The Lady and the Highwayman

by Sarah M. Eden

  Elizabeth set her hand atop his, an innocent gesture, one employed in an almost incidental manner, but the casualness of it ill-prepared him for the impact of the simple touch. His pulse pounded in his ears and chest. His thoughts momentarily emptied.

  “Mr. Moon’s box is just there.” She motioned beyond him with her head. “And Mr. Midgley is in the box even now.”

  Fletcher adjusted his position enough to glance in that direction without being too obvious about it. He recognized Mr. Moon as well as another gentleman in the box. He did not, however, know which of the other half-dozen men was their target.

  Elizabeth, apparently, guessed at his ignorance. “He is the shorter of the gentlemen who are standing—the one with the sour face and overly thick muttonchop whiskers.”

  The curtain rose. Elizabeth’s attention shifted to the stage. Her hand, to his surprise, remained on his. She may well have merely been embracing her role in their charade, but he hadn’t any complaints.

  One thing he knew about operas: few were in English. This one, from the sound of it, was in Italian. He knew ­little of that language beyond “Yes,” “No,” and the colorful expressions used by the Italian musicians who busked on the streets near Covent Gardens. Elizabeth, however, became entirely engrossed in the music.

  “I ain’t got the first idea what they’re singing about,” he whispered, “but it’s nice.”

  “I will let you in on a secret, Fletcher. I don’t understand Italian, either.”

  “Seems to me I should’ve come with Hollis. He could’ve translated.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But would he have held your hand?”

  Fletcher shrugged. “He might’ve tried, but I’d not’ve enjoyed it half as much.”

  “You’re enjoying it?” She sounded a little doubtful.

  He raised their entwined hands to his lips. “I’m enjoying it immensely.”

  Fletcher kissed her fingers one at a time, lingering over each one. His pulse picked up with each kiss, his heart pounding ever harder.

  “It’s a shame some of the rules Society has,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Her voice was airy, almost noiseless.

  He unbent her fingers and, palm to palm, turned her hand in his. “I’m not overly fond of gloves.”

  “We’re attempting to blend in.” Her voice grew ever more unsteady. “Clasping bare hands would draw attention.”

  He leaned the teeniest bit closer, dropping his voice to an intimate whisper. “Perhaps another time, dear.”

  “Perhaps,” she whispered.

  He threaded their fingers once more and returned his attention to the stage. They sat that way through the remainder of the first act. As the performance reached its intermission, Elizabeth slipped her hand free of his.

  “Should we call on Mr. Moon’s box and see if we can get any helpful information?” She, apparently, hadn’t been distracted from their purpose, more was the pity.

  Fletcher looked over at the box. “He’s ain’t there.”

  “He’s not?”

  No one else had left that box. “How often do gentry coves take themselves off before the opera’s over?”

  “More often than you might think. They make an appearance, shake the right hands, then go spend the evening at their club.”

  “I suspect he might have.”

  They watched awhile longer, but Midgley never returned, neither did anyone from the box appear to be expecting him.

  “Seems we’ve lost our quarry,” Fletcher said. “Not the greatest spies, you and I.”

  She didn’t mirror his humor, but said, in all seriousness, “I suppose there’s no reason to remain, then.”

  No reason? Was sitting together swapping banter and holding hands not at least some reason? He’d thought she’d been enjoying herself enough to stay. Fool that he was, he’d even let himself imagine she’d been pleased to be with him.

  Fletcher called upon all of his acting skills and walked with Elizabeth out of the opera house without giving the least indication he was disappointed. He’d learned long ago to hold himself together in times of difficulty. When he’d been rejected from the poor schools in London for being too poor. When he’d finally been admitted to a ragged school like Hogg’s only to struggle to learn and to have the other students laugh at him every time he declared his intention to make a success of himself. When he’d endured one beating after another from masters and landladies and been tossed out on his tiny ear for objecting. He knew how to hide his pain. No one would guess it was there now—not even her.

  They sent word to the line of carriages that they were ready to depart. Elizabeth did not seem in the mood to talk, so they waited in silence. Milligan’s carriage arrived. Elizabeth was handed up, but the driver motioned for Fletcher to wait a moment.

  “Thought you’d want to know Mr. Midgley’s coachman said he’d be taking his master to the Serpentine tomorrow during the fashionable hour.”

  That was helpful information, indeed.

  Fletcher thanked him, tossing the man a gold coin, before climbing inside the carriage.

  “Turns out, Elizabeth, this evening weren’t a complete waste.”

  She was clearly intrigued.

  “Care to undertake an outing tomorrow?”

  She smiled. “Absolutely.”

  Perhaps it hadn’t been such a disaster after all.

  Elizabeth had been to Kensington Gardens before. She rather loved it. The flowering shrubs. The beautiful, towering trees. The meandering paths winding through the deep green grass. There was hardly a more peaceful place in all of London. Being there with Fletcher proved both more enjoyable and less.

  She delighted in his company. He was witty and kind, never spoke down to her, and treated her as someone worthy of his time, which not all men were willing to do. Yet he also upended her. Her usually ordered thoughts jumbled and fogged. Being with him was a most pleasantly uncomfortable experience.

