by Joan Smith
He clamped his fingers on her elbow and led her back to the house at such a brisk gait she could hardly keep up with him. He stopped at the back door before entering and turned to face her, still holding on to her arm.
“You are not to leave the house again,” he said. He spoke grimly, with a menacing frown.
She noticed, then, that he had shaved, combed his hair, brushed his jacket, and put on a fresh shirt and cravat. Why had he taken the time, when he was obviously concerned about what she was doing in the stable? He had a wide streak of the dandy— yet who was there to impress in this godforsaken place except herself?
She was no beauty, but she was at least a lady and companion to a duchess. That might impress a common criminal. The man gave himself airs, but a true gentleman would never behave as he behaved. Would it be possible to sweet-talk him into returning the diamonds, as the duchess had suggested? It was worth a try at least.
She gave a long sigh. “It is so boring, sitting all day with Her Grace, with nothing to do,” she said, casting a sulky look at him.
The glitter in his eyes lightened to a sparkle, not far removed from a twinkle. His grim lips softened slightly. “Perhaps we could arrange a game of cards this afternoon to lighten the tedium,” he suggested.
She allowed her eyelashes to flutter. “Oh, could you. Captain? That would be lovely.”
“Shall we make it a date, Miss Harkness?” He was definitely smiling now. “But I give you fair warning, I seldom lose—at cards.”
This was said not in a menacing way but almost with an air of flirtation. She replied in the same vein, flicking her eyes over his face and smiling, as she had seen the flirts at the assembly rooms in Bath do, on those rare occasions when she was invited to join Her Grace.
“Are you sure your name is Captain Jack? You sound more like Captain Sharp. There is an old saying, lucky at cards, unlucky in love. I have never been lucky in love, but I wager you have known success with the ladies. I look forward to the game.”
The last vestige of severity melted at her coquettish speech. His lips opened in a slow, devastating smile that softened the harshness of his saturnine face as he gazed down at her until she felt a warmth suffuse her cheeks. She watched his transformation, bewitched, and did not realize at once that his smile was more dangerous than his wrath. The shiver that scuttled down her spine reminded her of the duchess’s warning of his magnetism.
He opened the door and held it while she went in. He helped her remove the blanket and hung it on the hook. As he performed these courtly gestures, she tried to marshal her thoughts.
She turned to him, still smiling. “The duchess wants some hot water, but you need not wait for me, Captain. Ned will get it for me. I’m sure a busy man like you has more important things to do.”
“Not at all. We thieves seldom rob a coach in broad daylight—especially in such a deluge. So hard on the toilette. I shall take the water to Her Grace for you, Miss Harkness. I, too, find the days long and tedious.”
She didn’t bother arguing. The captain was not flirting now. That edge of steel was back in his voice and his eyes. He had seen right through her and was annoyed with her charade. He would not be an easy man to con. But she felt she had gained an insight into her captor. He was vain; he liked women; he enjoyed flattery, even if he didn’t believe it. She had driven a small wedge into his iron armor and would see if she could pry it open further that afternoon.
Chapter Six
Marianne reported to the duchess that Tom was fine and Beeton was repairing the carriage. She did not mention her attempt at flirtation with the captain. The old lady’s sharp tongue would only make her feel a fool.
“Beeton thinks we should leave as soon as possible and come back with a couple of Runners to look for the diamonds. They will not be much good to you if you are shot trying to recover them, ma’am.”
“I don’t recall asking for Beeton’s opinion on how to run my life” was Her Grace’s reply. “No one would dare to shoot me.”
“The captain dared to give Beeton a black eye last night,” Marianne said, making much of Beeton’s loyalty and danger in trying to ascertain that his mistress was safe.
“He is well paid to look after me,” she said. This did not mean that the duchess’s cold heart was untouched. Her talk was harder than her heart, and Marianne knew it. “Is he badly hurt?” she asked a little later.
