Lady Sherry and the Highwayman

by Maggie MacKeever

  “I think I must have,” Sherry sighed. “But I meant it for the best. And now, with Ned’s disappearance, and Viccars, and Grenville— I have come to my wit’s end. I am sorry to involve you in all this, Chris. I am sorry to have involved myself! But I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “There, there, don’t cry!” Sir Christopher wished fretfully that he’d taken his luncheon elsewhere today. “You did right to come to me. Indeed, you should have done so sooner, after that fellow first accosted you. Devil take it, how could you ask Viccars for a loan of money? What must he have thought?”

  How could Sherry have what? Lavinia by this time was seated plump on the floor with her ear as close to the door as permitted by the eye she had affixed to the keyhole. She had given up attempting to fend off Prinny’s demonstrations of affection for the moment, deeming it better to endure his wet tongue than to miss what was going on between her husband and his sister.

  “Viccars?” That word, at least, was clear and spoken by Sir Christopher. “This is a bad business, Sis. Viccars had a bit of information about the highwayman’s doxy, which he passed along to me. Seemed to have a notion you’d be pleased if the rascal was brought to justice. Seemed to think you might wish a word with him.”

  “Good heavens!” responded Lady Sherry faintly. “Andrew thought that?”

  “Seems that Viccars had wind of some jackanapes who talked whilst in his cups,” added Sir Christopher. “And not of cabbages and kings. Well, puss, this is a fine pickle you’ve gotten yourself into. If that fellow was to tell what he knows—”

  Sherry muttered, “That’s why I decided to buy him off.’’

  “You should have come to me.” Sir Christopher’s voice was stern. “There was no need to be bringing strangers into the business. Not that Viccars is a stranger, but you know what I mean.”

  “I do know.” Could Sherris be weeping? Lavinia applied her eye to the keyhole once again. “But I hated to involve you, Chris. A man in your position. And Lavinia—” Her voice trailed off.

  “There, there!” Sir Christopher took his sister into his arms and awkwardly patted her. “We’ll see this thing through somehow. Blood’s thicker than water, after all. Don’t fret your head about Livvy, because I’ll deal with her.”

  So he’d deal with Lavinia, would he? In that moment, Lavinia felt strongly like bursting into the dining room and demanding a full explanation of the queer remarks she’d overheard. It sounded very much like Sherris had become involved in some disgraceful escapade the nature of which Lavinia had no clue, save that Lord Viccars was concerned. Could it be—?

  Stricken in the act of rising by a dreadful suspicion, Lavinia clutched at the doorjamb for support. Surely Sherris had not anticipated her marriage vows! Surely Andrew was not so lost to common decency as to connive at such a thing!

  Surely she was being foolish. Lavinia drew a deep breath. This was her home. She had a right to march into the dining room and demand an explanation of the rudeness that she had so keenly felt—the rudeness that had caused her to suffer an upheaval of emotion so intense that she must take to her bed. Christopher would be sorry then that he had been so cruelly rejecting; anyone with a grain of proper feeling must be. Lavinia adopted an expression so martyred that anyone who glimpsed her must be guilt-stricken, whether they had previously made her acquaintance or no, and laid her hand upon the doorknob.

  The knob turned, but the door did not open. It was locked. Lavinia could have wept with vexation. But tears were useless when there was no one to see them. Nor would it accomplish anything to kick the offending door. And so, what was she to do?

  Caught up in indecision, Lavinia hovered in the hallway. Prinny watched anxiously. He would have leaped to console his mistress, if only he could have been certain that it was consolation she sought; the expressions that flitted across her pretty face were so myriad and diverse that it was difficult to determine whether she was furious or morose. If his mama was unhappy, Prinny could not leave her uncomforted. He gathered up his courage and pressed close.

  Alas, this act of affectionate condolence was one unpleasantness too many piled on Lavinia’s plate. She cursed in a most unladylike manner and gave Prinny a smart slap. Prinny yelped, less in pain than in surprise. “What the devil?” ejaculated Sir Christopher from behind the closed door. Lavinia didn’t care to be discovered in so ignominious a position or to be accused of manhandling her hound. She fled.

