by Joan Smith
As soon as the servant left, she said, “What are your sisters like, Captain?”
“The younger, Meggie, is rather like you. The older, Eleanor, is more like me. The black ewe of the family,” he added. “As both are still in the schoolroom, however, there may be time to reform Eleanor yet.”
The word “reform” reminded Marianne of why she was here. “You said you wanted to discuss something important, Captain.”
“I did. I do, but let us enjoy dinner first, become a little acquainted. All I know about you is that you are an orphan and act as the duchess’s companion and dogsbody. It cannot be a pleasant life for such a young lady.”
“Young! Why thank you, sir. I am one-and-twenty.”
“That old?” he said, chewing back a smile. “I would not have taken you for a day over eighteen.”
“Well, thank you. As to your comment, my life is not precisely pleasant, but it is not unpleasant, either. It could be worse. I used to live with my parents in Somerset. Papa raised cattle. Mama died when I was sixteen. My father took to drink and gambling. When he drank himself to death a year later, there was no money. The estate, heavily mortgaged, was sold to pay his debts. The duchess is not actually kin, just a connection by marriage. She offered me the position I now hold. I feel fortunate to have it. I believe you have a more exciting story, Captain?”
“As my pockets were to let, I decided to make my career in the army. My uncle bought me a cornet, and I went to Spain to fight with Wellington.”
“Was it Spanish you and your servant were speaking the night you held us up? I know it was not French.”
“Yes, it allows us to talk in front of our victims without being understood.”
“Surely Miguel is not Spanish, though? He has a hint of brogue in his speech.”
“There was a woman in Spain who used to call him that. The other soldiers took up the name in fun, and it has stuck. He was my batman and is now my factotum—and friend.”
“That scar on his cheek—”
“Badajos,” he said briefly. “Unlike many of my men, Miguel and I escaped with not only our lives but with all our limbs.”
The servant returned with dinner. While he arranged it, Macheath said a few words to him. When they were alone again, Marianne frowned and said, “I daresay shooting and killing begin to seem natural after a few years in the army.”
“It is kind of you to look for an excuse for me, but the shooting and killing never seemed natural or normal or anything but barbaric to me. Even in my work now, I only shoot above the head to frighten folks, unless they shoot first, as Beeton did. Miguel is an excellent shot. He could have killed or maimed Tom. He only winged his arm, to stop him from shooting at us. There was not that much shooting in the Peninsula, actually. For weeks on end we would march through the dust or sit waiting in the broiling sun, then a few hours or days of killing and burying the dead, and it would be another long wait. To pass the time, we had the pleasure of writing to wives and mothers and fathers to tell them their loved ones were dead. I was a foolish, romantic boy when I joined up. I didn’t see beyond the scarlet regimentals and travel to an exotic land to stop Boney from taking over the world.”
“I see why you did not wish to discuss this during dinner,” she said, and immediately changed the subject. “Before you joined the army, where did you live?”
“In Kent.”
While he ate, he spoke a little of his youth there, urged on by leading questions. It sounded a happy, carefree sort of life. Riding, hunting, shooting, fishing, lessons of course, and as he grew older dancing and social visits were added to his entertainments. An occasional detail suggested to Marianne that he came from a wealthier background than she did. He mentioned a horse his uncle was training for Ascot. Another time, he spoke of a ball his mama held for one hundred and fifty guests, half of them staying overnight. It would take a large house and a great number of servants to manage such a crowd.
His table manners were good. His speech, too, was that of a well-born, well-educated gentleman. What could account for his descent into the criminal class?
When he had finished his beefsteak, the servant returned and they ordered dessert. Apple tart and cheese for Macheath, a cream bun for Marianne.
Over coffee, she tried to revert to his experiences in the war, but Macheath had no more to say on the subject.
“It is best forgotten,” he said, “I am home, alive, in one piece, unlike many friends.”