“Not so far. Bearing in mind that Ned is standing guard with a pistol and that Tom has been shot as well, I do think it dangerous to remain here a moment longer than necessary, but of course the decision is up to you.”
“So it is. I am glad you realize it.”
There was a tap at the door. When Marianne went to answer it, the captain stepped in, carrying a jug of hot water for Her Grace.
“So, villain! You have been beating my servants!” was her greeting.
The captain’s dark eyes turned to Marianne. A twist of contempt moved his lips, making her feel like a schoolgirl who had carried tales to the teacher.
“Your coachman and I amused ourselves with a bout of fisticuffs last night, Your Grace. No one was beaten. Miss Harkness will tell you how heavily time lies on one’s hands in such weather as this.”
“I do not need anyone to tell me! I am being confined against my will in a dirty hovel, ill fed, ill treated. That is kidnapping, sir. As a veteran criminal, you do not need to be told that is a hanging offence. Your body will hang from the gibbet at the crossroads for rats to gnaw on and crows to peck at. You’ll not bribe your way out of this crime.”
Marianne saw the indecision on the captain’s face. She was surprised that the duchess’s threat had such a good effect. She hadn’t thought the man capable of fear.
“I brought you here because it was the closest place when you were ill. You are free to go at any time, Your Grace,” he replied. “If you prefer trudging through mud to your waist, you can leave this minute.”
“Naturally I cannot leave until my carriage is repaired. That ought not to have taken more than an hour. It is a ruse to keep me confined.”
“Ned had to take an axle from another carriage. The carriage is repaired now. Shall I have it sent for?”
They all looked out the window, where the rain came down in sheets, obliterating vision. The spinney beyond was a smear of green in the distance.
“Do you take me for an idiot?” she asked. “Naturally we cannot leave until the rain lets up. The instant it stops, we shall leave. And I suggest you do likewise, sir, for it will not be long until the law is here looking for you.”
“It is kind of you to give me fair warning, ma’am.” He bowed and headed for the door. As he passed Marianne he said in a perfectly civil tone, “You have not forgotten our date, Miss Harkness? Perhaps Her Grace would like to join us? The woodchopper, the duchess, the highwayman, and you—a delightful foursome for a few hands of whist, n’est-ce pas? If the rain obliges us by continuing, c’est-à-dire.”
Before she could reply, he strode nonchalantly from the room.
As the door closed, the duchess pulled her shawl angrily about her and said, “I told him a thing or two.”
“I am happy you have decided to leave as soon as possible,” Marianne said.
She knew it was not the first time the duchess’s temper had led her from her preferred course. She had no wish to leave until she recovered her diamonds, but having said she would, she might go through with it. Or on the other hand, she might have another convenient heart attack. There was no saying with the duchess.
“What is this about playing cards, Marianne? I should not mind a few hands of whist. It would be better than sitting here, looking out at that miserable rain. And nothing to read in the house, of course.”
“Perhaps the captain can’t read,” Marianne said.
“Not read? Don’t be a fool. Of course he can read. He is well spoken—even a bit of French. He has rubbed shoulders with quality folks at some point in his life. A gentleman’s valet, perhaps.
He knows enough to call a duchess Her Grace at least. The more ignorant class call us Your Ladyship. He hasn’t one of those lumpish, common faces, either. He is fine-boned. A by-blow of some gentleman, no doubt. What is his last name? Fitz-something, is it? Fitz-Matthew, I shouldn’t wonder. He has something the look of the Everetts. Old Matthew was a bit of a womanizer.”
“I don’t know his last name,” Marianne replied.
“Making dates to play cards with total strangers? I shall ask him his name the next time he comes to call.” Her proud neck gave a jerk when she realized what had slipped out. “That is, the next time I require his services. It is his speaking decent English that leads one astray and makes one forget he is not a gentleman. You want to be on guard against that, Marianne. Don’t think because he wears a decent jacket and calls you Miss Harkness that he has the morals of a gentleman. He would take advantage of a simpleton like you in a minute if you gave him half a chance. I must certainly chaperon you at that card game this afternoon. I wager he is a regular Captain Sharp. I shall keep an eye out for marked cards. Pour the water for me. I shall have a wash now.”
