The Highwayman

by Megan Derr

  Burr laughed softly, that husky note stronger than ever. "I think if you gave me more whiskey, I would drop right off to sleep, but I thank you." He looked up through his lashes for a moment, a move that sliced right through Bart, but he dropped his eyes again so quickly that Bart was able to catch his breath. He tried to think of something to say.

  "How did your dinner with the good Father go, my lord?" Burr looked up properly, a faint, sympathetic smile curving his mouth. He shoved back an errant strand of dark hair. "Thad told me you and young Thomas were good friends, once."

  Bart took a swallow of his own whiskey, desperate to banish memories of the cold man who had stood in place of his old friend just hours ago. What had happened to Perry to change him so? Where was the cheer? The smiles?

  Well, he would get it all back. Bart wouldn't allow them to wallow in such misery.

  "It was…not what I expected," he said finally, wondering at himself for being so honest with a stranger.

  "I have not been here long—a couple months shy of a full year," Burr replied. "Even I cannot bear to see how unhappy the good Father appears. While we journeyed here, Thad spoke at length about his home. So many stories, especially of your family and the Thomas household. He is quite upset they're so estranged. The only thing that troubled him more, I think, was the prolonged absence of your family. He speaks most highly of you especially."

  Bart snorted. "Indeed. Normally I am the one causing all the trouble. I've every faith life has been more peaceful around here without my presence."

  "Indeed," Burr mimicked. "There is peace all around."

  "You are harsh," Bart said quietly.

  Burr slumped slightly in his seat. "Yes. I apologize; it was not meant as criticism or mockery. I spoke without thought."

  Bart sighed. "Well, the words are true. I wonder if things would be different had we visited more often the past few years."

  "One never knows," Burr said broodingly. "Likely not. Evil takes root where it pleases, no matter what the obstacles. Still, it cannot be a bad thing that you are here now, if all that I have heard of you is true." He looked up again through his lashes.

  Bart had taken it before as a flirtatious gesture or something somewhat along those lines, but now he wondered. "Evil? I would not give the highwayman that much credit. I think he would take too much delight in it, the bastard."

  "Mm," Burr said noncommittally. He opened his mouth, but just as he was about to say something, there came a flurry of noise and voices from the entryway. Bart had barely stood when the door flew open and Weaver strode in very nearly as though he owned the manor.

  "Alfred," Weaver exclaimed, looking more worried than Bart had ever recalled seeing him. He could not, in fact, recall Weaver's emotions ever being so plain.

  Burr grimaced as he struggled to stand, letting out a cry when his ankle did not take his weight and sent him stumbling forward. Weaver caught him up, carefully righting him, and Bart tried not to stare at the way Burr 's cheeks flushed dark red as he tried to push away.

  "My apologies," Burr said faintly.

  "Not at all," Weaver replied, not letting Burr pull away, but firmly guiding him back to his chair. "What the devil happened, Alfred? Are you all right? Did someone summon the healer?"

  "That's hardly necessary," Burr said, not a trace of the rake apparent in the face turned up to meet Weaver's eyes. "Truly, I am fine. Lord Ford is merely too kind in allowing me to rest a bit here. I am sorry I dragged you from your home."

  Weaver reached out and Bart thought he was about to touch Burr's face, but at the last moment, he merely settled his hand instead on Burr's shoulder.

  Bart frowned thoughtfully. "My apologies as well, my lord—it was not my intent to worry you enough that you would come running. I merely sought to inform you of Burr's whereabouts and determine if you wanted to fetch him home tonight or await his morning arrival."

  "I thank you, my lord," Weaver replied. "Your kindness and consideration have only grown over the years. I hope that we have not put you out terribly."

  "Not at all," Bart said. "Truly, it is no hardship to offer a man a chair. If I had not come across him, no doubt I would be the one limping home." He smiled briefly. "I actually wondered if there was more than one person coming from the forest, for it was the sound of a voice which stopped me."

  "Oh," Burr grimaced. "I was talking to the horse to keep myself distracted from the pain."

