Travelling that road in bright daylight, in all the anticipation of a merry Season, was one thing. Travelling it at night, against one's will, was a bumpy nightmare. The potholes, carriage ruts, and great puddles of mud made it impossible to work up any sort of speed at all.
Robert relaxed against the seat as best he could, despite the bumping, and resigned himself to arriving at Larksley a good day or so later than the distance allowed. If, that is, he was destined to arrive there at all.
He wondered what sort of reception he would receive from his sister, who had recently married under considerably fraught circumstances. Robert felt a guilty pang as he recalled that he had done his best to obstruct his sister's engagement, though it had been a love match. His opinions now were so radically different that he felt like a completely different man to the reckless fellow who had challenged young William Marsden to a duel.
It was all thanks to Cecily. In a short space of time, she had already managed to smooth out the rougher edges of Robert's personality. He found now that his taste for danger had diminished, replaced with a yearning to become – of all things – a good husband. A loving father to their future children. A credit to his family name, not the freewheeling heir.
He could only hope that Hart's plan to spring him from their father's trap would not do too much damage to his newfound sense of responsibility.
Robert was almost thrown from his seat as the carriage juddered to a halt. "Another pothole?" he called to the driver. "Or is it mud this time?"
He shrugged off his jacket and began rolling up his shirt sleeves, preparing to help the men lift the carriage from where it had stuck.
"Don't come out, my lord!" called the driver's desperate voice. "Highwaymen!"
"Highwaymen?" Robert repeated, astonished. He had heard reports of the dangers befalling travellers on the southern road, of course, but he was not the type ever to anticipate difficulties himself. "Hang that!"
He kicked open the carriage door and stuck his head out into the open.
A tall man with his face covered by a handkerchief sat atop a horse in the middle of the road. Robert looked behind him, and found two other men similarly masked trotting up towards the carriage. All three had their guns aimed steadily at his footmen.
How he wished for a pistol! He'd soon show them the error of their ways!
"We are not after your lives or your money," said the first man, his voice oddly muffled. "It is your cargo we seek."
"Cargo?" the driver repeated. "Sirs, we have none!"
"Him," said the highwaymen, jerking his pistol in Robert's direction. "It's him we want. The Earl of Scarcliffe."
Robert narrowed his eyes. The man was speaking in a low growl, but something about his voice was strangely familiar.
"I will die before I let you take his lordship!" cried the driver. The highwayman, unmoved, clicked back the hammer of his pistol.
"This is your first warning."
"Put your guns up!" Robert cried, jumping from the carriage. "I'll come peacefully."
"My lord," gasped a footman, "we cannot allow you –"
"Nonsense, man, nonsense! I will not have you risk your lives for me." Robert walked up to the highwayman, allowing himself a slight swagger for the footmen's benefit. "I'm sure these gentlemen are only after a little ransom, which my father can easily pay. Isn't that right, sir?"
Now that Robert was standing beside his horse's head, the Duke of Beaumont's neat black eyebrows were unmistakable. He raised one in elegant commentary on Robert's display of heroism.
"Precisely so," Beaumont said, his clipped Duke's accent beginning to show through his assumed voice. "Now, up onto my horse with you, and we'll be away."
Robert swung up behind his friend gladly, giving the footmen a wave as Beaumont guided the horse past the carriage to join Hart and Northmere at the back.
"Now then!" Beaumont called out theatrically. "To our secret lair!"
The four men rode off swiftly back in the direction of Loxwell Park and Scarcliffe Hall, as the driver struggled to turn the carriage around behind them.
Once the carriage had been swallowed by darkness, Beaumont tore the handkerchief from his face with a whoop of triumph. "I say! I made a fine rogue, don't you think?"
"You were terrifying," laughed Robert. "Though I wish you'd thought to bring me a horse."
"That would have given the game away entirely," said Hart, waving his own handkerchief in the air as he galloped along beside them. Robert had rarely seen his brother in spirits as high as these. His heart was eased by the sight. "What would a gang of opportunistic bandits be doing with a spare horse? No, we thought everything out exactly. You may congratulate us on our cleverness and daring."
