“You cannot continue. It is madness.”
“As I said, it will not be forever. I have been able to evade capture thus far.” He raised his eyebrows in defiance. “No one knows it is me. You did not guess, and I have stood closer to you than anyone else.”
“But that doesn’t mean someone else won’t. You must have people who might suspect. What do you do with the jewels you steal? No honest jeweller will take them without question.”
“I do have a network of people who help sell my spoils, but they are all too worried about their own necks to risk mine.”
“But for how long can it continue? You speak of the desperate and the poor, but you cannot be so naïve as to think there are not others in a similar line of work who would happily sell you for the price on your head.” James sat up, resting on his elbows. “You have to stop.”
Adam reached up and kissed him. “I will be careful, but I cannot stop yet.”
“Oh, Adam, but there are other ways. I can’t risk losing you to the Tyburn Jig.”
“If you find one, I will listen, but for now I have other more pressing matters.”
James tried to find his words, but Adam’s bruising kiss drove all semblance of cohesive thought from his mind.
Chapter 21
James paced the long gallery. Marchent was late. He’d received word that the carriage had left London in good time, so even allowing for slow-going, or his friend stopping for some reason on the way, he should’ve been here by now.
The worry chased away his good mood that had been ever present since Adam’s occupation of his bed—a change in demeanour that, according to Remembrance, had the servants gossiping worse than the ladies at court. The reason had been laid at the feet of James’s visit to London, and Adam even reported that Clement had commented on the earl’s good mood and how it could be used for their convenience.
He stared out across the lawn. The light was fading and with it his hope nothing had happened. The sound of footsteps made him turn, and he saw Adam approaching in full riding gear. Part of him couldn’t believe he’d been so foolish not to realise Adam was the Chivalrous Highwayman. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“You are worried, so I have collected a few men to ride out and find His Grace.”
“I do not wish you to put yourself in peril either.”
Adam squeezed his shoulder. “We both know I am one of the best suited to head up a search party. I will be back before you know it.”
James wanted to kiss him, but there was too much of a risk they would be seen. He clasped the hand that was still on his shoulder. “Do not make me regret agreeing you can go.”
Adam laughed softly and left with a low, sweeping bow. Watching the horses ride out, Adam in the lead, as the sun got lower in the sky had not been the way he had expected the evening to go. By now, Marchent should have been sitting in the library or in one of the smaller reception rooms, playing cards and moaning about how James never had wine from his favourite part of Italy.
Instead James found himself fretting over his friend, and his lover. He knew Adam could take care of himself, but that did not make him feel any better; all these months pining after the man, he couldn’t bear to lose him. After David, he had believed he could never love again; the rawness of his death had lingered but had become a dull ache he nursed during his melancholy days. David had been so full of life. He would have hated to see James close himself away from having a second chance at love. Now he risked losing Adam and the future he’d hoped they could have.
Nearly two hours later, a carriage trundled into the grounds of Crofton Hall. James had brooded the entire time, sending Remembrance away when he’d tried to intervene. He ran down the stairs and into the entrance hall as two servants helped in a blustering Marchent, who was taking umbrage at the help.
“There’s no need to cosset me. They barely nicked me, and I am not a lamb on teetering legs.”
A pool of red was seeping through the arm of Marchent’s jacket. James sprang forwards to take the other arm and lead him to the nearest sitting room. “They are following my orders to make sure you arrived safely, Your Grace.”
“I’m here now. They can stop their torment.”
James turned to the men, who by their expression had probably endured several minutes of dukely tongue-lashing. Even Clement looked chastised. “Thank you, men. I’ll see to His Grace.”
A pair of maids came scurrying, carrying bandages and fresh water. It was only then James realised Adam wasn’t present. He swallowed thickly, trying not to let his imagination get the better of him. “Where is Mr Dowson?”
“He rode on to Hertford, my lord. To fetch Dr Newman,” said Clement. “He said he’d be back as soon as he could.”
“Very good,” replied James. “Have him report immediately to me when he returns.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, and instead steered Marchent out of the hallway, the maids in tow.
“Let’s at least get your jacket off before it stains my furniture.”
Marchent complied, wincing as the jacket was peeled away. “That was new. Bastards.”
“I think the shirt has seen better days too.” James helped remove the cotton, revealing a gash on Marchent’s upper arm. “This is more than a scratch.”
One of the maids cleaned the wound with water and loosely bound it so it would be easy for the physician to examine. James sent them away with thanks and instructions to bring food and drink.
“What happened?” James asked.
Marchent squirmed in discomfort. “We were ambushed by bandits. Vermin, the lot of them. We put up a good fight. I wasn’t about to let a group of noose-dodgers get the better of me. One of the weasels winged me as he got away—too much of a coward to face me like a man.”
“Good job he wasn’t a better shot.”
“No, he’s lucky I didn’t catch him when I gave chase. Spooked the horses and took my men ages to get us back up and running. One of the wheels will need serious repair. We barely limped back here.”
