The Highwayman's Folly

by Daria Vernon

  Rhys slipped behind a small building and briskly circled it, aiming to cut off the thief from the other direction. He reentered the road ahead of the man.

  He angled himself into the pickpocket’s path. As the two were about to brush shoulders, Rhys darted his hand out and caught the man’s wrist just as it jumped in recognition. The crook tried to bolt, but in Rhys’ iron grip, the scrawny man just twisted and slipped down to the mud, scrambling.

  Rhys pinned him easily. “My things. Give me my things.”

  “What’re you on about?”

  Rhys dug a knee into the man’s side to put a finer point on their conversation. In the periphery, Rhys could tell people were gathering, but his common sense was riding away from him on a current of rage. He needed Beth’s things back.

  The man groaned under him, unyielding. Rhys decided to relieve him of the contents of his pockets himself.

  There were shillings mostly . . . lint . . . a tangle of ribbons . . . The other pocket contained two watches, one of them quite nice, and then he felt it—another ribbon weighted down by a pendant. He ripped it upward and watched it dangle from his fingers. That bucolic miniature. Her necklace.

  “Where’s the book?” he growled, grabbing the man’s collar roughly.

  “Why would I carry around a book for?”

  Rhys frantically continued to pat the man down, but it wasn’t on him.

  “What’s this about?” A voice rose above the small gathered crowd.

  Rhys turned and straightened when he saw an older gentleman approaching. Regret sank into his gut as he realized what a scene he’d made. So much for blending in. He stayed as calm as possible while the thief under him growled and writhed.

  “Get this wretch off me! He’s robbin’ me blind!”

  “Hush, you,” hissed Rhys, before flashing an innocent smile up at the man above him—who scowled deeply.

  “Why are you assailing this man?”

  “This man is the thief here.” Rhys deftly returned his hand to the man’s pocket to withdraw the two watches he’d discovered. He passed them up to the gentleman and stood.

  No sooner had the thief been freed from Rhys’ weight than he scuttled to his feet and began to run.

  “Stop him.” The older man pointed authoritatively, and several young lookers-on appeased the request. The bounder didn’t get far.

  Rhys observed the gentleman, who was weighing both watches in his small, thick palm. “Are either of these yours?”

  “Might I plea for an introduction first, sir?”

  The man lifted an auburn brow but not in insult.

  “Mr. Crofty. I’m riding through with the district magistrate on business.”

  Rhys wished he hadn’t asked. “I have no claim on the watches. I sought only to recover this.” Rhys held up the necklace. “And a small book, which sadly seems not to be on him.”

  The gentleman assessed the necklace. “Your necklace?”

  “It belongs to a dear friend,” said Rhys. “I thought I’d get a new ribbon for it while I was in the village.”

  Crofty nodded, seemingly satisfied with the explanation. He seemed more preoccupied with the watches. He lifted the more ornate one and squinted to inspect its engraving.

  “As it happens, this timepiece belongs to the magistrate himself.” Mr. Crofty chuckled softly, eyeing the watch with glee. “Stolen just last night. He’ll be very glad to have it back.” He took Rhys’ hand in an eager shake. “To whom shall I tell him to extend his gratitude?”

  Rhys’ mouth went strangely dry as he uttered his usual alias and pulled his hand away.

  “Osbourne Booker.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Booker. What happened here? It will need to be recorded.”

  “The man bumped me while I stood outside the stables. It was a moment before I noticed things were missing. I tracked him through the market and on to Chapelgate. I went round that building there to head him off, and I grabbed him.”

  “You tracked him?”

  Rhys shifted in his boots, trying to distract himself with the feel of the cobblestones. This Mr. Crofty was asking a lot of questions.

  Rhys nodded. “Yes. I saw his footprints in the mud toward some of the market stalls. I suspected he would seek escape through the more cluttered side of the street. I noticed a cider girl looking up the little alley she was set up next to, as though someone had just gone past—”

  The restrained thief spat at Rhys, but most of the pathetic spray just dribbled down his own chin.

  “Aye, thief. You know her, don’t you?”

  Mr. Crofty drew Rhys’ attention back. “Are you just passing through, Mr. Booker? Pity, if so.” The short man was staring, looking Rhys up and down. “You’ve done something most decent constables can’t. Take a watchman from any town, village, or hamlet in England, and he wouldn’t know a thief if he looked him dead in the eye.”

  Rhys blinked, breaking the dead-in-the-eye gaze of Mr. Crofty. He tried not to let a smile of irony reach his lips as he spoke. “Surely they’re not all so ridiculous.”

  Mr. Crofty was about to speak again when a slew of curses spewed forth from the thief. Mr. Crofty rolled his eyes and sighed.

  “One moment, please.” He turned to the young men holding on to the blabbering man and exchanged words with them. Doling out some coins, he pointed the men in a direction that they might drag the presumably arrested fellow.

  “Now, where were we?” He took Rhys by the shoulder and began to walk with him. Here he was in conversation with a magistrate’s colleague—his pockets full of stolen-horse gold and a ransomed woman’s necklace . . .