"Congratulate me," interrupted Northmere. "The first idea was mine."
"The three of you are the finest set of rogues in England," said Robert obligingly. "Though I would be very much obliged to know where it is you are taking me."
"I'm afraid our scheme did not extend so far as to setting up a true secret hideout in the tradition of Robin Hood," said Northmere. "We are taking you to Loxton, where we will put you up in the inn, and there you will stay until the news of your kidnapping has driven your father to see the error of his ways. He will not catch wind of you if you are staying on Loxwell land."
"I will be waiting for quite some time, then," Robert mused. "Steady there, Beaumont. The road is not fit for riding at this speed."
"Ha! My horse can leap any pothole," scoffed Beaumont.
"Even in the dark?"
"Do not think father will happily abandon you," said Hart, drawing closer as the horses slowed. "You are his heir. He will not take the loss of you lightly. He loves you, Robert, though he does not always know how to show it."
"When did you develop such faith?" asked Robert, amazed. "It is not like you."
Hart shrugged. "I find there is little in the world to trust in. I lay my faith where I can. If not in family, where else?"
"Halt!" cried a hoarse voice. Beaumont's horse reared up as a masked man leapt out into the road ahead of it and made a grab for the reins.
More men poured out of the forest. Each of them had blackened their hair and faces with coal, and wore a mask covering his whole face save for the eyes.
"What's this?" asked Robert, struggling to keep his seat atop the frightened horse. "More of your scheming, Beaumont?"
"This is not our doing," said Beaumont.
The first man drew out a pistol and aimed it at Hart's head. "Your money or your life," he said grimly. "And those horses. We'll have those, too."
Robert snatched up the pistol at Beaumont's belt and fired a warning shot into the dust at the highwayman's feet. "Lower your weapon!" he roared. "Or the next one will catch you in the skull." He brandished the gun to show that it was a double-barrelled flintlock, with one shot yet remaining.
"Scarcliffe, don't be a fool," hissed Beaumont. The highwayman backed away cautiously, maintaining his aim at Hart.
"Lower it," Robert gritted out. From the corner of his eye, he saw the other highwaymen produce their own weapons. "And not a move from any one of you! I am Robert Hartley, Earl of Scarcliffe, and I swear on the stones of Scarcliffe Hall that I will put this bullet between your eyes!"
"It is him!" one of the highwaymen muttered. Robert was flattered by the rustle of consternation that went through them. The man aiming at Hart took another step back.
"No harm done, my lord," he said nervously, and pointed his pistol at the sky. "No harm."
"Lower all your weapons," Robert demanded. "Fling them to the ground."
There was a series of satisfying thuds as the guns hit the road.
"Now, into the forest with you," Robert ordered. "Slowly, now. Hands in the air."
The men began to make their retreat. Beaumont had full control of the horse now, and turned it expertly to allow Robert to keep his gun trained on their leader.
The situation looked set to resolve itself as suddenly
at it had begun when the leader of the highwaymen, walking slowly backwards, slipped on a twig and fell onto his back with a great cry of shock.
"No!" shouted one of his companions – the youngest and slightest of them all – who ran forwards, took up his pistol, and fired wildly into the air. "I'll kill you if you've hurt him!"
The night descended into a chaos of trampling horses, running men, and gunshots. Robert had Beaumont's quick instincts to thank for the mighty leap their horse took, over the ditch at the side of the road. Robert flung himself quickly into the ditch, Beaumont following.
"Hang it all, Scarcliffe," the Duke complained. "I wish you hadn't taken my only pistol."
"What kind of make-believe highwayman leaves home with only one weapon?" Robert growled, taking aim at one of the men who was wrestling with Hart's horse. Northmere had taken shelter behind a fallen tree on the other side of the road. "Come on, Hart!" Robert called. "Move! Get off the road!"
Hart was keeping his seat with his usual careless slouch. At a time like this, his attitude was more than infuriating. He lurched awkwardly from one side to the other as his horse tried to twist its bridle from the highwayman's grip.
