‘I’ll get right to it, m’lord.’ Mr Byrd abandoned what he had been doing and turned to retrieve a delft jar from the shelf behind him.
Jack cleared his throat and indicated the woman with the straw hat. ‘Do serve your other customer first. I’m happy to wait.’
‘Her errand is of minor importance, sir,’ said Mr Byrd over his shoulder.
‘No, I insist.’ Jack tried hard to keep the steel out of his voice. He had been born into privilege but was acutely aware that for the majority this was not so, and he was damned if he was going to get a reputation for abusing that privilege. Besides, his mother’s headache was hardly life-threatening.
‘Of course, m’lord. If that is your wish.’ Mr Byrd returned to his former task, mixing ingredients for a draught, by the looks of it, and Jack spent the time studying the woman. Something about her was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place her.
Annoyingly she kept her face turned away so he only got a glimpse of a very pretty profile, and any attempts at engaging her in polite conversation about the weather and suchlike were similarly thwarted, apart from a mumbled, ‘Thank you kindly, sir,’ when he insisted she was to be served before him.
The apothecary handed the woman a small glass bottle and named his price. She paid without demur. The whole transaction was conducted briskly; the apothecary because he was anxious not to offend his other, higher-ranked customer, and the girl because she seemed keen to be on her way. She put the bottle in her basket gently, as if it was a prized item.
She walked quickly to the door, but Jack intercepted her and opened it for her. ‘Allow me.’
For the first time she looked up, almost as if drawn to against her will, and Jack recognised her as the girl he’d had seen at the hay-making. It was her height which stood out – she barely had to lift her face to meet his gaze. He found himself being openly assessed by a pair of intelligent eyes of startling colour – so light they appeared almost luminous. He blinked in surprise; the air left his lungs with a whoosh and he struggled to speak. Her face was a perfect oval framed by masses of dark hair, which she had made a brave attempt at taming with a piece of twine, and her pert nose was sprinkled with a dusting of freckles. Such exceptional yet unsophisticated beauty was unexpected, but he hardly registered it because he was still reeling from the impact of those dazzling eyes. To calm his suddenly racing heart, he cleared his throat for a second time and found his voice.
‘Madam, I …’ he croaked, but she didn’t stay to hear him out.
Instead she jumped like a startled animal and scuttled out through the open door and into the High Street. Before Jack had had a chance to fully recover his wits, she had disappeared into the throng.
Stupefied, he returned to the apothecary. Those eyes … he had seen their like before, he was certain, but where? Frowning, he shook his head.
‘Who was that young lady?’ he asked curtly.
‘Hardly a lady, m’lord.’ The apothecary shook his head. ‘She’s a labourer. Common as muck, if you ask me. I trust she didn’t discomfit you, sir?’
‘She was perfectly well mannered, thank you. What’s her name?’
‘Oh, you don’t want to be bothering with the likes of that one, m’lord. As the saying goes, appearances can be deceptive.’
‘Let me be the judge of that, if you please,’ Jack replied. Mr Byrd’s presumption that he couldn’t be interested in a woman just because she wasn’t a lady annoyed him. He needed to know who she was and he wasn’t going to let their different stations in life stand in his way. ‘What is the woman’s name, if you please?’
‘Sir, I’m not sure—’
‘The name, Mr Byrd.’ This time he injected a measure of steel in his voice; he hated to take advantage of his rank, but if the alternative was never finding the young woman again, he’d do whatever he had to.
‘Why, sir, that’s Miss Mardell. She lives with her father in the wo—’
The woods.
The apothecary didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence as Jack turned on his heel and flew out the door. On the High Street he stopped and craned his neck in the direction he had seen her go only a moment ago, but there was no sign of her. He set off at full speed after her, oblivious to the cries from the apothecary.
Chapter Six
Rupert left the shop in a pensive mood. It had been a long shot, and he knew it, but he had to try every avenue. What to do now though? He had already seen the magistrate and had no further excuse for seeking out the man. Besides, Blencowe didn’t like him much.