  Rhys’ mind wandered away the very moment that he thought of Beth. He pictured himself taking the steps two-by-two as he ran up to see her. He wanted another night like the one they’d had but unsullied by his misdeeds. He wanted to see her smile. He wanted to get her out of there.

  “Are you familiar with them, Mr. Booker?”

  Rhys looked down at the man by his side and tried to pick out a word that he might have caught whilst he’d been daydreaming. London. The Home Office. The Runners . . .

  “The Bow Street Runners, yes, I am. Vaguely.”

  “Something tells me that a man like you could be very beneficial. Another friend, Mr. Wright, is the chief magistrate, and he’s putting together some exciting things down there. You should consider it. Do you have any experience in such things? As a thief-taker perhaps?”

  Rhys laughed loudly before he could control it. He bit his lip and shook his head. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Here is my calling card. If you’re ever in London seeking employment, you’ll have my enthusiastic referral. Now, I had better go see about that thief’s transportation. Thank you again for your services. Good day.” Mr. Crofty slapped Rhys heartily on the arm.

  “Same to you, sir.”

  And then he left. Rhys stood alone on the pavement. The last of the onlookers had already returned to their business. Beth’s pendant was still in Rhys’ left hand, where he’d been stroking a thumb along it through his entire conversation with Mr. Crofty. Now he noticed something that he hadn’t previously. There were tiny stones encircling the setting of the enamel. It would be no surprise if they were little diamonds. The necklace could support his crew for a year or more . . . and all he wanted was to get it back to her.

  Lionel wasn’t going to take well to Rhys returning without information, but Lionel’s needs were sinking further and further into the background.

  The loss of Beth’s poetry book left Rhys a grieving man. He pinched the bridge of his nose, straining to remember his favorite passages. He retraced the steps of the foot chase with his eyes cast to the ground. But the mud and pavement and straw offered no glimpse of the little leather-bound thing. He had lost not only Beth’s voice and words but the ability to restore them to he
r.

  He was toeing the mud with his boot, his mind ten miles away, when something blew into his face on the breeze. He looked up and drew his lips in annoyance as the tails of dozens of ribbons gently slapped at him. Evidently, he’d been doing his daydreaming right next to a haberdasher’s storefront. The rainbow of trims danced on the wind from where they dangled on their hanging racks. He thought they might be the brightest things in the entire dreary town.

  One blew off the rack and his reflexes responded, snatching it from the air, a flying snake caught by its tail. He dragged it through his pinched fingers, feeling the brush of the silky pile. It caught against his roughened skin. He sensed the shopgirl staring at him before he even looked up.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “Four shillin’.”

  He handed the emerald ribbon to her to be wrapped in paper, along with one of the guineas that weighed down his coat pocket. She disappeared inside.

  At the next building over, two women sat on their stoop, talking loudly while they watched a bundled-up child, rounded by layer upon layer of wool, struggle to take a few steps.

  Rhys’ racing thoughts had drowned out their gossip until the name Clarke stabbed through the noise in his head, like an arrow. He stiffened as the shopgirl dropped his purchase lightly into his hand, his ears sharply attuned to the conversation behind him.

  “. . . Mr. Clarke’s daughter . . . seen in days . . . highway . . .”

  The shopgirl looked ready to speak the praises of more ribbons, but Rhys’ cold eyes must have told her to walk away. She dropped his change into his palm and departed.

  Rhys’ blood felt heavy, like he was willing it to be still. He inched nearer to the edge of the haberdashery. He stroked another ribbon idly between his fingers and listened to the woman.

  “They should have arrived at Bartswell outside of Hull no later than yesterday. Harold knows Clarke’s solicitor. Says the poor man is beside himself with—”

  “It’s just an elopement. They’ll find that out in the end. They’re always just elopements.”

  “I think she’s dead.”

  “Oh, Ginnie, don’t be so bleak,” she begged. Just then, the toddling child toppled onto the pavement and began to wail.

  Enough.

  Rhys had been drawn to listen, yet he wished he had not heard. It was precisely what he came for, fed to him without having to lift a finger—and yet he wished to vomit it up and leave it behind in this gray village.

  He cursed under his breath as he returned to the stables to leave the village and his filthy errands behind.

  Beth’s entire body jumped when the door to her room swung open. Her startled heart leapt into a racing beat. She must have dozed off. There was so little else to do with her day but sleep.

  But her pulse took on another pace entirely when it registered that it wasn’t Harry at the door, but Rhys. She straightened.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d come . . . check on . . . you.” Why was he so out of breath?

  She studied him. Snowflakes were freshly melting on his shoulders and his greatcoat was buttoned to the throat. He pushed his great presence into the room, backlit by an amber halo as he dropped his saddlebag with a thud before the fire.

  “Harry is due to take care of me soon. He’s very on top of his duties.” She wished she hadn’t said it. It didn’t send Rhys away though. He dropped a knee to the floor and removed his gloves. She caught herself staring at his hands as he vigorously rubbed warmth back into them.

  “I’m glad he’s taken good care of you. I trust him very much.” Rhys began to undo the buttons at his throat.

  “How did your little errand go?”

  His hands froze.

  “Your secret is still safe.” He looked her right in the eye as he said it, and there was something haunting in the delivery. Something almost . . . sad.

