How much to tell him? Enough. Not everything, by any means. “I didn’t come from a settled home. My father had me supporting him in his dissipations by the time I was twelve.” She tasted the port again, but the flavor had gone flat.
“To guide your life by one man’s influence—profound, to be sure, but only one man—is irrational.”
She didn’t know why she answered him. Maybe it was the way he cocked an eyebrow, as if insinuating she, a woman, could be nothing but irrational. Maybe, as she grew older, she grew less patient with men and their everlasting superiority. “When I was fourteen, my best friend was madly in love with a young lord, and he madly in love with her. But when the babe grew in her belly, he—and his affection—disappeared, never to be seen again. I helped deliver that baby, and bury it, too.” As she stared at Colonel Gregory, she wondered why she had ever thought him appealing. “Tell me, Colonel Gregory, what is the advantage marriage gives to a woman?”
Like the pompous jackass he was, he said, “A good man does not stray, treats others with honor, and supports his wife.”
“Find me a good man, and I will wed him.” She indicated her profound distrust of men—and him—with a patently artificial smile. “Perhaps.”
Colonel Gregory did not smile back, or scowl at her for her bluntness, or tell her she was a woman who should be guided by him and every other male creature, regardless how pitiable their brain. “Your father is dead?”
“Yes.” And that was all she would say about that.
“And your mother?”
“Gone.” So many years before, and on a cold night she would never forget.
They might have stared at each other, neither giving ground, forever, but Mitten entered with a sealed envelope on a silver platter and presented it to Colonel Gregory. “Sir, this was delivered from London.”
Colonel Gregory opened it, skimmed the message, then stood and bowed to Samantha. “I have to go out. Please tell the girls I won’t be in to wish them goodnight.”
“I will.” She hesitated. “Is it the bandits?”
His eyes turned chilly. “What I do, Miss Prendregast, is never your concern.”
Chapter Ten
Duncan raced his stallion along the twilit road. He’d served with William in India, and now for two years here in England, and he’d seldom received such a summons from William. Terse. Unrevealing. Send for the men. Come at once.
William was the consummate warrior. He took command easily, and once assuming command, expected to be obeyed. Yet he respected Duncan’s army experience and paid him his due in explanations and consideration. But not now. Not tonight.
There was only one explanation. Matters were at last coming to a head.
Slowing Tristam, Duncan turned him onto the side path through the trees until he reached the clearing. William sat astride his ridiculously staid gelding, and Duncan moved to William’s side. “What is it?”
“I’ve had a letter from Throckmorton.” The half moon shone on William’s grim face. “Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh have left society and are fleeing north.”
“Will we be ready for them?”
“The invitations have been sent out. The important people have accepted. Have been told to accept. General Wilson. Secretary Grey.”
Impressed with the guests, Duncan whistled. “Wives, too?”
“Of course.” William continued, “There’s a ship which leaves the local harbor for Ireland every fortnight. It’s that ship which Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh plan to catch. But whenever they arrive at their estate, I’ve arranged that they receive word the ship will have just left—”
Duncan gave a bark of laughter.
“—and they’ll be stranded in their home, waiting to escape, while only a few miles away, I’ll be having a party loaded with my friends who know every secret England possesses.” William’s smile swept over his face like the north wind across a wintry moor. “Oh, yes. They’ll want to bank more secrets for the future. They’ll come.”
“You’re diabolical,” Duncan said with admiration.
“Determined,” William said. “They’re moving slowly toward Hawksmouth.”
Startled, Duncan said, “Slowly? Why?”
“They’re visiting people who might have information, staying overnight, and taking care to leave the impression of casual travel. They’re zigzagging across the country, probably in the hopes of throwing any pursuers off the scent.”
Tristam moved restlessly, responding to Duncan’s dissatisfaction. “But if they think there are pursuers, aren’t they afraid those pursuers will arrive at their home before they do?”
