The Highwayman's Folly

by Daria Vernon

  He tipped his head regretfully but without surprise. He cupped her cheek.

  “I know,” he said.

  Had he not heard her? “For a long time, I think.”

  His hand slid from her face and he clucked to make the horse join him as he started walking again.

  “I know.”

  “Did my father say something?”

  “He did.”

  Beth followed quietly at his side, a riot of thoughts coursing through her mind. She plucked one such thought from the swarm. “You’ve risked your heart, then, by saying that you love me?”

  He looked down into her eyes again. The faintest reflection of light was there.

  “I know.”

  It was utterly mystifying. She stopped again.

  Just be that rash girl running on the lawns of Ashecote and tupping in the greenhouses of Greenthorne. Be once again that girl that didn’t have her soul on a leash or her heart in a cage. Just be—

  “Then I wish to risk something too, even if—even if it hurts us both.”

  They were almost to town. It might be the last chance before chaos.

  Rhys stepped close. The edges of his worn coat brushed against her.

  “It doesn’t seem fair,” she started, “that your heart should be out in the cold air and mine should not join it when I feel very much the same as you.” A smile began to twitch at Rhys’ lip, and she’d have done anything to see it overtake him. “I love you, Rhys. I don’t know what anything means beyond that, but I love you.”

  She’d imagined him kissing her then. Scooping her into him so suddenly and deeply that she would be turned into a part of him. She imagined embarrassing Allison again, if such a delighted voyeur might ever truly be called embarrassed.

  But he didn’t.

  He touched her face fondly, regretfully. She could swear that he mouthed the words Thank you in the low light.

  Soon the dirt turned back into stone and the stables were ahead.

  Chapter 25

  The stables were much more crowded than when they’d left them.

  The women at Rhys’ side were covered in dirt and grass. With a wince, he realized that Allison had a harmless trickle of blood down her cheek. The two looked more like frisky dairy maidens than gentlewomen.

  The Weldon girl’s parents were there and Lady Weldon would be full of words for them. But it was the presence of Beth’s father that struck real pain into his heart. Because Desmarais hadn’t been the threat at all. Lionel had. And Lionel was an extension of Rhys—an artifact of his past that he had once again brought, most unwelcomely, to the doorstep of the Clarkes.

  Beth and Allison linked hands as they approached the center of the barn.

  The three of them halted, leaving a narrow aisle between themselves and the ranks of their morose welcome party. The space between them contained one groaning Lionel, laid on his side and, wisely, still bound.

  Lady Weldon stepped forward to snatch Allison and drag her to the other side.

  “Mother!”

  Apart from the Weldons and Mr. Clarke, there were two unknown men that rivaled Rhys in height—a gruff fellow of middle age and a lanky lad, quite likely his own son.

  Now Allison stood there too, a hostage to the other side. Her mother’s eyes glowed brighter than the forge in the corner. “Well?!” she commanded.

  Before Rhys could open his mouth to speak up, she stepped into the space between them and cracked an open palm across his face, right where the scorching tongs had nicked him. Beth gasped and wrapped her hands protectively around his arm. But as the sting settled on his cheek, he bowed his head to Lady Weldon. He deserved her ire.

  But then she focused on a different target, one that Rhys could not so readily accept.

  “Bethany Kathryn Clarke. After all of these years, I brought you and your father back into my family, thinking you a renewed woman. Now you would thank me for my charity by corrupting my only daughter?”

  Rhys could not stay silent. “Beth rescued your only daughter from a scoundrel.” Just then, Lionel groaned and Rhys amended, “Two scoundrels, actually.”

  The Weldon matron retreated to her side of the stables, but her poisonous looks did not relent.

  One of the large strangers piped in. “Is this true?”

  “Of course it isn’t true,” said Lady Weldon. “They have this fool’s jest between them that she’s some sort of hero who strikes down wolves and knocks out scoundrels, and God knows what else.” She waved a crinkled kerchief at them dismissively, but her eyes fell on Beth, full of noxious pity.

  At that, Lady Weldon excused herself to the back of the group, ostensibly to conceal her incoming tears.

