Scandal's Reward

by Jean R. Ewing

  “In half an hour. Lady Brooke, you will see that Miss Hunter has some hot soup and provide her with the warmest possible clothes.” He turned to Catherine. “Have your maid pack a small overnight bag, and lie down for at least a few minutes. You are going to need all your strength, I’m afraid.”

  A few minutes later, his tiger was hanging on to the back of a phaeton traveling far too fast for safety through the empty streets of London. Dagonet took the stairs up to his lodgings three at a time and hammered at his manservant’s bedroom door. The tiger had already received his orders and was busy saddling the gray in order to ride ahead to the posting inns and arrange for changes of horses. The manservant opened his door rubbing at his eyes, his nightcap askew on his balding head.

  “You called, sir?” he managed to say between yawns.

  “Wake up, for God’s sake!” his master said. “I want clothes for travel, a small bag, and something to eat.”

  The man snapped to attention and hurried off to do his master’s bidding. Mr. de Dagonet had been a most reasonable employer so far, but there was no accounting for the ways of the gentry. Where was he off to now in the middle of the night? Running away from gaming debts, no doubt!

  Dagonet ignored the sour looks of his servant and strode into his bedchamber. As he began to strip off his evening clothes, he noticed the red cloak lying across the bed where Catherine had left it. He stopped for a moment, then carefully picked it up and hung it on the back of the door. Brave Kate! Damn it all! She had certainly delayed his hunt for the truth about the drowning of poor Milly Trumble. It would not surprise him if John Catchpole had left the country.

  Either way, Catherine Hunter had made a mockery of his vow never to see her again. Thank God she was still angry with him! How else could he stay true to his honor, and prevent himself from showing the tenderness he had felt ever since Exmoor?

  With a curse, he shrugged into the linen shirt and warm jacket that his manservant laid out, and carelessly thrust his arms into an extremely fashionable many-caped driving coat. There was no time to think about it now. Though they were about to race together through the night to Marlborough, he would have enough on his hands with his mettlesome team and a vehicle that, though undoubtedly fast enough, was designed rather for parading in the city streets than going at breakneck speed down the turnpike. It would take plenty of skill just to prevent them turning over at the first bend.

  He had no doubt, however, about the danger to Annie should they not arrive in time. He had learned a great deal about fever amongst his wounded comrades in the Peninsula. Enough to know that the ignorant ministrations of a Marlborough inn maid would be more than enough to put the little girl’s life at risk. Minutes later, he took the reins of the phaeton once again and the horses cantered back to Brooke House.

  Catherine was waiting in the hall. As he had ordered, she wore her most serviceable woolen dress and a fur-lined cloak of Amelia’s. At her side sat a tiny bag containing the merest necessities. Amy had given her enough money to buy anything that she might need once they arrived in Marlborough. She had even forced herself to eat soup and bread and lie down for a few minutes. She would not think about what she was about to do: leave London alone with the notorious Devil Dagonet. All that mattered was Annie.

  She was handed up into the phaeton and Dagonet tucked a leather travel rug around her knees. There was a hot brick waiting for her feet. One of Lord Brooke’s servants was holding the horses’ heads, and at the gentleman’s signal he sprang back. The horses plunged ahead, taking Catherine unaware so that she rocked dangerously against Dagonet’s arm.

  “Pray, attempt to keep your seat, Miss Hunter,” he said coldly. “I shall not need your help at the ribbons. This carriage is unstable enough without your interference.”

  Furious, she sat bolt upright. She was already exhausted from her foolish venture into Whitechapel, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing a moment’s weakness. She had appeared to enough disadvantage already in front of this arrogant rogue.

  “Never fear, Mr. de Dagonet,” she said stiffly. “I trust that I have interfered in your affairs enough. I do not, however, imagine for a moment that having offered to take me to Annie you now intend to land us in the ditch.” She must not let him discompose her. In an attempt at reconciliation, she went on, “I must hope that you can believe that I am not insensible to the debt that I owe you. My thanks are due as well.”