  She spun her open parasol against her shoulder, enjoying the breeze and the vista. “I do wish Kensington Gardens sat closer to Thurloe. I would come here every day.”

  “I thought fashionable people made the outing to Hyde Park quite regularly.”

  Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens adjoined one another, separated by the meandering Serpentine. “Fashionable people with a great deal of time on their hands come here often. I have left Thurloe more the past few days than in the previous months combined.”

  He offered her a sparkling smile. “You’re welcome.”

  “You’re taking credit, are you?”

  “Of course I am. Men don’t often get credit for things.”

  “Pish.” She laughed. “Men receive credit for everything.”

  He sighed theatrically. “We are rather despicable, ain’t we?”

  “A few of you aren’t terrible.”

  “Am I included in that few?”

  She offered no response. He laughed. Oh, how she enjoyed his company.

  They wound toward the Serpentine, coming across a man who recognized Fletcher on the spot. He was not dressed to the first stare of fashion, but neither did he appear destitute. “Fletch, it’s yourself, is it?” An Irishman, apparently. “Fancy you’re being here.”

  Fletcher gripped his friend’s hand vigorously in greeting. “Good seeing you, Brogan.” He looked to Elizabeth. “Miss Black, this here’s Brogan Donnelly, a friend of mine.”

  She knew that name well. “A fellow author of penny dreadfuls, I believe.”

  The Irishman nodded. “Are you familiar, then, with the lowest rung of literature?”

  “Yes, and I am also familiar with the penny dreadfuls.”

  Mr. Brogan appeared impressed. “Witty and beautiful.” He gave Fletcher a look of approval. “Don’t tell me a ragamuffin like you is courting this rare gem?”


  “I’m doing my best.” He slipped her arm through his. Did he not mean to tell him that they were on a mission to obtain information for the Dread Penny Society? Was Brogan not a member? That seemed unlikely.

  Still, if that was the better approach, Elizabeth would follow Fletcher’s lead. She set her free hand atop his arm, assuming the posture of the countless courting couples in the gardens. Fletcher’s eyes met hers, and the look he gave her would have convinced even the greatest cynic that he held her in tender regard. She didn’t know what to make of that. Was he a very gifted actor, or did he feel more for her than he’d let on? She didn’t know which was truer of herself.

  “What is it you see in this ol’ bag o’ bones?” Mr. Donnelly asked. “He’s not horrifying to look at, I suppose, but you’re a fair bit above his touch.”

  “You ain’t lying,” Fletcher said.

  “I don’t think of us that way,” she said. “We’re both writers. We both care about the welfare of children. We’re both deeply intrigued by mysteries.”

  Fletcher grinned. Mr. Donnelly did as well.

  “Then I wish you all the good fortune you can muster.” The Irishman offered a bow and moved along.

  “I hadn’t thought of that difficulty,” Elizabeth said.

  “That people will realize we’re mismatched?”

  She shook her head. “That people will think we’re mismatched.”

  He tucked her closer. “We are, dear. No matter that I’m employin’ my best manners, we ain’t on the same ladder rung.”

  She tipped her chin upward. “It seems to me you have your eyes on the wrong ladder.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “Perhaps I am.”

  She and Fletcher walked on as well, her arm still threaded through his, her hand still resting on his arm. Elizabeth hadn’t realized until that moment how lonely she often was. She enjoyed the company of her fellow teachers, treasured Ana’s friendship in particular, and appreciated her opportunities to spend time with other silver-fork novelists and literary societies. But so much of her life was spent alone, in her office, working on matters related to her school or pursuing the deeply satisfying passion she didn’t dare admit to.

  “Have you ever taken a boat out on the Serpentine?” Fletcher asked.

  “I haven’t. I have watched the boaters, though. It seems like a lovely way to spend an afternoon.” And more exciting than the sedate walks along the gardens to which she usually limited herself.

  “It most certainly is, Miss Elizabeth.” He slipped his arm away from hers but held her hand, tugging her toward the edge of the water where the boats were being watched over by men eager to accept the fee for hire.

  “We are going to go boating?” She couldn’t quite hide her excitement. “You don’t think that will be viewed as inappropriate, do you?”

  “I ain’t the one to ask, dove.” They reached the Serpentine. “How much for the boat for a time?” he asked a man standing beside a particularly promising rowboat.

  He was quoted a not unreasonable price. The offer was accepted.

  “You know how to stay afloat, sir?” the boatman asked.

  “This ain’t my first time on the water.” He turned to Elizabeth, a challenge twinkling in his eyes. “Have you decided if you’d be putting paid to your reputation if you take a tiny boat ride with me?”

  She couldn’t be entirely certain it would meet with approval from the greatest of sticklers, but she didn’t think an outing that was as public as a carriage ride in the park could truly be declared scandalous. And, oh, how she would love to have an adventure.

  “We will further convince people you are courting me,” she told him.

  He held out his hand to her once more. He must not have objected.