  The tall stranger who’d spoken up before stepped forward. He pointed at Lionel. “Did you do this?”

  “Tie him up? Yes. Subdue him? No.” Rhys looked down at Beth. “That was her doing.”

  “Trying to put a crime on a lady isn’t a pretty look.”

  Before either of them could respond, Allison stirred to their defense, stepping into the space and nearly tripping over Lionel.

  “These two just saved my life. If this cad on the floor and his dead henchman in the forest hadn’t been stopped by them—”

  “Dead henchman, eh?” The stranger’s eyebrows raised, almost in amusement, as he turned back to them. “So there’s been a murder too?”

  Allison shrank.

  Mr. Clarke put a hand to his head and uttered an “Oh, heaven help us.”

  Lord Weldon pulled his daughter back into line in the absence of his sobbing wife.

  Rhys straightened. “Introductions are in order.”

  “Terrence Mills. Constable.”

  Rhys tightened his jaw. “Osbourne Booker. Bow Street Runner.”

  “Bow Street what? Horse thief, more like.”

  “We brought them back!” Beth’s ridiculous interruption elicited a dry snort from Mr. Mills.

  “The way I see it, I should arrest both you and this fellow on the floor until we get sorted.”

  Mr. Clarke stepped forward. “I wish to reiterate something I said before they returned—”

  Mr. Mills put up a hand to shush him. “I know, I know, this man rescued your daughter once.”

  “Rescued—” spat a coarse voice. They all looked to the writhing creature on the floor. “Rescued?” Lionel began to shake, wracked with a chuckle. “This arse took ’er in the first place!”

  A fine time for a toothless Lion to come to his senses.

  Rhys caught the exchange of a tight look between Beth and her father. He took a deep breath. “If you’ll let me explain, Mr. Mills.”

  “You can explain behind bars.” He whistled over his shoulder to his boy. “Jacob, find something to tie Mr. Booker with.”

  “Please Mr. Mills, if you’ll just wait.” But Mr. Clarke’s plea fell on deaf ears.

  Rhys held himself steady as Mills’ young man pulled rope from a hook and came toward him.

  So this was where his choices got him. He’d almost escaped his mistakes, almost started a new life . . .

  Beth’s hand slid down his arm to knit her fingers tightly with his. He was too afraid to look at her. He had to feel her instead, as best he could.

  Allison broke away from her father for another round with the constable. Her skirts, still seeming sunny in spite of their raggedness, whirled around her as she planted herself before him.

  “You’re not listening. Two men absconded with me, and my friends—one of them, a Bow Street Runner—came and found me. Where were you then?”

  Mr. Mills set his jaw and looked over her head, nodding to his boy to proceed. “I was asleep in bed. A place I’d soon return to, young lady.”

  Young Jacob politely asked that Rhys put his hands behind him. Rhys should have put a ball between Lion’s e
yes when he’d had the chance, but he hadn’t. Now the Lion’s roars might see him sent to the gallows.

  “Please, just—” Beth’s reassuring touch on his arm abandoned him then. She went forth to make her own pleas. There was no touch now but for the rough drag of sisal against his wrists.

  Such cold, avoidant eyes. Beth knew that her pleas might fall wasted on a man such as Mr. Mills, but she had to try.

  “This man on the ground, he can’t be trusted. He wears a dead man’s clothes and pretends to be someone he’s not. He’s a dangerous, ruthless man, who tried to kill me not an hour ago—”

  “He stalked me on the road earlier today,” added Allison. “Pretending at being some gentleman.”

  Beth’s head snapped up. Painful realizations unfolded in the gaze she shared with Allison. “He’s stalked us both, for some time.”

  She returned her eyes to the constable who was, predictably, unmoved. He stood still as a statue while his boy tied Rhys’ hands.

  Beth felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. Her father’s. “Mr. Mills, surely it’s not necessary to tie him. He’ll go as a gentleman and we’ll all happily follow to the jailhouse.”