  Sir Christopher glanced out into the empty-seeming hallway and then back at his sister. “This is a grave business. I won’t pretend that it’s not. If you don’t wish to marry Viccars, then you needn’t—indeed, you shouldn’t, if the only reason you betrothed yourself to him was to lay hands on five hundred pounds. But you must be the one to explain it all to him, mind. As for this other business, I just had word this morning that your Captain Toby escaped from Newgate sometime yesterday.”

  “Escaped!” gasped Lady Sherry. “But he was never there! I mean, it wasn’t him! Oh, never mind that now.”

  “I’ll do what I can, but in return I’ll expect you to testify.” So saying, and by so doing inadvertently proving the old saw that eavesdroppers heard no good, Sir Christopher closed the door. Lavinia emerged from the closet in which she’d hidden herself and tottered toward the stairs.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Lord Viccars had not been idle. He was resolved to rescue Marguerite from the shadow of the gallows, and therefore had repaired with his faithful valet and coachman to the tavern of which he had apprised Sir Christopher, where a certain fellow who talked more than he should was said to spend a fair amount of time. It was not the sort of tavern Andrew might have enjoyed visiting under other circumstances, not one of the flash cribs around Haymarket that were frequented by pretty horsebreakers and young bloods or one of the brothels near Piccadilly that were much patronized by swells. It was, in his opinion, a low, vulgar place, and he was glad he’d followed his coachman’s advice and ventured there in clothing a great deal less elegant than his usual.

  Nor was his visit a short one. Much time elapsed, and much ale was quaffed, before his quarry appeared, causing much consternation to all concerned, for of course Andrew could not fail to recognize Lady Sherry’s groom. Ned’s memory proved to be equally excellent, and Lord Viccars was hard-pressed to manufacture an adequate explanation for his presence in such a place. Then Ned proved to have a suspicious streak and was not easily lured outside. Finally the fellow was knocked unconscious by the faithful Briscoe, trussed up by the equally faithful Williams, and tossed into the nondescript carriage that had been hired for the evening’s excursion, it being agreed that no good purpose would be served by advertising Lord Viccars’s position in the world via the crest emblazoned on his own coach.

  And then the conspirators encountered their first dilemma. Having caught their quarry, what were they to do with him now? They could hardly take him to Lord Viccars’s rooms in the Clarendon without arousing more attention than all of the occupants of the menagerie in the hotel garden combined.

  The matter occasioned some discussion. Williams put forth the suggestion that they should repair to Lord Viccars’s town house, which was empty save for a caretaker, where they could interrogate their prisoner without fear of interruption. However, Andrew was not enamored of this suggestion. He had drunk a great deal of ale, and consequently was not thinking too clearly, and voiced a strong determination to avoid as long as possible an encounter with the shade of his first wife, who he very much feared was still in residence there. Williams and Briscoe did not argue; they, too, remembered that spoiled and strong-minded lady well.

  This conversation continued for some time until Williams diffidently pointed out that it might be prudent to leave the scene before someone recalled that Ned had last been seen in their company. On this point, at least, all agreed. Williams and Lord Viccars repaired within the coach, while Briscoe climbed up on his box and took up the reins.

  Still, they had no destination in
mind, and Andrew’s ale-induced high spirits were fast being replaced by a sore head. “The devil with it. We’ll take him to Marylebone.” Williams and Briscoe thought this an excellent suggestion. Ned’s opinion was not asked.

  Thus it came about that Marguerite’s maidservant was wakened in the middle of the night and granted admission to Lord Viccars and Ned. Not that it was so easily accomplished as that, because the startled woman did not recognize Lord Viccars in all his dirt, thought she was on the verge of being molested, and hysterically threatened to call the watch. Andrew managed to identify himself to her before this disaster could transpire and told her not to waken her mistress but to return to her own bed.

  The maidservant didn’t argue. She knew on what side her bread was buttered and out of whose pocket her wages were paid. She retired to her bedchamber after a quick detour to the kitchen for a quick nip of the cooking sherry as a restorative to her shattered nerves. Briscoe and Williams took their departure also, to return the hired coach and then retire to their own cots.