Deep in thought, he completed a couple more purchases before retiring to the Old Bell Inn for a hearty repast of eel pie and a jug of ale. As he ate, he kept his eyes and ears open for any information which might come in handy, but the main topics among the patrons were the hopes for this year’s harvest, the falling price of sugar and how the villagers at nearby Stanwell had averted the threat of enclosures by petitioning parliament. It was all so desperately tedious, and Rupert stifled a yawn.
Feeling thoroughly disheartened, he was about to leave when he spied an old man sitting alone in the corner of the inn sucking on a clay pipe. Old men had a habit of knowing what goes on in the local area, he thought as he approached the man and offered him a drink.
‘That’s mighty kind of you, young sir,’ said the old man and indicated for Rupert to sit down. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’
Having ordered a tankard of ale from a passing serving wench, he set about questioning the man. They talked for a bit about various subjects, and Rupert learned that the old man was the grandfather to the landlord, and that he’d been a coachman for hire until aching joints put a stop to that. As carefully as possible Rupert tried to steer the conversation onto highwaymen and robbery and was rewarded with a knowing look.
‘And what might your interest be in such like?’ asked the old man. ‘You wouldn’t by any chance be that young fella that were stripped of his breeches, would you?’
Rupert scowled. No bloody secrets in this town. ‘Waistcoat,’ he corrected automatically.
The old man cackled. ‘Wish I coulda been there. Would’ve given me eye teeth to see a fine fellow like you taken down a peg or two.’
‘Yes, well, I’m sorry to have deprived you of your entertainment, but all in all it was a damned unpleasant experience, and I’m rather keen to apprehend the brigand, as you can imagine.’ He forced himself to smile, although it irritated him that he had to play the other man’s game. ‘I figured that a person like yourself, of advanced years, might know where would be the best place for me to look.’
The old man sucked his pipe with a thoughtful expression. ‘That ain’t gonna be easy, not by a long stretch, but by my reckoning thieves and highwaymen are likely to know of each other’s business, especially in a town this size. If you can get one o’ them to talk, you might learn something o’ another, so to speak.’
Exasperated, Rupert clenched his fists under the table. ‘And where might I meet such a fellow? They don’t exactly call attention to their existence in daylight.’
‘Well,’ the old man said slowly, bopping his head up and down, as if he enjoyed vexing his drinking companion, ‘there’s one up at Newgate waiting to have his neck stretched.’
Rupert pricked up his ears. ‘And what, pray, is the name of this gaol bird?’
‘The name’s Gentleman George. About three weeks ago the constable and his men caught him in the The Black Dog while he was in his cups. He wasn’t content with robbing from those that could afford it, such as yourself, if you will forgive me for speaking so freely, sir, and he’s been a thorn in the side of ordinary folk in these parts. There are many around here, meself being one of them, who won’t be sorry to see the back of him. People are wary of coming into town and selling their goods if they’ve no safe way of returning home with their proceeds, and that’s bad for business, my grandson’s included.’ He grinned. ‘Although I dare say there are some among the fairer sex who’ll miss him. I hear he’s been getting regular visi
ts from veiled ladies.’
At the word ‘ladies’ Rupert’s interest was further piqued. One couldn’t by any stretch of the imagination call the woman who had held up the carriage a ‘lady’, but she definitely belonged to the fairer sex, as the man put it. If this Gentleman George was known to her, it was possible she may have visited him. Perhaps the imprisoned highwayman could provide some clue to the woman’s identity.
‘Newgate, you said?’
‘Yes, sir. The trial was held last week, and his execution will be next time they put up the Tyburn Tree. I hear he’s partial to brandy and a pipe of woodbine,’ the old man added with a mischievous wink.
After that he entered into a long-winded speech about highwaymen, and how his coach was once held up when he was conveying a lady and her maid. Rupert listened with only half an ear. Normally he would have had no compunction about telling a prattling old geezer to hold his tongue but for the moment he was content to let the man’s words wash over him.
‘… and the robber scared me and my grandson off well and good. Next thing I hear, the lady is dead, as well as her newborn babe. Murdered, no doubt. A dreadful business and no mistake.’