“They have many homes. Perhaps they hope Throckmorton won’t realize where they’re going.” Before Duncan could object, William held up his hand. “From discussions overheard, Throckmorton believes Lord Featherstonebaugh is balking.”
Duncan had met Featherstonebaugh. He was a silly, arrogant man, given to gossip and lechery, and Duncan still couldn’t imagine how the fellow managed to fool the best of England’s spies. “Balking? About what?”
“He doesn’t believe they’re in danger.”
Now that Duncan could believe. “He’s been selling secrets to the enemy for thirty years and he doesn’t believe he’s in danger?”
“He’s an aristocrat of the old school. He considers himself to be above the law.”
By the time Duncan had recovered his breath, William continued, “The manner of their leaving has caused gossip. Gossip encouraged by Throckmorton and his network in hopes of flushing out the Featherstonebaugh allies.” William grasped Duncan’s arm. “Count Gayeff Fiers Pashenka has left London.”
Duncan very well understood the import of that information. “Pashenka, eh?” Pashenka was an elegant man, a man popular in the ton, especially with the ladies, and a foreigner who had moved among English society for years, dining out on his sorry story of being unjustly stripped of his lands in Russia. Apparently the account had been nothing but a Russian fairy tale. “Is he on his way here? Do we hunt him tonight?”
“It’s Throckmorton’s opinion that Pashenka is escaping to the Featherstonebaugh estate, and from there to the sea.” They heard the sound of hooves on the road. The men were arriving, and William lowered his voice. “Soon we will capture not only the traitors to England, but if we manage things correctly, we will also have Pashenka, the ringleader to whom they report.”
“That’s clever.” Duncan smiled as he made the suggestion that he knew would delight William. “But wouldn’t it be better to give him false information and send him on his way?”
William took a hard breath. “By damn, Duncan! Now I remember why I keep you close. You’re too brilliant to lose.”
For the third night in a row, the clear deep call of the owl floated across the cloudless midnight sky. William’s men were returning to the clearing, and William waited, his horse calm and steady beneath him, to hear their reports.
Hawksmouth’s mayor, Dwight Greville, arrived first, his horse picking its way along the moonlit path. “ ‘Tis quiet to the north, sir, all the way to George’s Cross.” His nose quivered with rabbitlike caution as he sniffed the breeze. “But I don’t like it. My wife’s left eye is twitching, and that’s a premonition of trouble if I’ve ever heard of one. Yes, Colonel, a dreadful premonition indeed. I tell you, there’s something in the air.”
“Until there’s something on the ground, we’ve nothing to worry about,” William answered. Greville constantly foretold danger, afraid that somehow the tranquility of Hawksmouth would be tarnished during his jurisdiction. William spent most of his evenings reassuring him that all would be well.
Duncan rode in on that damned stallion of his, a thoroughbred beast more enamored of rearing and pawing the air than of getting Duncan from place to place in a reasonable manner. “ ‘Tis a quiet night,” Duncan announced. “No traffic to the south.”
The other horses moved restively, responding to Tristam’s wildness. Even Osbern, William’s own
stolid gelding, tossed its head and danced sideways.
But it was more than Tristam’s presence that worked on Osbern. It was the moonlight and the hint of a breeze, the sprinkling of stars and the scent of the grass crushed beneath his hooves. It had to be, because William felt just as restless. Just as moody. For the first time in years, he could almost hear his blood surging through his veins. Feel his heart beating, taste the excitement in the air. He told himself it was because his goal was in sight. The beasts responsible for his wife’s death were almost within his grasp. Soon, he would have justice for her.
But it was more than that. Ever since he’d met Samantha walking down the road, he’d wanted . . . something. Something different.
Duncan, that knave, had seen the difference at once, and correctly attributed it to Samantha. William told himself he suffered from a basic need, one he’d denied too long. But if that were the case, why didn’t he think of Teresa with desire? She was an excessively attractive woman, a widow from his class, a model of elegance and grace who knew her place and never corrected him, or chided him, or insinuated that he did anything other than what was right. That was what he wanted.