  The fair Marguerite, meanwhile, slept through all these stirring events and did not rise from her bed, as was her custom, until noon. As was her custom, she roused and stretched, splashed water on her face and drew a brush carelessly through her hair, slipped into a peignoir and descended the stair in search of tea and toast. Before she could break her fast, she was distracted by a familiar voice issuing from her drawing room.

  Viccars? Here? Marguerite moistened her lips, pinched color into her cheeks, tousled her curls, and contemplated returning to her bedroom for her false eyelashes made of mouse skin. Her curiosity was too great. She loosened the ties of her peignoir and stepped across the threshold. “Mon Dieu! What is this? Why is that man trussed up like a chicken for the pot?”

  Andrew spun around. He had slept the remainder of the night on the sofa and had woken with the devil of a head. Consequently, he was feeling very cross with Marguerite, whom he held responsible for all his woes. To have gone to such trouble for her, and then for her to disavow all knowledge— “Don’t play the innocent with me!” he snapped.

  Marguerite failed to see how she could be accused of playing the innocent when her breasts were largely exposed by her peignoir. So exposed, in fact, as to wring from Lord Viccars’s captive a glassy-eyed stare.

  Perhaps Andrew referred to her question. Marguerite supposed she should not doubt her own eyes’ evidence. There was a man trussed up on her couch, while Viccars was dressed like a groom.

  It was true that no person truly knew another, evidently. Had Marguerite known of her inamorato’s proclivities before this, she might have contrived to keep him better entertained. “You scold me for gambling,” she murmured, “which is nothing compared to this!”

  Conversation with Ned had thus far availed Lord Viccars nothing, nor had his threats. The groom was as close-mouthed as an oyster. Andrew wished that his petite amie shared that trait. He was prevented from telling her so only by the introduction of a fourth person into the drawing room.

  Jeremy paused on the threshold, a vision of sartorial elegance in skintight inexpressibles, an exquisitely cut coat worn open to display a rose-colored waistcoat and a snowy cambric shirt, spotless linen, wonderfully made boots, a wide-brimmed glossy hat, and a whitethorn cane. “Your servant, Viccars,” he murmured, as he raised his quizzing-glass to better take in the startling scene before him, and executed an elegant bow.

  Had Jeremy been his servant, Lord Viccars would have without preamble turned him out into the streets. This intelligence he managed to convey in a single scornful glance. He then returned his attention to his captive.

  Jeremy raised a quizzical eyebrow. Marguerite shrugged, an act that brought even Jeremy’s supercilious attention to the neckline of her peignoir. He was considerably more interested, however, in discovering why Lord Viccars was acting like a man with bats in his head.

  To that end, Jeremy strolled forward and gazed down at the man trussed up on the couch. “Damned if the poor fellow don’t look uncomfortable. Perhaps if you was to untie him, he might prove amenable to whatever it is you want him to do.”

  “Don’t act as if you don’t know what this is about!” Andrew responded bitterly. “What’s to prevent him from making a run for it if I do as you say?”

  Jeremy smiled and withdrew a very wicked-looking sword from his cane. “This,” he said, and proceeded to use the sword to such good end that Ned was soon unbound. Ned sat up, chafed his wrists. “Now,” continued Jeremy, “suppose you tell his lordship here what he wants to know.”

  Ned gazed unhappily on the sword that Jeremy had failed to sheathe. “I know what I know, and I’ll tell what I know, but only for five hundred pounds!”

  That sum sounded familiar. Andrew supposed it must have been the amount he last paid out for Marguerite’s gambling debts. In exasperation, he grasped her arm and gave her a shake. “Let us have done with this charade! Have you forgotten that you took me into your confidence, Marguerite?”

  She had taken Viccars into her confidence? Marguerite couldn’t recall doing such a foolish thing. Surely she could not have told him the extent of her debts! But if she had not, then why was he so cross? She stared at his lordship’s captive and wondered if the man might be one of her creditors. Marguerite didn’t think she’d seen him before, and certainly not across the gaming table, because such a bizarre occurrence she must surely recall. “Ma foi! I do not know this man, Andrew. Nor do I know what you are talking about!”