  “’Tis late and the jail is brimming with drunkards from the fair.” The man, who suddenly seemed more weary than evil, pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’ll all have to wait ’til tomorrow.”

  Fruitless.

  Papa patted her shoulder, defeat in his eyes.

  “And what of the dead man in the woods?” asked Beth.

  Lionel writhed again and moaned out Sol’s name.

  “He can wait too. I’ll send someone out before the critters get to him.”

  Lazy brute.

  Beth dared to look at Rhys even as she sensed that he did not want to be seen.

  It was unbelievable to see him standing there, being bound. So stoic. Perhaps they were not so invincible a pair after all. Everything that had just begun to feel surmountable . . . was not. The rope was tightened on his wrists with finality, and Jacob led him to Mr. Mills.

  It was too much. “Rhys has done nothing wrong!”

  “Who’s Rhys?” asked Mr. Mills.

  Beth set her teeth, flushing at her mistake, but not giving in. “It is his middle name, and beside the point. This man has done a great service tonight, as he did years ago—”

  “When he saved my daughter’s life,” said Mr. Clarke.

  “As he helped to save me tonight,” added Allison.

  The voices began to overlap in their pleas to the harried constable of Bartswell. Even the horses began to nicker, agitated by the swell of voices.

  whhhhhh-CRACK

  Everyone was immediately silenced. Looking around. Scouring for danger. Had a shot gone off?

  But Beth saw him first.

  Harry.

  Her chest inhaled a bit of hope.

  He stood in the broad carriage doorway. Bullwhip in hand. With the other hand, he grasped a boy’s collar. Poor Harry looked as nervous as any of them as he gingerly replaced the whip on a hook by the doorway and cleared his throat.

  “I believe I might elucidate a few things.”

  Rhys spoke up then. “Mr. Mills, allow me to introduce my deputy, Mr. Harry Plymouth.”

  Harry nudged the boy forward. “This lad—Paul, did you say?” The sulky adolescent nodded. “Paul was keeping the stables when that man on the floor there—whose name happens to be Lionel Dilswitch—paid him out of his duties for the night. But Paul stayed nearby, outside.” Harry looked to Rhys, then to Beth. “And he heard a lot in the last hour.”

  Paul crossed his hands politely and looked down. “He gave my l’il brother a note and had him run off with it. Don’t know where he is now.”

  “I believe your brother is somewhere safe.” Rhys’ voice was soft. To hear him gentle his voice to reassure another when he himself was in such straits—it unwound her.

  Mr. Mills approached Harry and the boy. “Paul. The Evans’ boy, right? I know you. Tell us what you heard.”

  And the boy did.

  The stable boy’s testimony corroborated what everyone had been saying. Of course, Lionel had things to say about it, but flapped his maw so much that Mr. Mills had his son shove a ball of linen in the Lion’s mouth to cease his grousing.

  By the end of Paul’s recounting, Mills was swaying in his boots, half-asleep. Harry wisely seized on his impairment. “Mr. Mills, if you would just release my associate, we can all walk to the inn where Mr. Crofty, an administrator from the Home Office, is staying. He can further attest to Mr. Booker’s purpose here.”

  The constable was nodding mutely, as though he might accept anything that was said to him in that late hour. But then he put a rough hand up in protest and shook his head as violently as a dog might shake off water. “No.” He pinched his nose again. “No. It can wait ’til morning.”

  Beth looked past the carriage doors. The sky was grayer. The town quieter. There was a dewy chill in the air and Beth knelt by her tired father who had set himself on an upturned pail. It already was morning.

  But Beth’s exhausted heart lifted when Mills directed Jacob to untie Rhys. Mr. Mills followed, wearily dragging his feet before drawing up to his full height in front of Rhys. “If you’re not at that inn later with this Mr. Crofty, I’ll see that every thief-taker in the land has your head on their docket.”

  Then Mills toed the squirming Lionel. “Jacob, help me with this one.” And the two men took Lionel out of sight and, Beth hoped, out of their lives.

  Her half-lidded eyes met Rhys’ gaze. They both flinched to move toward one another, when Harry stepped between them to help her up.