“Very well, then let us proceed to the really interesting part. Why did you turn highwayman? What you have told me suggests your family is not without means and influence. Could they not have found you a suitable position?”
“I have an inheritance,” he said. “I don’t take the money for myself, Marianne. I mentioned being more fortunate than many of my fellow soldiers. They have come home crippled, maimed, unable to earn a living for themselves and their families.”
As he spoke, an angry bitterness crept into his tone. “They should be heroes, but they receive only a miserable pittance of a pension. When they are unable to work their tenant farms, they are turned off to starve. When you get to London, you will see them on crutches, begging on street corners—men who risked their lives for England. And the chosen few who stayed home, getting fat on the war, begrudge them their pension. I am very choosy as to whom I rob. I take only from those who can well afford it, preferably those who profited from the war.”
“And do you give the money to these unfortunate veterans?”
“Of course!” he said, offended that she should ask. “That is the whole point of it.”
“But the duchess was not one of those profiteers who made money from the war.”
“The duchess was a mistake. I was waiting for the Duke of Ancaster. I had word he would be passing that way. He made thousands manufacturing arms for the war. A tithe of it should go back to those who need a crust of bread more than he needs another horse or carriage or mistress. When I saw the strawberry leaves on the duchess’s coach, I thought she was Ancaster and attacked. Then Tom shot at us, and Miguel returned fire. I lost my temper and decided the duchess should contribute to my cause. She can well afford it.”
“That first night, the night you robbed the duchess, you went out again after Ancaster?”
“Yes.”
“And you got him?”
“I did.”
“Good!” When she realized what she had said, she gave a gasp of dismay. “Not that two wrongs make a right! And it is very dangerous, Captain.”
“I have friends who help me, hide me if I am chased, or would give me an alibi if required. Ned is one of them. He lost a son in Spain. There are others.”
“You have risked your life once—in the Peninsula, I mean. Now it is someone else’s turn.”
“The devil of it is, no one seems eager to take his turn.”
“Could something not be done in Parliament? With your connections, you could be a member of Parliament yourself and lead a crusade.”
“It is something to think about. I was so furious when I first returned to England and saw how the men were treated that I wanted to take direct action. It is true, one man can’t do it all.”
“Was there anything else you wished to speak about?”
“Many things, Marianne,” he said, reaching across the table and squeezing her fingers. “But you are referring to business. I hoped to strike a bargain with the duchess regarding her necklace. I shouldn’t have taken it. I shall have a word with her tomorrow morning.” He looked a question at her.
Marianne smiled softly. “I think you will find her reasonable.”
“I shall expect you to put in a good word for me.”
“You may be sure I will. And now I really must get back to her. But I am glad I came.”
“I am flattered that you prefer my conversation to her snoring. I hope you have some cotton to stuff in your ears.” They rose and reluctantly left the cozy parlor.
Chapter Ten
&nb
sp; They went back upstairs. The captain unlocked Marianne’s door and handed her the keys.
Before going in, she said, “Are you a captain? A real captain, I mean?”
“Why no, ma’am. I am a colonel.”
“Oh, you are joking, Macheath. I know that’s not your real name.” She looked a question at him. He just shook his head, unwilling to tell her who he was.
“Shall we just have a look at Her Grace before I leave?” he suggested.
“Yes, that’s a good idea.” She listened a moment. “I don’t hear any snoring. Oh dear, I hope she is all right.”
She hastened through the adjoining door to see the duchess lying at her ease. Her breathing was normal. She had turned on her side, which might account for the interruption of snoring. Marianne retrieved her note and put it in her pocket. She saw no reason to tell the duchess of her outing.
“She’s fine,” she said when she rejoined the captain. “It has been an enjoyable evening, Captain.” Wishing to establish something like friendship, she offered him her hand.
He took it and drew her closer to him. His hands were on her shoulders. She felt she should draw away but was mesmerized by those dark eyes glittering into hers, drawing closer, closer, until they were a shimmering blur, and his lips brushed hers, soft as the flutter of a moth’s wing. They grazed across her cheek to her ear.