Not a fast-talking, forward-thinking young woman of unknown origins. A woman who manipulated situations to suit herself and dared chide him for his treatment of his children. A woman who made clear her disdain—indeed, her fear—of his beloved countryside.
A woman who kept him awake because she slept right down the corridor.
Zephaniah Ewan rode in next. Sober, thoughtful, the young farmer watched the road that ran past his land and had an uncanny knack of knowing who should be left alone and who should be detained. He patted his horse’s neck as he gave his report. “The road to the east is empty, sir, but for an encampment of gypsies.”
“Gypsies?” Greville’s voice vibrated with excitement. “Everyone knows gypsies are trouble.”
“Not these gypsies,” Ewan said. “They come through every year on their way to the fair. Keep to themselves, they do.”
“We’re not hunting gypsies,” William said. “We’re hunting strange foreigners and Englishmen, and -women, who have no business in the district.”
“We could keep the traitors out if we caught a few and strung them up as an example,” Greville said.
“We aren’t trying to keep them out. We want them to come and curse the highwaymen, as part of the price they pay to play a dangerous game.”
“Not anymore, though, right?” Greville’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “Now we’re catching them all and holding them because . . .” His voice trailed off. He didn’t know why, and William wouldn’t tell him any more than necessary.
“That’s right,” William said. “We’re holding them all.” Searching their belongings, their clothing, their shoes. Anywhere they could be hiding vital correspondence. Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh were on their way home, and William’s plan was now in action.
From far away, William heard the gallop of hooves on the lane. Someone was riding hard, and together the four men left the clearing and moved to the shadow of the trees alongside the lane.
It was young Milo, bent over the neck of his horse.
William moved into sight.
Milo pulled up, and gasped, “A carriage! With a crest! On the main road out of Hawksmouth, traveling west.”
“What crest?” William prepared to ride hard.
“I couldn’t see, sir, in the dark.”
“Now? Tonight?” Greville stammered.
William, Duncan, and Ewan didn’t waste time with questions, but cut across country toward the main road after Milo. Greville followed at a slower pace.
Was it possible? Had Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh arrived already? As they reached the rise in the road, they drew their hats over their eyes and wrapped scarves around their mouths. They became the dread highwaymen of the Lake District.
The coach rumbled forward. They moved into position across the road. William shot into the air while the other men pointed rifles at the coachman. The coachman pulled up the four matched horses.
William shouted, “Stand and deliver!”
Duncan rode to the door and jerked it open. “Get out!”
And a warm, rich, amused female voice said, “This is the kind of welcome a lady loves to tell her friends about.”
William was glad his scarf covered his mouth, for his jaw dropped. Teresa? Teresa was here already? She must have rushed to answer his invitation.
She stuck her head out of the door, and in the moonlight her handsome features appeared thin and sharp. She smiled, but William thought the smile was more annoyed than pleasant. Descending the steps, she stood on the road, her cape gaping at the top, showing the gleam of a handsome bosom. The sight drew every masculine eye, and William had to admit that, in the moonlight, she looked petite and comely. “A handsome highwayman stops me to divest me of my jewels. Wait until I tell my host, Colonel Gregory. He’ll be most entertained . . . won’t he?”
Duncan must have been startled by her appearance, but he smoothly moved into his role as rogue highwayman. Putting his pistol back in its holster, he swung out of the saddle, stepped close and bowed to her with an elegant sweep of his hat. “My lady, whom do I have the privilege of addressing?”
“The countess of Marchant, and you’re going to be sorry you did.” Grabbing his hair, she twisted and in a swift move, brought him to his knees. Slipping his pistol from his belt, she held it to his head, and with a smile that chilled William’s blood, looked toward him and the other faux highwayman. “You will let me pass unharmed or I’ll shoot him in the head.”