‘You left the passengers unprotected? An infant too?’ Rupert arched his eyebrows. He had not heard any story of ladies murdered by highwaymen, nor their children, not of recent years at any rate, but the man was old and was probably embellishing an ancient tale, the kind that became more elaborate with each telling. Then a thought occurred to him.
‘Are you by any chance referring to Lady Heston?’ he said.
But the old man’s eyes had taken on a faraway expression, and he’d begun to mutter to himself. Rupert could hardly make out what he was saying but it sounded like ‘curse that Duval chit.’
‘So it wasn’t Lady Heston?’ he pressed.
Coming out of his reverie, the old man sent him a startled look. ‘I never knew the identity of the passengers.’
‘You mentioned the name Duval.’
‘It means nothing. Nothing!’ The old man brought his tankard to his lips, and Rupert noticed that the man’s hands were trembling. It perplexed him. He’d never heard the name before, but it clearly meant something to this fellow.
‘Don’t listen to him. He’s always rambling when he’s had a bit.’ The innkeeper was suddenly looming over their table, startling Rupert. ‘Come on, Grandpa, it’s time you went and had a bit of a nap.’
‘All right, all right, Jem, my boy, if you say so. Always nagging, he is,’ he said to Rupert with another wink. ‘Nag, nag, nag, all day long. ’Tis like having a missus and a ’alf.’
Rupert watched the innkeeper lead the old drunkard away. As if sensing Rupert’s eyes on his back, the innkeeper turned and gave him a hard stare. Bemused, Rupert watched the pair until they were out of sight, and then he rose, putting on his new hat. There was no reason why he should take the ramblings on an old man seriously, but the innkeeper’s interruption had piqued his interest. Why should the man care if his grandfather prattled to all and sundry about his past life? Unless there was something he didn’t want him to talk about …
Rupert went over the conversation in his mind. It had started with highwaymen, and then turned to what he thought might be a reference to Lady Heston. The old geezer had seemed startled when Rupert mentioned her for the second time, and then clammed up. Had the man been there the night she died?
Highwaymen had a way of knowing each other, the old man had said. Could there be a connection to this particular highway robber? Probably not, but Rupert had to explore every avenue if he were to catch the thief, and surely there was no harm in looking into it.
Leaning against a vegetable cart, Cora breathed a sigh of relief. When Lord Halliford had entered the shop, she had feared she was going to have an apoplexy from the way her heart hammered in her chest. It had taken all the nerve she possessed to stay calm while she waited, but what on earth had possessed her to stare at him when he opened the door for her? The sensible thing would have been to keep eyes to the ground, but his mere presence had compelled her to look up. She must have been mad.
She was uncertain how much of her face the two men had seen on the night of the robbery, but she was certain her mask had covered the distinctive birthmark on her cheek. And she was also sure that neither of the men had guessed the thief was a woman; but what if she was wrong? Perhaps it was only a matter of time before someone saw through her disguise. If she got caught, Ned would be left to fend for himself, and he was far too frail to survive another winter on his own. What then? For his sake, as well as her own, she had to stop taking so many chances.
But the tincture is so costly. The argument she’d had with herself many times echoed in her head. Ned needed it, and there was no other way they could afford it.
‘What’ll it be today, dearie?’
Forcing herself to breathe slowly after her brisk trot down the street, Cora plastered on a smile and turned to the farmer’s wife. ‘I’ll have some of your onions, mistress, and a couple of carrots, please.’ With the few swedes she had left at home, she could make a stew out of the root vegetables and some leftover bacon, and with any luck Ned might have found some herbs. If she cooked it all up and left it warming over the fire, it would easily serve as two hearty meals and be far better than anything they had eaten in a while.
‘And a head of cabbage, if you’d be so good,’ she added, feeling flush.
‘Right you are, my love.’ Under Cora’s watchful eye the woman selected three onions, two large, succulent-looking carrots and a cabbage, and placed the vegetables in Cora’s basket.
