The Gamble

by Laura Parker

  Even now, generations later, the highways of England remained dangerous places where less honorable men than his grandsire sought profit in robbery. The most notorious brigand of the day went by the sobriquet Blackjack Law. Handbills circulated throughout the countryside, offering a hefty bounty for his capture. Too bad he had not encountered the highwayman. He could use the reward.

  Perhaps it was the dregs of the liquor or perhaps it was the fatalistic sense that he could sink no lower in his own estimation. Whatever its source, a demonic urge struck Jack, the wild desire to prove to himself how reckless and profoundly daring he could be. He was scion of an ignominious family lineage renowned for its debauchery and madness. What if he turned thief for a night?

  What if he took a few bob from these smug, well-padded travelers who thought their fortunes kept them immune from the vagaries of the world? He would then have a stake for gambling in Bath, and relief from the tedium of his travels. After all, Black Jack Law was not the only fellow who gave no quarter to title and privilege.

  “All the devils in hell could not fashion a sweeter bargain,” Jack murmured in a voice gusted by laughter.

  He tucked the switch of his golden hair up under the brim of his tricorn and then unbound his lace-edged jabot and tied it over his lower face, obscuring all but his eyes. Then he reached into his coat and withdrew his pistol, primed and ready against night predators, one of which he was about to become.

  With a furiously beating heart, he set his spurs into his mount and shot off down the road in pursuit of the retreating coach.

  Chapter Five

  The bounce and buck of wooden coach wheels over the cobblestone road, pocked with wheel ruts after a recent rain, would seemed to have made sleep impossible for all but the inebriated or the unconscious. Yet Mrs. Varney had long ago succumbed to slumber, snoring like a bellows with her arms wrapped about her thick frame as her head bobbed in slack-jawed time to the rocking coach.

  Much too angry to sleep, Sabrina cast a withering gaze upon the sputtering wick of the coach lantern that threatened to leave her at any moment in complete darkness.

  She had gone to bed after the terrible interview with her guardian too angry to consider that he would carry out his threat this very night. Yet hardly had her head touched the pillow before she had been rudely awakened by Mrs. Varney and told to dress for traveling, per Cousin Robert’s order.

  To guard against the chill night wind whistling noisily through the crevices of the coach, Sabrina wrapped herself more tightly in her voluminous cloak lined with fur. The silk dressing gown and spool-heeled satin slippers she wore beneath it were fit only for the trip she had taken down-stairs to inform her cousin that she was refusing to leave before morning.

  Her cheeks flamed as she recalled how he had coldly ordered two footmen to deposit her bodily into the traveling coach. It galled her to remember how she had twisted and fought the two young men, seething yet helpless as they bore her down the front steps and placed her in the coach like a sack of meal.

  While she had waited in the damp night air, the sleepy coachman had lashed her belongings, hastily thrust into trunks, on top. Only at the moment of departure were her cloak and bonnet handed through the doorway by her guardian.

  His expression had been a composite of fury and triumph as he shouted, “You will learn humility, my girl, or you shall suffer even greater miseries than this!”

  Sabrina twisted the soft velvet cloak fabric between her hands as unshed tears burned her eyes. How dare he bundle her out of London in the middle of the night! If he thought banishment from London would make her more amenable to marriage then—

  “The devil take him!” she whispered angrily under her breath as she canted her head so that the wide brim of her velvet hat eclipsed the shadow of the woman opposite her. Cousin Robert thought her willful, self-indulgent, and spoiled. She might be all that yet there was more to her character than a computation of vices. She had used her sleepless hours since leaving London to scheme her escape from his control.

  She would seek asylum with her mother’s brother, Mister Everett Butler, who resided in the Massachusetts colony in the New World. Until Cousin Robert forbid it, she had corresponded regularly with him. Surely, when their uncle understood the peril in which she and Kit stood, he would allow them to take refuge with him. Yet she could not wait for her uncle to act. It would take weeks for a letter to reach Massachusetts and then weeks more for him to come to her aid if, indeed, he chose to do so. No, she needed a quicker means to save Kit.