  He crossed the floor on his hands and knees to where she sat, and he was suddenly so close to her that she leaned back against the wall.

  He crouched in front of her.

  “How does your shoulder feel?”

  “It doesn’t hurt me much. Doesn’t throb.”

  “That’s a good sign,” he said, “May I?”

  She nodded gently. He set about unwrapping the bandage before realizing it was to his advantage to untie her wrists first so that she could lift her arm as he worked.

  “It feels more comfortable in here now,” he said as his cool fingers worked at the knots. “It was nice to see a bit of sunshine today. Not as cold.”

  “Yes, the weather has broken a bit, hasn’t it? I daresay it will be glorious tomorrow for a country ride. Shall we talk of trade next? I hear the brewing business is quite bustling. Honestly.”

  He smiled. “Your point is taken. It’s not really right to chat like we’re at some dinner party.”

  “At a dinner party? That’s your dinner conversation? The weather? I should have hoped you could do better than that.”

  “Forgive me. I have never been to a dinner party in all my life.” He smiled at her as though to let her know it was all right to smile back—he wasn’t wounded.

  The fine hairs at the back of her neck raised in response to his breath as he tugged on the knots. He didn’t seem so deft with them as Harry or Solomon.

  Rhys glanced around the room. “But truly, Beth, what do you do all day in this prison of my design?”

  At least his humor was frank in regard to culpability.

  “I talk to her.” Beth nodded toward the maenad.

  “And is she good companionship?”

  “She listens, yes. But she doesn’t contribute much, and she spills good wine on the floor.”

  “That’s a pity. You could probably use some wine after a couple of days in here.”

  “I would accept the flask of gin again.”

  His eyes sparkled playfully at her, and she felt very conscious of it as she mirrored his expression. With the toe of his boot, he hooked the strap of his bag and dragged it near. Digging with one hand, he withdrew the flask they’d used before and took a swig.

  “That’s not fair,” she said. “I don’t have my hands back yet.”

  He leveled his eyes at her. “Then I won’t keep you waiting.” Scooting up to her side, he leaned against her. Whether from the heat of his body or the suddenness of his proximity, Beth no longer felt chilled. The air around her now smelled of snow and of that piney scent she’d caught before. He lifted the flask toward her lips.

  “You’ll drown me in it.” Laughter, nervous and breathy, fluttered up her throat.

  “Please, you drank deeper draughts the night I found you than any woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  Before she could respond again, it was tilted up to her, and the fiery drink swept silkily across her tongue. He brought it back down quickly, and she rolled her lips together to capture any last drops. She felt a roaring blush rise to her cheeks. They always reddened easily with drink, but what was happening now wasn’t that. She didn’t try to turn away from him or hide her risen color. Instead, she locked eyes with him recklessly, drinking him in with more enthusiasm than she’d shown to the liquor. He was the first to break their stare as he returned his attention to the knots.

  She leaned forward as he worked on her wrists. Wisps of cold air had been slipping like fingers under the edges of her torn collar ever since she arrived, and Rhys’ warm breath behind her was a remedy.

  “There,” he said.

  Beth drew her creaky arms in front of her and stretched her wrists and fingers.

  He passed her the flask and, shoulder-to-shoulder, they leaned against the rotten wallpaper, exchanging sips. She succumbed to the conviviality of the moment. The only witness was the marble nymph, who would never tell anyone how a gentleman’s daughter was consorting with her own
kidnapper.

  She snorted as she thought of something, and then the thought came tumbling quickly from her mouth—

  “You are very good with knots, Rhys. I wonder if you’re knot a sailor?” She combusted into giggles from her own joke and enjoyed it all the more when Rhys didn’t laugh.

  “And I wonder that I once called you clever.” He smiled. “Besides, I think it is very clear to both of us that I am, in fact, not very good with knots.”

  Rhys set himself about the more delicate task of her bandage. Here was something that she could tell he was good at.

  “Who have you stitched up before me?”

  “You’re the first woman, I’ll say that much.”

  “And what do you think of your handiwork?”

  The final layer of gauze was coming off. He sighed as he laid eyes on it. “If I could have completely erased it, I would have.”

  How did he manage to always do this? Say these things that wrung her to her core?

  “For my part, I was rather too gallant that day. And foolish.”

  Rhys delicately cleaned the injury. “Foolish? I don’t know, I rather admired you for it.”

  He pushed her hair aside before leaning in and running his finger along the stitches. “Tender?” he asked.

  “Only a little.”

  She placed a hand lightly over his. It wasn’t because it hurt. It wasn’t to stop him. It was just because.

  The gentle snaps of the fire were the only sound. Her chest rose and fell deeply with every breath. Their hands rose and fell together. She was leaning into him. He was leaning into her. About to lock necks like two swans in a caress.

  He inhaled sharply and rose to help her stand up.

  But once she was upright, he dropped himself back down to the pallet. Their sudden distance, gaping.

  “So it’s time for my evening constitutional, then?”

  He nodded, looking up at her with a dreamy expression. She’d never seen him so relaxed in this way. It wasn’t a cocky nonchalance but a certain satedness.