  Weaver chuckled, sharing a look with the embarrassed Burr that spoke of some mutual, private amusement.

  "Shall we be off?" Burr said. "So that Lord Ford might find his bed and a good night's rest?"

  "Yes," Weaver agreed. "You shall have to permit us to express our gratitude at some point, my lord."

  "You needn't, but I can see that it is pointless to argue the matter," Bart said lightly. "Very well. This means that our ride tomorrow is off, so I shall leave it to you to determine what we shall do instead. Send a note around in the morning to tell me of my fate."

  Weaver nodded. "Very well. Good night, my lord."

  "Good night," Bart replied, and walked them to the door, standing on the front stairs until the carriage drove away.

  Rogers locked the door once they were back inside. "See that everything is locked up, Rogers, and then go to bed. Thank you for everything."

  "Always a pleasure to be of service, my lord."

  Nodding and bidding him a good night, Bart made his way to his room. As quickly as he had left for Greendale, he'd not bothered to have his valet come with him, but had left the poor man to fend off his family for as long as possible.

  Yawning, Bart closed the bedroom door and stripped as he headed for the bed, depositing the clothes on the bench at the foot. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, the only other light provided by a lamp on a small table in the sitting area of his room.

  Extinguishing it, Bart strode back to the bed and crawled beneath the covers. He closed his eyes, attempting to settle enough to sleep, but it was some time before his mind find stopped playing back the whole of the evening, from the sight of his oldest friend turned into a stranger to the failed pursuit of the highwayman.

  Five

  It was actually three days before Bart was left alone long enough to settle behind the massive desk in the study to compose letters and read the correspondence that had arrived. Three letters, all bearing the family seal—one with red wax, from his father, and two with black wax, from his brothers. He left them unopened, knowing precisely what they would say. Rather than let his family harass him from afar, he focused on the letter he needed to compose. It took him only a half hour to compose it, seal it, and summon Rogers. "See this is taken to the city as quickly as possible. I would like the footman to wait for a reply; it will likely require waiting a few days, so he's given suitable funds."

  "Yes, my lord," Rogers replied, before bowing and vanishing back through the door.

  Sitting back in his seat, Bart sighed and closed his eyes. He had thought this would be a simple affair, but it was proving to be anything but. The past three nights he had visited the bridge, only to find it lacking one frustrating highwayman.

  Hopefully his letter would gain him something in that direction, though Bart was not pinning his hopes upon it. No, all he really expected to come of his letter was an answer to the mystery surrounding Perry.

  Well, that was the inevitable put off long enough. Heaving a great sigh, Bart refreshed his cup of tea and finally reached for the family letters. He read his brothers' letters first, rolling his eyes at the lecturing tone of both. Foolhardy, reckless, never stopping to think of how his behavior will affect others, should have spoken—blah blah blah. Mother worried sick and father disappointed …

  Disappointed? Pain cut through Bart's chest, twisting like a knife. Angry and annoyed, he'd expected. But disappointment?

  Eyes stinging, Bart opened the letter from his father. He was not surprised to see the words had the matter well in hand, there was no purpose to thi
s running off to play hero.

  Hero. What was heroic in chasing down a bloody highwayman? Nothing. It wasn't heroic to fulfill his most basic responsibilities to his people.

  They thought he was trying to play hero and were disappointed in him for it? Why?

  Did they truly think so little of him?

  Damn it, just once couldn't his own family have faith in him—think well of him?

  Bart forced himself to finish reading the rest of his father's letter. Wholly unnecessary to take off, as I arranged for an old acquaintance to tend to the matter. He's an expert at such things, should arrive at Greendale around the seventeenth. See that he is told all he needs to know, and then return at once before your mother worries herself to death.

  Using Mother against him was cheating and Bart refused to give in to the bullying of cheaters. He rang for Rogers. "Has the footman left yet?"

  "Not quite, my lord. I bid him eat a good meal first."