  “Dear Harry. I’ve wondered about you.” Beth placed a fond hand on his arm, looking him over. Three years had certainly made a difference in the breadth of his shoulders.

  “I’ve been quite well in Rhys’ employ, Miss Clarke.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me he was with you?” she asked Rhys.

  “I needed him as an extra set of eyes. One that kept more to the shadows, while we investigated the possibility of Desmarais.”

  “Well, that arrangement certainly turned out to be useful tonight,” said Beth.

  Mr. Clarke planted his cane and stood at the sound of Desmarais’ name. “And it’s true that Desmarais is dead all this time?”

  “Nearly all this time,” she said.

  From Beth’s side came the delicate clearing of a throat. “Cousin, you’ve not introduced me.”

  Beth turned to face Allison, but all she saw was a girl caught up in a flagrant assessment of Harry’s fine features. Beth smiled. Allison—whom she’d openly encouraged to find trouble—was blazing straight ahead in that pursuit.

  Beth gestured toward Harry. “Harry—”

  He leaned in. “Mr. Plymouth, will do.”

  Beth cleared her throat to restart. “Mr. Plymouth, may I introduce to you my dear cousin and friend, Lady Allison Weldon.” He bowed overly-deeply and lit up in that positively Harry way.

  “A pleasure, Lady Allison. I’m very heartened to see you safe and sound.”

  Allison’s guileless smile was wide enough to span the Thames. “Mr. Plymouth, the pleasure is mine. If you like, I can share with you all of the details of the ordeal?”

  Harry raked a hand through his tawny hair. “Well, the hour is late and the stable lad already—”

  “Wouldn’t you like to hear about it?” Her question was rephrased with the cadence of a command.

  “Yes. Yes, I would.” He proffered his arm, and the two wandered to the stables’ opposite end to chat.

  Poor man. Doesn’t stand a chance.

  At their departure, Beth felt another figure arrive at her side, and she leaned into him instinctively. Rhys stretched a long arm around her shoulder as she lifted his hand to inspect it. His wrist was still wrap
ped with the pink irritations of the ropes he’d just been freed from. If he’d been taken away from her tonight—

  Beth halted the thought before it went too far and comforted herself by looking up at him.

  “See!” A shrill voice cut through Beth’s thoughts. Lady Weldon swept up in front of them. “Mystery swarms around these two like bees. Not all of this scandal can be buried by morning, but something has to be done about these two.”

  Lady Weldon was so preoccupied with them, it seemed, that she was altogether ignorant of her daughter flirting with another handsome lawman from London.

  “Mr. Clarke,” Lady Weldon pouted as she spun to catch Beth’s poor father off guard. “If you don’t rein this in, well—I’m not sure if I can weather another scandal at your side.”

  “You didn’t weather the first one, Auntie Lu, you left.” Beth had certainly taken chances by flinging a moniker that she hadn’t used for her aunt since childhood.

  “I came back.” Lady Weldon hesitated. “Eventually.”

  Papa looked ready to topple from exhaustion. “What do you propose they do?”

  Lady Weldon sputtered out a dramatic, exasperated sound, before delivering a sharply raised eyebrow to Beth and Rhys.

  “Marry.” When no one jumped on Mrs. Weldon’s statement with their agreement, she continued. “Have you ever seen two unwed people touch each other so much in polite society in your lives?”

  Beth looked around at polite society. Lord Weldon leaning against a post, snoring. An earl’s daughter flirting shamelessly with a once-footpad. Mr. Clarke with his ever-wild tufts of white hair. The path in the hay where a filthy madman had been dragged away. The aftermath of a rowdy town fair and an abduction.

  She went on. “Have you ever even seen wed people touch one another so much?”

  “I’ve not.” Ahh, so Lord Weldon was not asleep. He joined his wife.

  “You all exhaust me,” she said, before leaning in to tower over Beth. “And you will not be seeing my daughter until we understand the repercussions of this eve.”

  “To my understanding, such repercussions rely a great deal on what story the highest-ranking people here will tell. The story you will tell.”