The morning passed in scolding and complaining and anticipation of catching the captain cheating at cards. When the duchess became tired of her bedchamber, she decided the chimney was smoking and moved out to the parlor. Marianne examined the grounds from the window but could spot no likely place of concealment for the diamonds. It was just unkempt grass with a few random trees and shrubs. She made half a dozen trips to the kitchen but had no opportunity to search for the gun. Ned was always there. After a few visits he became suspicious and watched her closely.
“We are hunting a mare’s nest,” the duchess decided. “We shall leave without the diamonds and send the police here to search for them. I wager the captain has spirited them away long since, along with that cache of gold. I have not seen hide nor hair of him for hours. Bow Street will find him and make him talk.”
“I think we should leave as soon as possible,” Marianne agreed.
Lunch created a little diversion. Ned had killed a chicken and roasted it. They dined on that and bread that was becoming stale. The duchess and Marianne ate alone at the table. Marianne wondered where the others ate, as there was only the one table in the house. She could not think the captain would be eager to keep them longer than necessary when they caused such a commotion. He must be eager to return to his own home, wherever it was. Probably some shack in the forest.
But as she considered his clothes, she began to wonder how he turned out so elegantly without a valet. Try as she might, she could not envisage the captain polishing his own boots— nor Miguel, if he did double duty as valet, doing such a fine job on his cravats.
At three o’clock, the captain came in the front door, shaking rain from his curled beaver. They had not seen him since his morning visit to deliver the water to Her Grace. The duchess’s spirits revived remarkably upon his entrance. She did not smile, but there was a noticeable glint in her eyes.
“Ready for our card game, ladies?” he asked.
The cards were a strong temptation to the old dame, but she stuck to her decision to leave. “We are ready to leave, sir,” she said. “I see the rain has let up. There is hardly a drop on your shoulders.”
“The rain is letting up, but the roads are wretched. I have been out checking them. Another day cannot make much difference.”
“Not make much difference?” she said, outraged. “Do you think I have rattled all the way from Bath in my condition for no reason? If we do not get to London by Saturday, I shall miss my great-granddaughter’s wedding, which I have come a hundred miles to see. I was planning to wear my diamond necklace,” she added, giving him a black, accusing stare.
He looked at her blandly and asked. “Who is being married?”
“No one you would know, Captain. They are both members of the nobility.”
“You are mistaken, ma’am. I frequently rob members of the nobility.”
Amused at his brass and eager to boast of her connections, she said, “I shall satisfy your vulgar curiosity, if you wish. There can be no danger in it, as all the parties concerned are already safe in London. Lady Augusta Sinclair is to marry Lord Agnew, the eldest son of the Duke of Stornway.”
When Captain Jack stared at her a moment in surprise, Marianne took the notion he did know them. Perhaps he had relieved Lady Augusta of her jewelry.
He said, “On Saturday, you say. That leaves you three days. You are only twenty miles from London. You can wait another day for the roads to settle.”
The duchess drew back her ears like an angry mare and said, “Am I to understand you are forbidding us to leave, Captain?”
“Certainly not, madame. You are not a prisoner, after all.”
She gave a harrumph of derision.
“I am merely advising you against it.”
“Call my carriage, at once!” She rose and said to Marianne, “Come along, Marianne. Pack up my bandbox and let us prepare.” She strode across the humble little parlor to the bedchamber with all the pride of a lioness traversing the plains of Africa.
The captain turned to Marianne. “Can you talk her out of this foolishness? The roads are inches deep in mud. She’ll not get a mile. If she has to walk back, she might have another attack.”
“She is intractable when she has made up her mind.”
“You are eager to get away as well, I expect?”