  With calm deliberation she listed again the tasks required to save her brother. She would need a means to get to Scotland, a way to free Kit, a coach to bear them to a coastal town, and then enough money for passage to America.

  Money! The need for “the ready” was the sticking point of every aspect of her plot. She had none of her own.

  Sabrina shifted her position against the hard, horsehair-stuffed cushions in search of the impossible, a comfortable spot, and felt a sudden jab in her right buttock. Reaching round she made a discovery. Stuck into the pocket of her velvet cloak was a large French playing card decorated with a hand-painted face of the Jack of Spades.

  “Blackjack,” Sabrina murmured as she ran a tapered nail buffed smooth as a pearl across the painted face. She had plucked the card from the deck as a souvenir of her first gambling success. She had thought then that she could never gamble again, the risk having made her heart palpitate to the point of pain. But Lotte Lovelace had lured her back to the tables several times since. Though she did not like to lose, she found she enjoyed the occasional win.

  After a sharp searching glance of the sleeping Mrs. Varney’s face, Sabrina surreptitiously drew forth the cause of the remaining lump in her cloak though she already knew what it was. Tucked into the lining was her pearl necklace!

  The necklace consisted of a string of inch-long perfectly matched pearls from which hung a large baroque pearl drop the shade of iridescent smoke. Those smoky depths were lost now in the folds of her cloak, where she had hidden it from the possibility of drawing Mrs. Varney’s gaze. Yet as she ran her fingers lovingly over their surfaces, she could visualize the faint sheen of shell pink and sea green that sunlight would reveal on its surface.

  Her fondness for them had nothing to do with their value. They had been an extravagant gift from her father on her sixteenth birthday. They were the only things of value that she had successfully hidden from Cousin Robert when he had come to Cornwall after her father’s death to claim such things as pleased his eye and his greed. The rest of the Lyndsey jewels he kept under lock and key in his home. By custom only married ladies were permitted to adorn themselves in gems. Perhaps, when she wed—

  “Never!” she muttered.

  She picked up and reexamined the playing card. As it provoked new thought, her smile gathered strength and beauty, transforming her from a pretty young woman into a singularly lovely one. She would gamble for the money she needed!

  Keeping company with Lady Lovelace had provided her with many opportunities to advance her worldliness. For instance, she had heard more than one guest remark upon the fact that for years the spa town of Bath, under the leadership of Beau Nash, was a veritable gaming paradise. Gentlemen and ladies, the nobility and gentry all gambled together in the spa town with an egalitarian abandon unheard of in London.

  As Mrs. Varney snorted in her sleep Sabrina tucked the necklace into her bodice. She refused to worry about how she would gain entrance to the gambling tables while under the watchful eye of Cousin Robert’s relative—or whether she would win. Since luck had provided her with the jewels she would otherwise have been forced to leave behind, luck would certainly prevail in her worthy cause. Of course, she would win. She must!

  No sooner had she sat back in much improved humor than the dilatory sounds of plodding hooves and creaking wood were suddenly disturbed by the percussive report of a pistol.

  “What the dev—”
Sabrina began, only to be cut off as the coach lurched and the horses abruptly picked up their pace under the crack of the whip and frantically bawled orders of the coachman. The action sent her flying from her seat into the lap of the startled Mrs. Varney, who let out a whoop of surprise at being so unceremoniously awakened.

  “The horses have bolted!” Mrs. Varney cried and flung both arms about Sabrina.

  “Nonsense!” Sabrina shouted back and tried to disentangle herself from the older woman. “I’m certain I heard a pistol shot!” The realization brought a gleam of mischief to her gaze. “Oh, Mrs. Varney. I do believe we are being attacked!”

  “Dear lord! We shall all be murdered! Or worse!”

  Sabrina did not respond to this strange bit of logic. She was more interested in the driver’s ability to handle his team. Surely it would be possible to outrun the marauder. After all, the horses were still fresh and a highwayman was not likely to give chase for long for fear of being exposed to other journeyers on the road. The chance to torment her companion would be worth the rough ride.