  He gave a wry smile. “I hope you do not think that I race through the night for your sake, Miss Hunter. I happen to be very fond of your sister Annie, a child of infinite good sense.”

  She must persist, in spite of his determination to throw obstacles in her way. “I do not refer only to that, Mr. de Dagonet. I also owe you thanks for rescuing me from Whitechapel.”

  He laughed. “The merest chance, my dear Kate. I came to see John Catchpole and discovered you, instead. I should have left you there, of course, but it appealed to my sense of the ridiculous to attempt to extricate you. Besides it gave me the opportunity to kiss you again. You looked very fetching in that courtesan’s cloak.”

  “You are determined to mock me, sir! I insist on giving thanks where they are due. I happen to know that you inquired for me at Brooke House before you appeared so casually on that high windowsill. Indeed, I am led to understand that you threatened the butler with a pistol.”

  “A regrettable habit of mine. My manners have always lacked polish.”

  “How can you say so? You are reliably reported to be a rival with Beau Brummel. But why did you not use that pistol against the footpads who attacked us? To use a sword against a gun was surely a crazy risk to take? I can see that my life would have no value for you, but your own must be more dear.”

  “On the contrary, ma’am, I value it very little. Strange as it may seem to you, I nevertheless have an aversion to taking the lives of others, even a couple of incompetent footpads. A pistol tends to have a very final effect. Besides the sword is infinitely more entertaining.”

  “And amusement is the overriding purpose of your life?”

  “Perhaps. Besides, I abhor incompetence. For their bumbling, those footpads deserved humiliation a little more than death, wouldn’t you say?”

  “And you, of course, are always competent?”

  “I have tried to be, Miss Hunter. In my experience, competence counts a great deal more than good intentions. The times when I have had the second without the first are those that have haunted me for the rest of my life.”

  “Then you must allow me to be grateful that you had both tonight.”

  She was not to have the indulgence of a reply. He merely shrugged and they clattered on together without exchanging another word. However she might try, he was not going to allow her to thank him for her rescue. Yet she was under no illusion about the fate that might have awaited her had he not. But perhaps it really was only an amusement to him. And had his own interest in John Catchpole not been involved, would he have risked his life to save hers?

  Within half an hour they had left the city behind and were racing past sleeping villages and farmsteads. The earlier drizzle had stopped and an almost full moon had risen to cast its pale glow over the frosty countryside. In two days it would be December. The surface of the turnpike was frozen hard and echoed hollow beneath the horses’ hooves.

  Dagonet kept the team at a steady canter and they settled into their pace. There was an eerie beauty to the scene. Dark trees stood silent sentinel beside the road, the silhouette of their empty branches stark against the night sky.

  Catherine glanced at Dagonet where he sat beside her. His dark hair was blown back from his forehead. The classic profile was set like marble in the moonlight. In their soft gloves, his capable hands kept the horses well up into their bits. He was, of course, supremely competent. What must he think of her? She had behaved abominably, ruining his chances of interviewing John Catchpole himself. He was perfectly right, it had never been any business of hers. She must appear
an insufferably interfering busybody. The thought caused her more pain than she wanted to admit.

  When they clattered into the first posting inn, they had been traveling for almost two hours. The lights and the bustle took Catherine by surprise. The rhythmic movement of the carriage had lulled her into a state dangerously close to sleep. Dagonet directed her into the warm parlor while he oversaw the change of horses. There was hot chocolate waiting by a roaring fire. She set aside her cloak for a minute and allowed the flames to thaw out her frozen limbs. Whether she could manage another four hours she wasn’t sure, but she certainly wasn’t going to let Dagonet see that she was tired. He seemed to have inexhaustible reserves of energy. It was not five minutes before he was handing her back into the carriage, where a fresh hot brick awaited her feet.

  “Are you all right?” he said. “We shall be another hour before we change horses again at Reading. These post horses will not be able to keep up the pace for as long as my own team.”

  “I am perfectly fresh, thank you,” she lied, and once again they drove away in silence.