  “Perhaps that’s true.” Lord Viccars elevated his gaze. “But he certainly knows you.”

  Ned, too, had been staring at Marguerite’s neckline. Now he looked hastily away. “I don’t know her!” he protested. Lord Viccars had already demonstrated a nasty quick temper, if not some degree of lunacy. Ned didn’t like to think of how the gentleman would react to the suspicion that Ned had known his ladybird, for such she obviously was, in the biblical sense. “Never set eyes on her before!”

  Was ever well-intentioned man forced to deal with such stubbornness? “Chowderhead!” Andrew snapped, and released Marguerite’s arm. “You know the highwayman’s doxy. You bragged of it, not once but several times!”

  At least this much of the conversation Ned understood. “Aye. That I did. And I’ll sing like a canary bird—for five hundred pounds.”

  “Ah.” Jeremy crossed his elegant legs at the knee. “We seem to have reached an impasse. No one in this room has five hundred pounds at hand. At least I don’t, and Marguerite’s never had so much put by in all her life, and it’s plain as a pikestaff that Viccars here ain’t that plump in the pocket or he’d have already bought you off.” He fingered his sword lovingly. “Was I you, my boyo, I’d cut my losses before you come to worse grief.”

  Ned swallowed. This stranger’s cool logic and icy gaze left him very impressed. “Five hundred pounds!” said Andrew suddenly. “That’s why Lady Sherry wished to borrow the money, so she might buy you off!” He frowned. “But why should she? For my sake, I suppose. What a loyal creature she is. I am not worthy of her.” He turned his frown on Marguerite. “And neither are you!”

  Poor Marguerite was, at this point, very confused. She couldn’t understand what she had to do with Lady Sherry—unless Andrew meant to set up a ménage a trois. Not that Marguerite was adverse to such a proposal. A female in her line of work couldn’t afford to be a prude. Still, one could generally tell which gentlemen would make suggestions and which would not, and she would have been willing to gamble that Lord Viccars would not. “Chacun a son gout!” she murmured.

  Everyone to his own taste, was it? Apparently Marguerite preferred a highwayman to an earl. “I cannot let you hang,” Lord Viccars said stiffly. “No matter that you hold me in low esteem.”

  “I hold you— Merde alors!” So startled was Marguerite by this statement that she flew up out of her chair to clutch at his lordship’s sleeve. “Have you windmills in your head, Andrew? You must, to think such a thing. It is you who are getting m
arried, not me!”

  “My marriage has nothing to do with it!” retorted Lord Viccars with admirable masculine logic. “You need not try and tell me you have been faithful to me, Marguerite.”

  “Eh bien! Now you slander me!” Marguerite’s eyes flashed. “I have been faithful to you, Andrew, or as close as makes no difference, and if you do not believe me, then I must ask you to leave my house!”

  Andrew did not believe Marguerite. How could he, when she had already confessed to him her liaison with a highwayman? He might well have stalked out of the house, vowing dramatically never to return. Two things prevented him from taking this action: he recalled that the pretty little Italian villa was not Marguerite’s but his own; and Jeremy chose at last to intervene. “I believe that you are laboring under a delusion, Viccars,” he murmured. “The worst fate that can befall our Marguerite is that she’ll land in debtors’ prison. Unless the law is changed so that a person can go to the gallows for not paying her debts.” He moved the sword closer to Ned’s face. “I think it’s time, my pretty bird, that you began to sing for us.”

  Ned thought so, too. He didn’t care for the manner in which the gleaming sword inched closer and closer to his unprotected throat. “I’ll talk!” he gasped as it came closer yet. “I saw her riding hell-for-leather with that Captain Toby fellow on her horse, and then I saw them coming out of the gardener’s shed. And then I put together what I’d seen and what I’d heard, and figured I could buy a nice little tavern for myself if only I was to lay my hands on the ready-and-rhino. That’s all! I swear it! Can’t blame a fellow for trying to get ahead!” Perspiration stood out on his brow.

  Jeremy contemplated the gleaming tip of his sword. “That lets out our Marguerite. She can hardly stay mounted on a nag, let alone ride anywhere ventre à terre with anyone clinging to her skirts.”