"Hart!" Robert shouted. "This is no time to –"
The motion of the horse turned Hart's body towards Robert just in time to let him see the blood spreading on his shirt as Hart slid bonelessly from his horse's back.
He hit the ground in a splatter of mud and flailing limbs, and lay still.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cecily never forgot a horse once she had ridden it. The motion of Thunder underneath her was as familiar as that of her own Arabian at Loxwell Park.
She made certain that she did not outpace the men riding ahead of her to Robert's rescue. It was a mad scheme, perhaps, to go after him, but Cecily could not abide waiting in idleness. Besides, Robert owed her an urgent explanation. He had all but broken off their engagement, after all. The least he could do was explain himself in person.
The rain cleared quickly enough that her clothes were not too affected, and, despite the nightfall, the moon was clear and bright. Cecily's eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and she made steady progress along the road. Thunder seemed to know it well; he avoided the potholes and deeper puddles by instinct.
It made her feel close to Robert, somehow, to be riding his horse. She felt the Balfour ring pressing into her finger as she gripped the reins.
"Soon, my love," she murmured to herself. "Soon."
The ride was so quiet and the night breeze so soothing that Cecily was lulled into a dreamlike state of anticipation. When the first gunshots rang out on the road ahead of her, it was only her horsemanship that kept her in the saddle.
"Easy, Thunder," she said, patting the horse's neck. "Whatever trouble lies ahead, it is not to do with us. We will simply go around it."
She dismounted the horse – it would have been foolish to ride through the forest in the dark – and led him slowly into the trees. Shouts and more gunshots rent the air in the distance.
"We can rest assured that, even if Robert is fighting, he will not be harmed," she said, as much to comfort herself as Thunder. "He is a fine shot, and as brave as any man."
It dawned on her with a rush of regret how very foolish it had been to chase after the men. What would have been the harm in waiting a day or two until she was reunited with Robert? Worse, she had broken yet another promise to her father. She winced to think of his reaction when he found Jemima had returned alone.
"I will make it up to them," she promised herself. "I will never do anything so reckless again. I have been a fool for love, it seems, but that is a poor way to behave."
"Who might you be talking to, Missy?"
Cecily froze. Ahead of her, illuminated dimly by a shaft of moonlight falling between the trees, stood a man whose face was hidden by a mask.
He raised his pistol, and she heard the click of the hammer as he cocked it.
"That's a pretty creature you have there, Missy," he cooed. "Hand me the reins, now, there's a good girl."
Cecily could not possibly allow him to steal Robert's horse from her care. She gave Thunder's flank a mighty slap. "Run, Thunder!"
The highwayman cursed aloud as Thunder turned and galloped for the road. "What did you do that for?"
Cecily realised she had just sent away her only means of escape. She wrapped her arms across her chest, very aware that she was wearing a fine dress made for visiting, not a riding gown, and tried not to let him see her tremble. "I have nothing else of value."
"Oh, no, Missy," the man breathed, moving forwards and pressing the barrel of the gun into her chest. "I rather think you do."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Robert fired three times into the air, sending the highwaymen scattering in panic. While they recovered their wits, Robert launched himself forwards into the road and heaved his brother up into his arms. He had time to register Hart's mumbled complaint, and be glad of it, when a bullet struck the earth beside him and he rolled himself and the wounded Hart back into the ditch.
"Pistol!" Beaumont snapped. Robert passed it to him and attended to Hart while Beaumont fixed the gun on first one highwayman, then the other. "Stay back! Stay back, I warn you!"
"Does it look bad?" asked Hart, his breathing coming rapid and shallow.
"I can't see a blasted thing in this darkness," said Robert. Hart pushed himself up onto his elbow.
"It doesn't feel too bad –"
"Lie still!"
"Robert, you must get yourself out of here." Hart gestured towards Beaumont's horse. "Ride home. Get help."
"The carriage," Robert said. "The carriage that brought me here – it was close behind us."