Greville bleated like a sheep.
Ewan moved his horse back.
Teresa looked small, determined, and ruthless. William signaled, and the men backed their horses into the woods.
She called, “My footmen have their firearms out now. If you come after us, they’ll shoot you all.”
William watched through the branches as Duncan tried to rise. Without even glancing at him, she smartly kneed him in the face.
This was a side of Teresa he had never seen before. Always she had been perfectly coiffed, smiling, and fashionable. Not capable of foiling a robbery attempt with her own delicate hands.
With the pistol still pointed at Duncan, she stepped into the coach and swung the door closed. The coach rumbled away toward Silvermere.
On the road, Duncan staggered to his feet. He held his hand over his nose, and he stared after the coach with killing fury. In silence, William caught Duncan’s horse for him and held it while Duncan mounted. “Broken?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.” Duncan blotted his face with his handkerchief. “But I’ll have two black eyes in the morning. You’d better ride hard to beat your guest home—and if that’s the woman you’ve decided to take as your wife, be careful when you kneel before her to propose. That knee is wicked.”
“Sir!” The vicar, Mr. Webber, rode toward them from Hawksmouth, waving his arm. “There’s a foreigner at the inn, apparently quite a wealthy gentleman. Before he went to bed, he asked for directions to the Featherstonebaugh estate. Should we detain him?”
“Indeed we should.” William turned his horse toward the village. “He’s about to receive a visit from the most audacious robbers ever to hold up an inn.”
Duncan blotted his nose. “And if we don’t find anything?”
“We’ll let him go onto the Featherstonebaugh estate, and while he’s there we’ll see that he gets the most secret of information about the English government it is possible to have.” William smiled coldly. “It’s too bad that when he returns to Russia with it, it will all eventually prove false.”
In a falsely surprised voice, Duncan said, “That would be the death of him.”
Chapter Eleven
The next day, at the stroke of noon, Teresa descended the stairs. In the daylight, she looked completely different, smiling, with wisps of dark hair curling about her thin cheeks, sparkling hazel eyes, an
d wide skirts of striking rose satin that rustled as she walked. “William, how good to see you once again.” Extending her hands, she smiled with a carefully crafted combination of reservation and winsome pleasure.
Not at all like the wide, gamin grin which signaled Miss Prendregast’s merriment.
Taking Teresa’s extended hands, he said, “Thank you for coming at my request. I’m sorry I was out last night when you arrived.”
“And I needed you so.” She pouted with reproach. “You won’t believe, darling. Robbers attacked me!”
Never had he been so aware that acting was not his forte, yet he hoped he managed to look surprised and appalled. “What? Where?”
“On the road not far from here.”
“How dreadfully bold. You’re not hurt, I pray?”
She clutched his arm. “My servants bravely chased them off, but I was terrified!”
Now he hoped he didn’t look surprised. “Poor dear. Could you . . . identify any of them?”
“I knew you would ask me, but no. They wore masks, and anyway, darling, you mustn’t risk your life for me. They stole nothing.” Putting the back of her hand against her forehead, she pretended a faint. “Except . . . my peace of mind.”
Was she jesting? Or lying? He’d seldom seen a female acquit herself as Teresa had. “I do apologize. The safety of the roads are my responsibility, and I fear I’ve failed you.”
“You positively reek with conscientiousness, darling, but you’re a landowner, not a thief taker. No one expects you to ride the highways at night searching for villains.”
“Nevertheless—”
“Although I do wonder where you were last night. No! Never mind.” She gave a throaty laugh and waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t explain. Boys will be boys, and if you had a less than noble reason to be out at one in the morning, I don’t want to know it.”
He bowed slightly. Amazing. She’d accused him of being worthless, unable to ensure the safety of his district, and given him permission to be a libertine. How dared she presume so? “I am a noble man,” he answered with stiff indignation.
My Favorite Bride Page 9