  They had just passed the little village of Hare, and were dipping down across the Thames bridge and up the steep slope of the climb out on the other side when Dagonet was forced to haul the horses to an abrupt halt.

  Due to the gradient of the hill, he had already steadied them into a slow trot, when three horsemen burst out of the black woods beside the road and galloped across their bow. The phaeton skidded sideways as the post horses shied. Catherine grabbed desperately at the edge of the seat to prevent herself from being thrown out. Each man wore a dark greatcoat, but that was not what made Catherine’s heart thump in her chest. Their faces were covered with black cloth, so that nothing was visible of their features but the glitter of their eyes, and each man trained a pistol unerringly at the phaeton. The moonlight danced off the barrels, no doubt well-greased, primed and ready to fire.

  “If I could trouble you for your purse, sir?” the nearest of the highwaymen said, politely bowing a little from the waist to acknowledge Catherine. “It’s rather late to be out on such a cold night, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I might say the same about you, sir,” Dagonet replied. “Too cold, surely to keep a very steady aim.”

  “I’m reputed a crack shot, sir,” the highwayman replied instantly. “In any weather!”

  “You would seem to be a sporting gentleman.” Dagonet’s tone was only slightly mocking. “I wager you my purse that you are not such a good shot as I.”

  Instantly one of the other horsemen rode over to his friend and began to remonstrate. “Come on, Joe. We can take the gentleman’s purse for free. There’s no need to wager over it.”

  But obviously Joe had one aim in life even beyond that of stealing gold: to uphold the reputation of his fellow gentlemen of the road and conduct himself with the true aplomb of an aristocrat. Weren’t the broadsheets full of the gallant exploits of Dick Turpin and Sixteen String Jack? They may have died at Tyburn Tree, but their names had gone down in history.

  He ignored his friend. “Any of us can out-shoot you, sir!” he replied to Dagonet. “I’ll wager your purse against the maid.”

  It took Catherine a few moments to realize that he meant her. She turned with mute appeal to Dagonet, but he was not looking at her. This is what came of traveling with a gentleman unchaperoned. The highwaymen took her for a loose woman, rather than a lady. Well, Dagonet would set them straight!

  Yet he replied in cheerful tones. “Done, sir! Two shots each at the highest leaf on that holly bush over there by the milestone. If your shot is better than mine, the gold and the lady are both yours.”

  “It’s too far,” the second highwayman remonstrated. “Can’t be done!”

  “And he can’t do it either. The prize will be ours, never fear,” the leader said. “Take your shot, Jim!”

  The moonlight shone brightly over the scene. The holly twig was quite clear against the sky. Caught up now in the game, the highwaymen lined themselves up so that Dagonet would have no advantage of position and in turn took two shots each at the target. The man called Jim tried first. His shots both went well clear of the bush. The third accomplice had no better luck. In fact his second shot fell short of the tree altogether.

  “You’re more wind than threat, sirs,” Dagonet stated as casually as if he made conversation over tea. “If you can shoot no better than this, you will have to turn into honest men.”

  The leader laughed aloud. “My turn now, sir! I hope you’re not too fond of your little doxy, but she’ll have a good life with Merry Joe.”

  So saying he turned and took careful aim at the innocent bush. The first shot grazed through the top leaves and sent a rattle of berries to the ground.

  “Well done, sir,” Dagonet said. “But not good enough yet! I’m tired of her anyway, she’s a foul temper and a more doleful tongue than Cassandra. You’ll find her a sorry burden, sir.”

  “But a welcome armful, no doubt, on a cold night!” Joe returned as he took aim again.

  Catherine watched with her heart in her mouth. If this shot was successful, would Dagonet actually give her up to these men? She would rather die. It seemed that minutes went by as the highwayman sighted along the barrel of his pistol. There was a flash and a roar, and more leaves spun up into the night sky. It was, however, no better than the first attempt and with a curse the highwayman spat into the road.

  “I’m damned if it can be done, sir. Do better than that or the purse and the lady are mine.”