When Cora reached for her money, she brushed against something soft and furry in her pocket and with a little squeak realised that the man’s pigtail was in there, yet another piece of evidence. She brought her hand to her throat and rubbed it to dispel the sensation of an imagined noose tightening around her neck. Then she calmed herself. She hadn’t been caught and her identity was still protected.
She paid the woman, who eyed her warily, as if she wondered whether Cora had escaped from Bedlam, and turned away only to collide with a broad chest in a fine royal-blue wool coat.
Lord Halliford stared down at her, and it was clear from his expression that he would not be letting her escape this time. His face was a grim mask, his hazel eyes cold, and before she had time to react, he caught her wrist in an iron grip.
‘A word, madam, if you please.’
Cora looked around her desperately but who could help? The stall-holder’s eyes were nearly popping out of her head with the prospect of gossip and intrigue. Who would believe a poor girl over a gentleman such as him? She had no choice but to comply.
‘Not here,’ he said. ‘In private.’ He dragged her away and Cora almost tripped over her own feet in order to keep up with him.
‘I don’t understand, sir,’ she protested in her most innocent voice. ‘Have I caused offence in any way? If so, you have my sincere apologies.’
He stopped abruptly, and Cora all but fell into his arms. ‘You know perfectly well what you’ve done,’ he snarled. A slender, manicured finger reached out and caressed her eyebrow; then ran down the side of her face to her cheekbone and birthmark. His touch was light and cool, like the brush of a feather, yet Cora’s skin burned as though he had seared her with a branding iron. She jerked back in surprise, but he kept a crushing grip on her arm.
‘I’ve never met another woman as tall as you. And I’d never forget your voice. Don’t try to deny it. You and I have an appointment with the magistrate.’ He proceeded to drag her further away from curious onlookers and the safety of the market. ‘He’s most anxious to meet you.’
Cora was sure the blood must have left her face. As she had feared, the net was tightening around her. She had to get away from him, but how?
Instead of pulling her in the direction of the magistrate’s residence, to her great surprise he dragged her into the cobbled yard of The George Inn. It was quiet, enclosed on all four side
s, except the alley they had walked through. Wisteria vines hung from deserted balconies, the leaves offering plenty of shelter from prying eyes. There was no one nearby, and this terrified Cora. What did he want from her? Was he planning to violate her before handing her over to the authorities? It wouldn’t be the first time this had happened to a young woman on the wrong side of the law.
But it wasn’t her own fate which worried her the most. It was the uncertain fate of her father. Who would care for him? The thought of him sick and abandoned made her heart ache.
Lord Halliford stopped abruptly and glanced around him as if to check that they were alone; then he swung her around to face him.
Cora swallowed hard. ‘Please, sir,’ she begged. ‘I implore you, please do not turn me over to the authorities. I know I did wrong, but it was out of desperation. My father is ill and—’
‘Spare me your sad tales,’ he scoffed. ‘I’m not as lame-brained as that.’
‘But it’s the truth, m’lord,’ Cora protested. ‘He suffers from an illness of the chest, and the medicine is expensive.’ Was it her imagination or did he loosen the grip on her wrist a little? Encouraged she went on, ‘I’ll do anything, sir. Anything. I’ll be your mistress if it pleases you. Anything, as long as you’ll let me care for my father.’
Be his mistress? Jack stared at the wench, unsure whether to castigate her or simply laugh. Was there no end to her presumption?
Yet he couldn’t deny his attraction to her. His fingers tingled where they gripped her wrist, and her nearness was making his blood sing, leaving him curiously light-headed. The connection he’d felt between them on the night of the robbery was still there, even more so now that she was within his grasp. His eyes slid over her figure appraisingly and settled on her bosom, which had given the game away on that moonlit night. Although it was modestly covered by a plain bodice now, and she was of slender build, close up no amount of binding would lead her to be mistaken for a boy.
Coupled with her height, her hair and the sound of her voice, there was no doubt in his mind that he was face to face with the infamous female who had robbed him.
The Highwayman's Daughter Page 7