  "Wise man," Bart said. "Have him wait a few minutes more; it would seem that I need to pen a note to my father."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Thank you," Bart said, and then bent to do precisely that. His tea was long grown cold by the time he had written and discarded half a dozen letters, finally settling on a brief four lines.

  Perhaps when all of this was over, Bart would take himself off and spare them his continued presence. A pity, really, for he rather liked his present situation, highwayman and other problems notwithstanding. It was nice, being lord of the manor instead of being constantly pushed aside while his father continued to run everything. He felt like he had a true purpose and it was so much better than feeling as though he must constantly cool his heels.

  Summoning Rogers one last time, Bart handed off the second letter and asked for a fresh pot of tea to be brought. Settling behind the desk once more, he pondered what course to take next. He could not do much of anything in regard to Father Thomas and Perry until he received a reply to his queries. The highwayman was clearly on his guard, which meant he must think of something clever to draw the man out. Not his strongest suit—clever was for the likes of his brothers. Bart had always been better at simple and direct. Just one more of his many failings that led to his father's disappointment.

  Bart pinched his eyes closed until the stinging sensation went away, and tried to put his thoughts fully on the highwayman problem.

  A knock drew his attention, and Bart looked up as Rogers set down a fresh tray of tea, along with tea sandwiches and cakes. "My lord, Mr. Greer has come to call. He requests to see you as soon as possible."

  Bart nodded. "Send him in, then."

  He stood up as Mr. Greer entered. An older gentleman, and if Bart recalled correctly, he was the owner of the local jewelry shop. Early fifties at most, hair equal parts black and gray. Stick thin, but of average height, delicate silver spectacles perched on a long nose. Greer had always reminded him of a spider or some equally unsavory insect, although he could never recall the man being unpleasant. Still, it was not an impression that ever faded.

  "My lord, I apologize for calling so early, but I wanted to be certain that I spoke with you."

  Bart waved the apology away and motioned for Greer to take a seat in front of his desk as he resumed his own. "How might I assist you?"

  "I was commissioned about two months ago to create a collection of jewelry for one Lady K. She wants the pieces prepared in time for a gala which is to take place two days hence. I am nearly finished with the last piece, but it means that to get it to her in time I shall have to leave tonight…"

  "And will have no choice but to go by way of the Ford Bridge if you are to make it to the city in time."

  Greer nodded. "It will be my son-in-law making the journey, as I am too old for such things. I fear for him, my lord."

  "Of course," Bart said. "Our friend has not been at the bridge the past few nights, but only a fool would trust that luck to hold a fourth night. Very well, send your son to me with the jewels when they're ready and I'll ensure he's protected all the way to the posting inn."

  "Thank you, my lord," Greer said, standing up and giving a deep bow. "I greatly appreciate your assistance."

  "Not at all; it is my duty and pleasure to assist where I may. I am sorry I've not yet solved the riddle of our highwayman."

  Greer shook his head. "You are working diligently, my lord, the whole village knows it. That your lordship would go to the trouble to tend to the matter personally means much to us. Thank you again for your assistance, my lord. A good day to you."

  "The very same to you," Bart said, and rang for Rogers to show Greer out.

  Bart picked up his tea and set about going through the various papers that had collected while he was dragged about tending other matters. Even a few of the city papers had arrived, sent on by his valet, who knew Bart's fondness for them.

  It was some time after hearing the clock chime the eleventh hour that Rogers coughed politely at the open study door. "My lord, Master Thomas has come to call."

  "Show him in at once." Bart folded his paper and set it aside, then stood and moved around the desk as Perry entered. He ignored the proffered hand in favor of embracing his oldest friend. "Perry."

  He had expected a simple return of his embrace or perhaps for Perry to do nothing but endure it—but instead Perry froze for a moment, and then abruptly seemed to melt in his arms. Bart started to speak, then settled on saying nothing, simply holding his friend all the tighter, stomach twisting at the way Perry trembled. He smelled like honey and cloves, and like someone who had been outside for an extended length. Like sunshine.

  At last Perry drew away. "My apologies."