  “Let us hope that your piety is enough to save us!” she shouted at the dumbstruck woman.

  She then subsided to listen intently as the driver urged his steeds forward, for the marauder clearly continued to give chase. After a few seconds more of bouncing and lurching, she cursed under her breath her guardian’s frugality. He had told the coachman not to stop the nights at coaching inns but to drive them straight through to Bath, saving them both money and time. Though her only thought had been to terrorize Mrs. Varney, every seasoned traveler knew that a coach on the road at night was likely to attract the eye of nefarious souls. Had she been given time to pack, she would have brought along her father’s brace of pistols, for she was a superb shot.

  Just when it seemed they might indeed outrun their pursuer, the coach lurched again, careening off the built-up cobblestone road onto the treacherously soft dirt shoulder where it teetered on two wheels.

  Whispering a rare prayer, Sabrina grabbed a strap to keep from being tossed against the canted side door while Mrs. Varney clung to her by the waist. After a quivering moment of uncertainty, the coach slammed back down on all four wheels with a sickening crash that splintered wood and sheared off pegs. Moments later she heard an approaching rider, then a man shouting for the coachman to stand down. More threatening shouts were exchanged as she scrambled to the window to peer out. The prospect of dawn made the world outside faintly lighter than within the interior of the coach, but she could not see the man whose weight caused the carriage to suddenly sway nor the ensuing skirmish that took place. She heard the whistling of the coachman’s whip, a cry of rage, and then finally the thud of a body fallen to the ground.

  “They’ve killed the coachman!” Mrs. Varney whispered in horror. “We’re next!”

  “Do shut up!” Sabrina snapped. Yet the hair at her nape stiffened when, after several seconds of silence, the latch on the coach door creaked under the pressure of an unseen hand. Until this moment she had not truly thought they were in danger. An instance later the door was flung open.

  “Deliver over your valuables, and quickly!” declared their assailant in a remarkably fine masculine voice.

  The first thing Sabrina noticed was the business end of a pistol thrust through the opening. The second was the dimensions of the pistol’s owner. Silhouetted against the faintly glowing sky was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a tricorner hat.

  Steadied by the reality of his commonplace appearance, she rose from her knees and flung herself back into the shadows of her seat, more annoyed than frightened. “You, sir, are mistaken in your quarry. You’ll find no booty here worth your efforts.”

  She saw the pistol jerk as if its owner had been startled by her pronouncement, then it disappeared from the breach. In its place was thrust one of the coach’s exterior lanterns. The bright splash of yellow light from its vented opening lit up Mrs. Varney’s features and she screeched as if the light scalded her.

  The pistol again appeared, the barrel wagging at the older woman. “Step down, madam. At once!”

  “Oh, please, sir,” the woman whimpered. “I beg you in the name of heaven, do not shoot!”

  “I have no such violence in mind,” the highwayman replied in dry humor.

  “You sound the gentleman,” Sabrina observed from her shadowed corner. Though, of course, the linen he had draped over the lower half of his face made it a trifle difficult to tell precisely how cultured his voice was. “No gentleman, nor one who pretends to the title, would accost defenseless women.”

  The outline of his tricorn angled in her direction. “You are precisely the sort of easy prey a man such as I would wish to accost. Do not disappoint me.”

  Sabrina set her jaw against his presumptive tone. “I care nothing for your desires, fellow. You are thief. No doubt you shall soon end your days as you deserve, as gallows meat.”

  He swung the lantern around so that the light fell across her, momentarily blinding her. “Damnation!” she heard him mutter from the other side of the light.

  Apprehension raked her resolve but Sabrina refused to retract her remark. “I am chilled to the bone and should like to be on my way. Be good enough to carry yourself off.”

  The haughtiness in her voice elicited only silence as once more his pistol barrel beckoned the passengers. Sniffling and murmuring a prayer about the mercy due widows and orphans, Mrs. Varney scrambled down the steps he unhooked for her and descended.

  A moment later the lantern and the shadow of the man behind it again appeared in the doorway, this time with a free hand extended in assistance. “Now you, my lady.”