  “You’re an admirable shot, my friend.” Dagonet laughed. “Perhaps I should concede defeat?”

  Catherine sat beside him in an absolute fury. How dare Dagonet so casually wager her honor with these ruffians! What did their purses matter? She remained in a rigid silence as Dagonet slipped out his pistol and took aim. The shot exploded past her ear. The very top leaf snapped off the holly bush and spun into the air.

  Before the highwaymen could register that they had lost the wager, Dagonet had pulled out another pistol and trained its barrel on the three horsemen, conveniently grouped together.

  “My win, sirs,” he said, entirely without emotion. “And now, since you have so very kindly emptied your pistols of both bullets, and since I have another in this chamber and two more in its companion, which makes one dose of lead for each of you, you will dismount without any suspicious moves and take the bridles off your horses.”

  Dumbfounded, the ruffians could only do as he directed. Moments later, their bridle-less mounts went galloping away. Dagonet then required Merry Joe and his companions to remove their boots, which he collected and deposited in the phaeton.

  “Now, good evening to you, gentlemen!”

  The highwaymen were each given a stylish bow before Dagonet whipped up the team and they cantered off. The men were left cursing and shaking their fists in the frosty air, while their boots were tossed from the carriage along the roadside, where it would take the ruffians several hours to find them.

  As soon as they were well away, Catherine turned to Dagonet. “How dared you, sir! What would you have done had that Merry Joe turned out to be a better shot? How could you to offer to leave me with them!”

  “He did not turn out to be a better shot, dear Kate. Your question is entirely hypothetical.”

  “This is insufferable, sir! You could not have known that. What would you have done? Handed me over to them in an attempt to save your precious purse?”

  “You seem to forget, madam, that you were entered into the wager at the highwayman’s suggestion, not mine. But you did not need to be alarmed. You were never in any danger.”

  “Your arrogance passes belief. Had you lost, you would have been honor bound to leave me with them. It was an unconscionable risk. But then perhaps your sense of honor is not so fine-tuned and you would have gone back on your word without a thought. Either way the situation was untenable.”

  “My word is, you must believe, of course, always open to negotiation. Only a
gentleman considers his word inviolable.” The reply was flung at her like a knife. “You forget, Miss Hunter, that I am not a gentleman but a rake. My reputation precedes me wherever I go. I am surprised you are not cognizant of it. In any event, I was lucky in my shot, so whether I would have preferred to leave you to Merry Joe or break my questionable word as a gentleman, we shall never know.”

  “Any normal sane person would have thrown over their purse, rather than risk a bullet,” Catherine insisted.

  “Undoubtedly. But then any normal sane person has credit. I have none. If we are to complete this journey, my gold had better stay in my possession.”

  With that she was silenced once again. She would never understand him.

  Chapter 13

  By the time they made the last change of horses at Newbury, Catherine was almost sleepwalking. There was no way she could rest in the open carriage, no cushioned headrest that would allow her to relax for a moment. Hour after hour, they had galloped on through the dark. Only the thought of little Annie lying helpless in the Rose and Crown at Marlborough gave her the determination to climb back into the phaeton one last time.

  Dagonet had done everything possible to see to her comfort. Every posting inn had been ready with a hot drink and a fire, each time a new brick was placed in the carriage, but nowhere had they stopped for more than a few moments. The little tiger on the gray Thoroughbred had prepared the way for them with expertise, and there had been no delay in getting fresh horses. It reminded her of a military campaign, but then, of course, Dagonet had been a soldier.

  Had there really been any danger that he couldn’t shoot the leaf from a holly bush, when he himself had picked the target? How many numbing hours of practice had it taken to be so sure of his aim? In any event, the ruse of the wager had effectively disarmed three men, and left him with three bullets. If his word meant nothing to him, he could have escaped with his purse whether he had won the wager or not. Still, she shivered as she remembered the glint in Merry Joe’s eye. As she tried to step up into the phaeton, she stumbled from pure weariness. Dagonet caught her arm.