“So sweet,” he murmured, and kissed her ear, while Marianne stood, not breathing, until her lungs felt they would burst.
She didn’t make a move to stop him or encourage him. It seemed something outside of her control. When she didn’t withdraw, the captain lifted his head and gazed at her a moment with a deep, penetrating look, and she stared back, unblinking, waiting. His arms went around her, his head lowered to hers. And from the next room came an angry shout from the duchess.
“Well, that is certainly a help,” the captain snorted. Then he laughed. “So much for romance.”
“I had best see what she wants.”
“I’ll go with you and speak to her now.”
“And let her know you were in my room? Wait a moment, then go outside and tap on her door from the hallway.”
His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You’re well organized. Have you done this before?”
Marianne was already on her way to the adjoining door. She just looked her objection to this risqué suggestion over her shoulder. She found the duchess sitting up in bed, yanking at the coverlet and scowling.
“What kept you? There is someone knocking on my door. See who it is. The knocking woke me up.”
Marianne hastened to the door, preparing a surprised expression to greet Macheath. A short man with a pale, narrow face and dark, deep-set eyes stepped in. He was wearing a dun-colored redingote that brushed his ankles and carrying a curled beaver.
“Officer Bruce, of Bow Street, madam,” he said. “I am here on behalf of the Duke of Ancaster. I would like to have a word with Her Grace.”
Bow Street! Marianne looked around the hall but saw no sign of Macheath.
“Ancaster?” the duchess called from her bed. “What does he want with me?”
Officer Bruce strode to her bedside. “We want your assistance, madam. He was robbed not far from here last night by a highwayman. We believe it is the royal scamp known as Captain Jack. My investigations have led me to this inn. I have heard belowstairs that you, too, were robbed. Of a diamond necklace is my information. Am I right or am I right?”
“Quite right,” she said. “I mentioned it to the gels who helped me when I arrived. I planned to report it to the constable tomorrow. As you can see, the shock has driven me to my bed. What did the scoundrel take from Ancaster?”
“Three thousand pounds in cash. Rent monies that he was taking to London to pay his bills.”
“The man is a fool, traveling with such a sum.”
“That’s as may be, Your Grace. Some would say ‘tis foolish to travel with diamonds. What can you tell me of this Captain Jack?”
“He robbed me of a diamond necklace worth five thousand pounds.”
“Can you describe the man?”
“He wore a mask. He was a big man.”
Marianne stood with her heart in her mouth. She wished she could indicate to the duchess that Macheath intended to return the diamonds. As this was impossible, she hoped that Macheath was listening at the door and would have the sense to get on Juno and ride as fast and as far as he could.
As she stood, sweating at every pore, another knock sounded at the door. She went to answer it and saw Macheath standing in the doorway. Officer Bruce saw him, too. She wanted to warn him away, but before she could do it, he spoke.
“Is Her Grace awake?” he asked. “Ah, I see she is, and entertaining company,” he said in a drawling voice unlike his own. He walked into the room and directed a long stare at the duchess.
“So, it is you,” she said in a gloating voice.
“As you see. I have come to pay my respects, and see if there is anything I can do for you before I go out for the evening, ma’am.”
“This is Officer Bruce, from Bow Street,” she said with a wicked smile. “He is looking for the thief who stole my diamonds. He wants a description of the fellow.”
“A young man, I believe you said?” Macheath drawled, and brushed an invisible speck of lint from his jacket. “Tall, well built.”
Her smile stretched to a triumphant grin. “I would not say well built. About your own size. An awkward, ungainly fellow,” she said spitefully.
“Just so.”
“And who would this gentleman be?” Bruce inquired, examining Macheath with sharp interest.
“Oh, you have not met,” the duchess said, staring at Macheath like a cat playing with a mouse. “Remiss of me.”