  Sabrina did not flinch as the light again included her in its scope. She saw the sense in doing as he asked, even heard the civility in his request, but she had been bullied once too often this night. She folded her arms and turned her head away, offering the concealment of her hat brim as insult. “No.”

  She did not anticipate the powerful arm he slid about her before she could stop him or draw back. Even as she gathered her breath to scream he lifted her clear of the doorframe and pulled her out into the night. In three short seconds he had undone what it had taken two winded footmen considerably longer to accomplish.

  For the instant she was held aloft by that strong arm clasped about her waist, she experienced the unprecedented sensation of being pressed against a firm, amazingly strong man who smelled of good brandy, fine tobacco, and some indefinable but pleasant scent. Could it be that highwaymen used lavender water?

  “Stand up, my lady.”

  Too surprised to do anything but obey him, Sabrina discovered to her chagrin that the ground was within easy reach of her satin-slippered feet. Worse yet, the only reason she had not realized this before was because her arms had at some point inexplicably wound themselves about the brigand’s neck. Annoyed, she released him with a suddenness that set her hard on her heels on the stony road.

  He turned at once to hang the lantern back on its peg near the coach door. As its light finally included him in its glow, her eyes widened in astonishment at the richness of his clothing. His brown velvet “justaucorps”: a collarless, full-skirted outer coat sporting a double row of ornate, hammered-gold buttons down the front and fastening its deep cuffs. His under jacket was embroidered creme brocade. Even his silver-spurred boots were so polished they gleamed faintly in the gloom. She had expected a brigand would be as filthy and disheveled as his character.

  Frowning at her discovery of this sartorial splendor, she glanced upward at the linen mask that obscured most of his face. No powdered curls peaked from beneath his tricorn. Yet why should so well-dressed a man forego a wig when all but the most indigent wore wigs, even if they were made of goat’s hair, horsehair, or even vegetable fiber? Or had he stolen this finery from an earlier victim and neglected to take the poor soul’s wig?

  Fresh misgiving welled up but she squashed the feeling with ruthless determination. No robbe
r masquerading as a fop would cower her. Just let him try!

  When he noticed her stare, he turned toward her. “Look your fill, my lady. You will find little to remember me by.”

  As he spoke he moved closer until she gazed directly into the finest pair of eyes she had ever beheld. They were light in color, large and lazy-lidded with surprisingly thick lashes that swept downward at the corners. She could not say why those eyes fascinated her. Maybe it was because they seemed to mock her. It was as though he dared share a private jest with her that she could not yet understand.

  “Will you know me again?” He stood so close she saw his breath stir the cloth draped loosely over his nose and mouth. As vividly felt as the persuasive force of his touch, his presence seemed to rule the very silence of the night. Never before, not even when her guardian had raised his hand to her, had she felt the full vulnerability of being female. That sense of vulnerability angered her and in a reckless attempt to subdue it, she struck out boldly. “I shall remember enough to see you hanged.”

  Genuine fear sped through her as he swiftly reached out to her a second time. He did not, as she half-expected, grasp her by the throat to throttle her. He merely snatched her hat from her head by its floppy brim. He did not speak but his gaze lingered on the heavy fall of ebony tresses that he had revealed. She nearly reached up a hand to push the wanton waves from her shoulders but did not want to betray her discomfort at his perusal. Let him look his fill, as she had, and be done with it. She was up to the challenge. To prove it, she tilted her chin up defiantly.

  His hand moved again to catch in his palm the end of one of her elaborate curls, as complicatedly furled as an ornamental curlicue. As he did so his knuckles brushed ever so lightly against the fullness of her breast. The touch was shocking for it reminded her that she wore no corsets, not even a chemise. Now he knew it, too.

  His gaze rose abruptly from her hair to her face.

  Though as vain as any pretty woman, Sabrina did not see any sign of admiration of her beauty reflected in the mercurial depths of this stranger’s light eyes. She felt as if she were being weighed and accessed with dispassion. A muscle at the corner of her mouth quivered. Why did he continue to stare as if he had never seen a woman before? Or was he contemplating something sinister?