“You were very delayed.”
Marchent sniffed. “I might have needed to call in on an old friend on the way out of London.”
“Is this old friend of yours pretty and good at remembering her lines?”
“Might be. Anyway, it meant we were a bit later leaving than I had hoped, and I hadn’t taken into account what time the sun would set.”
James smirked. “No doubt your mind was on other things.”
“At least I have other things to have my mind on,” muttered Marchent petulantly.
“Who says I don’t?”
“Ho! So the good Mr Dowson has relented.” He laughed, then winced, clutching his arm. “Fuck.”
“Definitely more than a scratch.”
“No need to look so happy about it.”
“I thought you might be dead, so this—I think—is an improvement.”
A maid returned and stayed only long enough to deliver wine and a selection of food that Marchent could easily pick at using one hand, like slices of roast beef and cheese. James handed Marchent a large glass of wine. “Drink this. It will take the edge off the pain until the physician arrives. If I know Adam, he’ll have informed him of your type of injury and will already have visited the apothecary.”
“He’s too good for you,” Marchent said. “I take it his secrets weren’t so dark and deadly that you had to shun him. And you’ve ruled out him being in league with the Clement weasel.”
“You take it correctly.”
Marchent might have been waiting for James to elaborate, but that wasn’t going to happen. He’d known Marchent for years, but this was not his secret to share, and at least for now, the fewer people who knew about Adam’s additional activities the better. He was spared from questioning by the arrival of the physician, but still no sign of Adam.
As with most members of his profession, Dr Newman was a sensible individual, but his competence had even won over James’s father at the time, alt
hough his general suspicions over physicians had remained. He was still relatively young, only mid-forties, which, considering his predecessor was into his seventies before he stopped practising, meant he was a spring chicken. He reminded James of a number of the members of the Royal Society as he peeled away the temporary bandage and examined the wound.
“Pistol shot, no doubt,” he said once he’d finished. “Still, there’s no residue and the wound has been well cleaned.”
“I could have told you that,” groused Marchent.
Dr Newman smiled ruefully. “Yes, Your Grace, and I value your second opinion.”
James suspected Adam had informed Dr Newman about his patient’s identity, but he had attended James’s father a number of times, so was well-versed in dealing with grumpy members of the nobility.
“You see no immediate concern for His Grace’s health?” James asked.
“No, Lord Crofton. I have seen men recover from much worse. The wound should be redressed often, and I have sent your man Dowson to the apothecary for pain relief and a healing tonic. A few days’ rest with minimal exertion will see His Grace well on the path to full health.”
Marchent glowered at his arm. “Will it scar?”
“I’m afraid so, Your Grace.”
James couldn’t help but laugh at the triviality of Marchent’s concern. “Just think of the story you can tell at court, Marchent. You’ll be stripped to the waist showing off your trophy.”
Marchent’s returning stare was withering, but he didn’t reply. Dr Newman made his excuses, promising to come back two days hence to check on the patient, but he would make himself available if requested.
As the physician left, Adam arrived and James’s heart soared with relief. Even after riding into the forest and then onto Hertford, Adam appeared unrumpled and calm. “My lords, Clement said I was report to you directly on my return.”
James wanted to rush to Adam, but with Marchent in the room he held back. “Yes, Mr Dowson. I wanted to ensure your safe return and if you had uncovered any additional information about the bandits who attacked His Grace’s carriage.”
“Oh, for the good Lord’s sake!” huffed Marchent. “I can see you’re desperate to welcome him home, Crofton. You don’t have to hide it from me—I’ve seen you in far more disreputable situations.”
James sprang forwards and wrapped his arms around Adam. The embrace was reciprocated just as eagerly. James buried his face into the crook of Adam’s neck, enjoying the earthy smell from the woods and the last lingering remnant of Adam’s favourite scent, and not caring about the sweat and dirt.
He pulled back and they kissed, albeit a brief exchange. It was no less heartfelt for its fleeting duration. “I am glad you returned safely to me.”
“I had no doubt that I would.”
Marchent cleared his throat. “Right, now if you’ve both finished, I’d like to know if you can help me hang the bastards who shot me.”
James let Adam go and sat. “Come on, Adam. Sit and take a glass of wine.”
Adam took off the heavy riding coat and then retrieved three small apothecary flasks which he handed to Marchent. “The instructions are on the bottom, Your Grace. But I think the one you’ll be most interested in is the green one for pain relief.”
Marchent accepted them and took a swig from the green flask, grimacing at the taste. “Foul stuff.”
“I suspect it is deliberate, to stop you becoming too fond of the effects,” said Adam, sitting as invited and draining the glass of wine he was handed, which James immediately refilled. “Builds quite a thirst charging around Hertfordshire after dark,” said Adam. “We met His Grace’s carriage a mile or so from the scene of the ambush. If I’d had better light, I’d have checked over the area to see if there was anything left behind, but instead I went straight to Hertford.”