  "There's no reason for that," Bart replied, frowning. He moved without thought, reaching out to run a hand over the close-cropped hair, unable to believe it was so. "Perry, what is wrong? I do not like seeing you this way."

  Perry laughed and moved away from his hand. "My homecoming has not been all that I had hoped and I've no one but myself to blame." He stared at Bart's desk, but it was obvious that he was seeing something else entirely. His smile was weak when he finally dragged his gaze up again. "It truly is good to see you again, Bart. I have missed you sorely over the years. I think…" He shook his head and did not finish the sentence. "Never mind me, Bart. How are you? What have you been doing all these years that I have not seen you? What of your brothers? Lane, I heard, is married."

  "Married and expecting his first child shortly," Bart smiled. "He is quite impossible to live with."

  Laughing again, Perry moved toward the chairs by the fireplace that Bart indicated. "What of little Crispin?"

  Bart grimaced. "He has fallen quite madly in love with Lord Prescott, and Prescott is equally enamored of him. I expect they'll be announcing a marriage before the year is out." He smiled briefly. "I've got a bet going with a few friends on which of them will do the proposing. Everyone insists Prescott will put the question, but I'm certain Cris will do it."

  Perry grinned. "You're a brat. Peeved he settled for a notorious rake and can't do anything about him?"

  "I made certain he got the bastard, didn't I?" Bart muttered, and Perry's questioning look told the tale. "If he upsets Crispin even once, however, I will cheerfully see his body dumped into the river. Unfortunately, I think he will not give me an opportunity." He shrugged. "They are happy, so I can't really complain, just grumble."

  "What of you?" Perry asked softly, eying him speculatively. His green eyes, so hard the night before, had eased a bit. "No true love in your life? You have been gone so long, I thought someone must have had the sense to earn your eternal devotion."

  Bart snorted at the sheer absurdity. "Hardly."

  At the way Perry's teasing smile dropped, turning into a look of concerns, he hastily added, "I've been busy—there is always someone who needs help fixing a mess, and my mother and siblings require near-constant attention."

  "I see," Perry said, and Bart rather thought he did.

  Thankf
ully Rogers appeared with a heavily laden tray, which he set on the high, wide, round table set between the chairs angled toward the fireplace. "An early lunch, my lord, Master Thomas."

  He was gone again before Bart could thank him. They remained quiet for a few minutes as they helped themselves to the food. Perry at last broke the silence, licking crumbs from his lips. "You never change, Bart. Still solving all the problems of the world but your own."

  Bart shrugged and washed down a bit of savory pie with a swallow of wine. "I have no problems, except that my oldest and dearest friend is so unhappily estranged from his father."

  Perry's face clouded. "It's what I deserve."

  "I cannot believe that. What did you do?"

  He only shook his head, however, and resumed eating.

  Bart sighed and did likewise. "So what keeps you busy these days, Perry?"

  "Helping my father where he will permit me," Perry replied. "I traveled for several years and took meticulous notes all the while. When I am not helping Father or one of the parishioners, I work on converting my notes and sketches into a proper book. "

  "You did not bring it for me to see?" Bart demanded. "How could you not? You know I would have greatly enjoyed it. That is splendid indeed, Perry; you always had such a beautiful hand for such work. I still remember many of the pamphlets and bulletins you composed for the village. I take it someone else has that duty now?"

  "Old Ms. Woolsworth," Perry replied. "I am—"

  Rogers interrupted them, rushing in with a pale, shaken face. "My lord."

  "What is it?" Bart asked, standing up.

  "There has been a body discovered upon the bridge. It appears that the highwayman shot and killed a man last night."

  "What?" Perry demanded, wineglass falling to the floor as he stood up. "The devil do you say?"

  Bart's mouth tightened. "Have my horse brought 'round, Rogers; I go at once. Was the constable summoned?"

  "It was one of his men who came to inform you. They say the man had a letter from your father in his jacket."

  Swearing loudly, Bart went to fetch proper clothing.