  She set her hand in his. The simple touch—through both of their gloves—sent waves of warm awareness over her. How was it this man, who stood in a position to uncover a secret that would destroy the stable life of independence she had carefully created for herself, made her feel alive in a way no one else ever had? Perhaps it was because, as Mr. Donnelly had pointed out, Fletcher wasn’t as bound by the expectations of the upper class. It made him both an adventure and a risk.

  They were soon situated. A push from the boatman sent them out onto the water. Fletcher took up the oars, pulling them through the smooth water. They lazily meandered out onto the lake. A light breeze cooled the air, and birdsong echoed from the trees surrounding the lake. It was peaceful and serene. A slow smile tugged at her lips. The moment was perfect.

  “Keep that expression on your face, Elizabeth, and I’ll think my wooing is working.”

  “Is that not the goal?” she asked.

  “That, my dear, is always the goal.” He didn’t look at her as he continued to row, but his tone was a touch too ­innocent—and amused—for his comment to be anything but good-spirited banter.

  “And our spying expedition?” she pressed.

  “An added bonus.” He winked at her, pulling the oars as he guided the boat along the lake, parallel to the shore.

  “I’ve never been a spy, though I suspect I would be quite good at it.”

  He laughed. “I haven’t any doubt in you.”

  “None at all?” She couldn’t hold back her smile.

  “You sorted that Janey could get word to me and pieced together that Midgley might be part of the trouble at Hogg’s school.”

  He left his list at that, but she suspected there was more.

  “And?” she asked.

  “And you were bang on about this being the right spot for today’s spying.”

  Was she?

  He motioned with his head toward the bank. Midgley stood on the path near the Serpentine, and he was not alone.

  “Is that Mr. Headley speaking to him?”

  “It ain’t the Prime Minister.”

  The two men were deep in conversation, the topic appearing to be a heavy one.

  “Are they chums, then?” Fletcher asked.

  “They are acquainted, but I don’t believe theirs is a close connection.”

  “Are you certain about that?”

  She wasn’t. Not any longer.

  “How’s Headley feel about educating the poor?” Fletcher asked.

  She looked away from the unexpected meeting occurring on the shore, her thoughts spinning. “When I told him of Mr. Midgley’s comments, he seemed unconcerned.”

  Fletcher continued rowing but slower, the boat hardly moving. “On account of him thinking Midgley wasn’t in earnest?”

  That wasn’t it, exactly. “It seemed more that he thought my worry was misplaced or unjustified.”

  That brought a rise to Fletcher’s eyebrow. “Throwing you off the scent, perhaps.”

  Perhaps. “But he wouldn’t have any reason to suspect I knew of the trouble at Hogg’s school.”

  Fletcher’s gaze returned to the men, his eyes narrowing. “It’s suspicious.”

  “What do we do now?” She had far less experience with this kind of thing than he did.

  “Watch,” he said. “Both of ’em.”

  “You can do that?”

  He assumed an entertainingly haughty expression. “I’ve a few useful talents, Elizabeth.”

  “Writing, for example,” she said. “Your most recent installment was quite well done.”

  “I’d return the compliment, but you ain’t published anything in more than a year.”

  He tracked her writing? That was both flattering and worrisome.

  “Running my school has taken nearly all my time,” she said. “That has left me little opportunity for other pursuits.”

  “You’ve been attempting to save Hogg’s school as well.”

  “What can I say? I like to keep busy.”

  “And you like to sort out myster
ies.”

  The difficulty being, so did he. The more they worked together, the harder it would be to keep her secrets from him. As much as she was enjoying playing spy, she had to be careful else these moments of adventure might cost her every bit of security she had fought for.

  Fletcher was falling in love. There was little point denying it any longer. He’d always been something of a flirt, but it was different with Elizabeth. He didn’t banter with her merely for fun. He longed for that sparkle in her eyes and the saucy looks she tossed him. The challenge she presented and the rush of excitement as they sorted puzzles together left him feeling more alive and content than nearly anything else.

  It was utterly frustrating.

  He loved her, but a great deal stood between them. Her school and the very proper appearance it demanded. Her knowledge of King and the secrets she insisted on keeping. His tight-lipped protection of the DPS. The fact that Brogan was right about the social chasm between them. It was a terrible lot to get past.

  He made his way amongst the flower sellers out along the Strand, assuming the appearance of casual interest as he approached a particularly ragged young seller.

  “How much for a handful?” he asked.

  “Tuppence for a posy,” Gemma said. “Penny for m’ thoughts.”

  “I’d be interested in both.”

  As he exchanged the required coins for her admittedly wilted blooms, he listened intently.

  “The two coves you asked over have been seen about. Gray-haired one mostly grumbles to ’is own kind about us who ain’t got the money he has.”

  That sounded very much like Midgley. “And the young, yellow-haired one?”

  “Odd sort, him.” The girl’s soot-smeared brow pulled in thought. “Chats with folks what even us low lot keep clear of.”

  “Like who?”

  “’Ave you heard of Four-Finger Mike?”

  The name wasn’t familiar, but he could easily guess the type.

  “When he ain’t fencing lifted goods, he’s collecting on gambling debts.”