“Yes, I am. I am not accustomed to living in a place like this.” She looked around at the spartan little chamber.
“You are accustomed to doing your running and fetching in more elegant surroundings, no doubt,” he sneered. “A touch of reality would do you both the world of good.”
“We have already endured several hours of what you choose to call reality. I feel none the better for it, Captain.”
“I was referring to your mistress, actually,” he said, a touch of apology in his voice. “I can see your life is no bed of roses. I’ll go along with you until you get across the bridge. If you make it that far, it is only a mile to Chertsey. We shall have to part company then, I fear, as she will be laying her charge against me at Chertsey.”
“Yes,” Marianne said, and found, to her astonishment, that she felt a little twinge of regret, pity, or some tender emotion. It was his concern for their safety that caused it. He was a highwayman, a criminal, but he had some good instincts. He seemed to have some genuine concern for their welfare at least.
They stood a moment, looking at each other uncertainly. “Well, it is good-bye then, Miss Harkness,” he said in that hearty voice of one ill at ease but determined not to show it. He put out his hand to shake hers.
She automatically gave him her hand. He held it in his strong, warm fingers a moment longer than necessary.
“I am sorry we never had our card game,” she said, withdrawing her fingers.
“I am sorry we had to meet under such inauspicious circumstances,” he replied rather jerkily, as if he did not quite want to say it, or perhaps was just unaccustomed to being polite to ladies.
She didn’t have to try to flirt him into anything now. They were leaving. They would not see him again, unless it was at Newgate. An image of the captain with a noose around his neck popped into her head.
She gazed at him with a sad, earnest expression and said, “I wish you would quit this dangerous life. Highwaymen seldom live more than a year or two, Captain.”
“There are reasons why I do this, Miss Harkness,” he replied. His tone was resolute, not sorry at all.
“Money is no reason to risk your life—and to rob innocent people,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
“I don’t rob innocent people.”
“You robbed the duchess.”
“Of one necklace. I wager she has dozens of them.”
Marianne gave him a chiding look and turned to go. She turned back after a step and found him looking at her wistfully. She said, “What is your name, Captain? Your family name?�
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“Macheath,” he replied. The sober mood of their parting had dissipated. An echo of his rakish grin curved his lips, but his eyes shone softly, sending a warm glow through her.
“Good-bye, Captain Macheath.”
Then she hurried into the bedchamber to pack the bandboxes. The duchess was arranging her bonnet.
“What kept you?” she asked in her usual irritable way.
“I asked the captain his name. It’s Macheath. That is Scottish, is it not?”
“Macheath? Yes, and I am Polly Peachum. Idiot! He was bamming you. Captain Macheath is a famous fictional highwayman, from Gay’s Beggar’s Opera. Well, it was too much to expect he would give his real name. We shall learn it when he is arrested. Hurry up, child. We haven’t got all day.”
As Marianne folded up nightgowns and shawls, she felt cheated. She had thought, for a moment, that the captain might be capable of redemption, that he was not quite rotten to the core. And all the time he had been laughing up his sleeve at her. Captain Macheath, indeed!
“There, we are ready,” she said, gathering up the odds and ends to straggle out to the carriage, balancing the second bandbox on top of the first, with a blanket trailing over her arm. The duchess carried nothing but her reticule and the heavy burden of her pride.
Chapter Seven
The roads were every bit as bad as the captain had warned. The carriage wheels creaked at each turn as they lurched through inches of mud.
“It will be better once we are out of this track and back on the paved road,” the duchess said, more to cheer herself than her companion.
Marianne scoured the surroundings for possible hiding places for the diamonds. As the forest grew right up to the verge of the lane, she could see little but trees. If there was a shed or shack in there it would be hard to find.
The captain rode in front of them on Juno, a handsome bay mare with a black mane and tail. He looked every inch the gentleman with his curled beaver tilted over his eyes and a well-cut jacket hugging his broad shoulders. Miguel, his arm in a sling, rode behind on a brown cob.
