gun was covered with it. Marcus’s hands were covered with it. No! Help me! Someone, please help! Montaigne just stood there in the doorway. Marcus began to scream. Please, God, no…
Reeling under the images, he put out a hand to steady himself, feeling the bristly dryness of summer grass, not the polished floorboards of his childhood home. He shook his head to clear it. Blinking hard, he forced his attention away from his blood-stained hands. Fastened his gaze on Elizabeth’s face.
He tore a strip of cloth from her shirt and bound her wound as best he could, cursing. He had come here to capture the troublesome Blackerby Swift, not to rescue her. What the hell was he supposed to do with her now?
He could think of only one practical answer.
Jaw clenched, he slipped one arm under her shoulders and the other under her knees, lifting her into his arms. Doing his best to ignore the blood that stained his shirtfront, he carried her to his horse. She was surprisingly light for a lady with such generous curves.
He abruptly cut that line of thought short. He was not going to allow himself to become entangled with this woman, not in any way. By morning, he told himself firmly, he might even come to his senses and turn her in. Collect several hundred pounds for his trouble. Mounting with difficulty, he kicked his horse into a gallop and rode south, toward London.
He held Elizabeth against his chest, and tried not to notice how very soft and warm she felt in his arms.
~ ~ ~
Darkness surrounded her… complete darkness, so utterly black, she couldn’t see at all. Elizabeth felt as if she were floating on a coal-black fog. Fear seized her heart. Was this death? No. She couldn’t die, not yet. She had too much left to do. Vengeance. She wasn’t finished yet. Despair pulled at her.
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