“Perhaps it would be prudent to ride out tomorrow morning, straight after breakfast,” said James, keen to be of some assistance.
“Excellent idea. We’ll all go,” said Marchent, the pain medicine clearly having taken effect.
“I would think it prudent if I went alone. His Grace’s injury could be exacerbated if he were to travel. And it might look strange to the servants if Lord Crofton does not trust me to go and leaves his injured guest alone at the hall—which will not help us with our other problem.”
Marchent snorted, but James spoke before his friend could venture his opinion. “You are correct as always. But were you able to find out anything in Hertford?”
“I have a few people I know in the local taverns who are quick to provide information—at a price.”
James knew Adam had connections, but he hadn’t really considered he would have them as far out of London as Hertford, despite Adam’s activities in Epping Forest. But now was not the time to press him on it, not with Marchent present. “I imagine, for the right price, some of them would sell you their mother.”
“Very true. From what I found out, at least one man is said to be laying low with injuries to his leg, although my friend couldn’t, or wouldn’t, say exactly where the injured man is, only that he’d heard somewhere on the outskirts of the town.”
“That’d be the one my driver shot. Toady bastard. Call the sheriff, have him search house to house if need be,” growled Marchent.
“I doubt the sheriff will be much use. I know Lord Crofton has confided in you regarding the concern for his household, so I can tell you I know Clement has paid the sheriff to look the other way, and I assume he would not be the only one.”
“The local man is a mere shadow of his predecessor,” said James. “I intend, once the time is right and I have more information, to petition the Lord Lieutenant to have him removed from office.”
Marchent let out another annoyed huff. “Then you are saying I should do nothing?”
“Only for little while, Your Grace,” said Adam. “There was a comment that suggests to me the bandits who attacked your party have been operating around here for some time. He hinted very heavily that Crofton lands might be where they hide from time to time. And that they have connections to the Hall.”
James gripped his wine glass tightly. The memories of searching the boundaries of his land and happening across the campfire came to the forefront of his mind, and now he thought he had been too quick to dismiss it as a harmless vagrant or poacher. “Do you think this is what my father meant?”
“Possibly. Trespass is one thing, but servants in a house like this will hear things. They will know when lords and ladies are travelling and can be ambushed. You might also consider checking if anything has gone missing.”
“Missing? Such as?”
“It is a large house. I doubt you have a full inventory of everything, but maybe smaller items of value have disappeared without trace.”
“None of my personal possessions are out of order, but then many of them are in London. I imagine there may have been a list at some point, when we returned from the continent, but if there was it would be with my father’s papers. I’ve gone through most of those and didn’t see anything.”
“Perhaps Lady Crofton might know, or could even walk through the house casually observing?” suggested Adam.
“She has an excellent memory, so it would be better for her to do it than myself. I believe she plans to return from friends in a few days, but I could write to her and have her come home earlier.”
Adam shook his head. “I don’t think we need do that. It might alert someone that we have our suspicions if she arrives home early and starts pacing the house.”
“I must concede, again, that you are right. I will speak to Mother on her return, but I feel we cannot continue to let this fester.”
Adam hummed. “Let me check the site of the ambush again tomorrow, and a few spots on the borders of the estate. I think there may be something we can do, but I want answers to a couple more questions first.”
“Which are?”
Adam finished his wine. “Indulge me a little longer
. I still have a few things to think through.”
Marchent laughed. “You are known for your quick wits, Mr Dowson. I’m sure Crofton will happily indulge you.”
James scowled and Adam smirked. Standing, he said, “On that note, I will leave you fine gentlemen alone. I daresay you have much to catch up on and, I admit, I am not as young as I once was, so charging around the countryside has been a little draining.”
Chapter 22
Marchent, despite his injury, was an excellent guest. He had always been fine company for James, but in light of everything that had happened, or could have transpired, it was good to have his old friend visit.
His arm didn’t seem to be giving him much difficulty, but James suspected the apothecary had ensured that a duke would get the very best medicine, and he made a mental note to ask Adam how much he owed him. Adam had headed out at first light. He’d crept into James’s room, kissed him awake, and then departed before James had chance to pull him into bed.
After far too many hours drinking, Marchent was currently in James rooms, goading him on his terrible luck and now-empty purse, the pair of them the wrong side of sober by several measures. “Ho! Crofton, I have never seen such poor cards. Have you forgotten the aim of the game is to win and not let me take all your money?”
“Remind me again why I invited you to my home?”
Marchent let out a loud, satisfied belch as he lay on James’s bed. “Because you have missed my beautiful soul.”
James, who had been lying at the foot of his bed, propped against a post, knelt and picked up a cushion. He lobbed it at Marchent, who squawked indignantly as the missile hit its mark. But as Marchent tried to block it with his good arm, he dislodged a number of cards he had hidden up his sleeve.
“You cheating swine!” James bellowed, grabbing another cushion and launching himself at Marchent.
James, Earl of Crofton Page 19