"And it will stay behind us, and well out of this. What can four unarmed footmen do against these bandits?" Hart pressed a hand to the wound in his chest and bit down a groan of agony. "You must ride home."
Robert looked from his brother to the horse and made a quick decision. "Are you fit to ride?"
"Robert, I won't leave you –"
"You're not fit to fight, Hart, so are you fit to ride?"
Hart bit his lip and nodded. "The shock's worn off a little. I was winded at first. I think I can cling on now."
"Cover me, Beaumont!" Robert called. He swung Hart up, doing his best to ignore the grunts of pain, and seated him on Beaumont's horse. "Into the forest with you," he said. "Rejoin the road only when it's safe. Go! Go!"
He flung himself back down to earth, expecting bullets to whizz past his ears at any moment. To his amazement, there was nothing but silence.
"Scarcliffe," said Beaumont, his voice tight, "you'd better take a look at this."
Robert crawled up to the edge of the ditch and followed Beaumont's pointing finger with his eyes.
A highwayman – the slender one who had fired the first shot – was standing in the middle of the road. He had a gun in one hand, and the other twisting the arm of a young woman who looked as angry as she was frightened.
"Cecily!"
Her name tore from his throat, even as Beaumont's hiss of chagrin told him he'd given the game away entirely.
"So she is known to you," the highwayman leered. "That's interesting."
"She has no part in this business!" Robert called out. "Let her go! She will be of no value to you!"
"You really think that Lady Cecily Balfour would not draw me a fine ransom?" the highwayman demanded. Robert cursed.
"How is it that he knows her?" Beaumont murmured. "These must be local men."
Robert had no time to consider their origin. His mind was consumed by the sight of Cecily's face, frightened and pale, at the highwayman's side.
"Put down your weapons, my lords," the foul man demanded. "Unless you want harm to come to her ladyship, that is."
"Don't listen to him!" Cecily protested. "I am perfectly fine – ah!"
The highwayman gave her arm a cruel wrench, and she fell silent. Robert's blood pounded in his ears. If it we
re not for the gun aimed squarely at Cecily's chest, he would have launched himself forward and torn that man limb from limb.
"I have dropped my pistol!" called Northmere, from his hiding place on the other side of the road.
"And I have set mine down!" called Beaumont. "Let the lady go. You may think it a fine scheme to thumb your nose at the Duke of Loxwell, lads, but that sort of game is too dangerous for the likes of you."
"He's right," hissed one of the outlaws, waving his own gun for emphasis. "The Duke will hunt us down like dogs if we take her."
"Shut up!" the slender highwayman demanded. He gave Cecily's arm another jerk. "This prize is mine. You gentlemen in the ditch, step out of there with your arms raised."
"What shall we do, Scarcliffe?" Beaumont asked. "It rankles in my soul to do as that creature tells us."
"Is there any other option?" Robert asked. Beaumont's gaze fell on the pistol that lay on the earth between them.
Robert's heart rebelled. "No. No! It's too dangerous."
"You can make the shot, Scarcliffe," said Beaumont urgently. "You can shoot a grouse from the sky on a cloudy day while barely taking aim. I have faith in you."
Robert's fingers moved towards the gun. For the first time in his life, his hand was trembling. "I cannot risk Cecily."
"Robert!" Cecily called out, ignoring the gun at her breast and the highwayman's leering. "Robert, if you are there, make an end of this!"
He seized the pistol.
"Good man," said Beaumont.
The slender highwayman was growing anxious. Things were not going according to his plan. He waved his gun vaguely in Robert's direction, letting his grip on Cecily ease for a moment. "I'm warning you!" he called. "One hint of funny business, and –"
Robert's bullet struck him squarely on the shoulder. The highwayman collapsed to the ground, nearly dragging Cecily with him. She pulled free of his weakly grasping hand and gave him a kick for good measure before she ran to the ditch and hurled herself in besides Robert. She slid down the muddy bank, leaving a great streak of mud and disturbed leaf matter in her wake, and landed directly at Robert's feet.
The Earl's Secret Passion (Scandals of Scarcliffe Hall Book 1) Page 16