Marianne stood in an agony of suspense. Her mistress was enjoying this little charade. Marianne looked at Macheath and saw the tension in his smile. His hands, which he now held behind his back, had white knuckles.
“This is my nephew Ronald Fitz-Matthew. He is accompanying me to London,” the duchess announced.
Marianne felt the tension melt out of her joints as she exhaled softly.
Officer Bruce turned to Macheath. “Were you with Her Grace when she was robbed, sir?”
“Alas, no, or I would have put a bullet through the bounder. I had arranged to meet Auntie here this afternoon.”
“Pity. Can you tell me, Your Grace, what sort of nag was he riding?”
“An Arabian stallion, a fine mount.”
“That’s odd, then. Ancaster said it was a bay mare.”
“It was dark. Perhaps Ancaster was mistaken,” she said.
“I shouldn’t think so. The duke knows horseflesh.”
“Are you suggesting I don’t?” the duchess snapped.
“Nay now, milady. No need to get yourself riled up. No doubt it was a different lad that got hold of you. This area close to London has two dozen scamps on the prowl. Another time, you want to travel in a caravan of three or more rigs, with plenty of mounted guards. They think twice before attacking a caravan. Captain Jack don’t usually prey on ladies. He has a preference for well-inlaid gents. I’ll take a description of your sparklers to circulate about London. If they show up, we’ll return them to you.”
She gave a detailed description of the necklace and gave the address in London where she could be reached: Grosvenor Square, the residence of the Dowager Countess of Thornleigh.
“It is a shame and a disgrace that Bow Street cannot protect honest citizens,” she continued. “Why are you wasting your time here harassing old ladies? Get out and find my diamonds. Now leave me. I am tired.”
“Thank you for your help, madam. Perhaps you’d join me for a drink belowstairs, Mr. Fitz-Matthew? I’d like a word with you as well.”
“That is Sir Ronald Fitz-Matthew,” Macheath replied in that languid, drawling voice. “I would be happy to assist you in any way I can. Shocking the way these scamps rule the roads. It is interesting you mention
ed a bay mare. I saw a sly-looking rogue riding such a mount this very night. He was dressed all in black, wearing a strange sort of slouch hat.”
“That sounds like Captain Jack! How long ago? Which way was he going?”
Macheath opened the door and ushered Officer Bruce out. At the door he turned and blew a kiss to the duchess. “I shall see you tomorrow morning, Auntie. Sleep tight.”
After he had left, the duchess uttered a harsh laugh. “There is a brass box for you!”
“Why did you do it?” Marianne asked.
The duchess bridled up. “Since when do I have to explain myself to you, miss?” She sniffed and grappled with her shawl for a moment, then said, “Since you ask, Macheath has had ample time to get rid of the necklace. Bow Street will never find it, but Macheath is now indebted to me. Naturally he will return the necklace to repay me for protecting him.”
Marianne studied the raddled old face, which was showing signs of gene. She sensed it was not only the duchess’s hope of getting her diamonds back that had caused her to protect Macheath. She liked him. She was going to make Macheath her new pet. Marianne could almost feel sorry for him.
“I see,” she said. “Is there anything I can do for you before I retire?”
“Pour me a glass of wine. And put a sign on my door that I do not wish to be disturbed again. Now off with you. Best have a glass of wine yourself as well. It will help you sleep.”
Marianne did as requested, then went back to her own room, where she sat, recovering from the strain of the Bow Street officer’s visit. What an exciting, dangerous life Macheath led. But sooner or later, he would be caught. Not all his victims would be so obliging as the duchess.
She was too upset to go to bed immediately. She settled in by the grate to drink her wine. She was just about to undress for bed when a light scratching came at the door. Not a knock, just a scratching sound. She knew it was Macheath even before she asked.
“It’s me. Can I see you for a moment?”
She opened the door and he stepped just inside it. “What possessed her to do it?” he asked.
“She says you’ll have to give her back her diamonds now. You are in her debt.”
