Midnight Raider

by Thacker, Shelly

  At the costume soiree a fortnight ago, he’d enjoyed relieving Monsieur Faircroft and his friends of a great deal of their money—but his meeting with the head of the London Bank the next morning hadn’t proved nearly so pleasant.

  He kept going over every detail of the meeting in his mind. Surely he had missed something…

  “The Women and Children’s Trust is a private account,” the bank officer had insisted, placing one hand atop a stack of papers on the side of his desk. “I have reviewed it personally and all is in order. I’m sorry that I cannot help you, sir.”

  The man regarded him with a look of distaste Rochambeau was getting used to—a look that said that while the English admired French fashion, French colognes, and French cuisine, they detested the French.

  “But a crime has been committed, Monsieur Mulready,” Rochambeau said. “The coins your bank accepted were counterfeit. Surely you would wish to know the name of the criminal?”

  The banker got to his feet. “I’m certain the matter of the counterfeit silver was an isolated mistake. You may be assured it will not happen again. We now carefully check all coins deposited to ensure that they are genuine.” He extended his hand. “Good day, sir.”

  Keeping his frustration hidden, Jean-Pascal stood and politely accepted the man’s dismissal, leaning forward to shake his hand. The many layers of lace ruffles edging his sleeve brushed a few sheets from the stack of papers off Mulready’s desk.

  “Pardon, monsieur.” Rochambeau knelt to gather up the mess, fighting a grin at the way the Englishman had left himself open to such an old trick. “We French, you know, our fashion can be so clumsy.”

  “Quite all right,” Mulready blustered, nudging him out of the way.

  The man was so caught up in his irritation, he didn’t even notice when Jean-Pascal extended a nimble finger toward one of the scraps of paper. It was in his pocket before the Englishman could blink an eye.

  “Merci, monsieur, for your time. My apologies for the trouble.”

  They shook hands and Rochambeau left, waiting until he was in his carriage before reading the slip of paper.

  Once he took a closer look, he was disappointed to find that it offered only the notation “Women’s and Children’s Trust” across the top, and an amount, written in a neat, perhaps feminine hand. There were no names.

  He flipped it over. On the back was part of a sentence, barely scratched into the surface, as if someone had written a note on another sheet of paper with this one underneath. Rochambeau held it up to the light. The notation ran off the edge of the page, but there was just enough to make out the words Receipt to Osgo, and below that, twenty-first May.

  Jean-Pascal felt a glimmer of excitement, which he tried to keep in check. It was likely nothing. It might even concern an entirely different account.

  On the other hand, it might be a clue—perhaps the name of some place where the elusive Blackerby Swift might be found.

  After a few days of investigating, unfortunately, he had learned that there was no tavern, gaming establishment, or bawdy house with a name that began with the letters O-S-G-O. There was, however, a popular ladies’ shop on the Strand by the name of Osgood’s…

  Which had brought him to this coffeehouse. Thus far, his hunt for Blackerby Swift had turned up blessed little, so he had taken to spending his afternoons here. He watched the fabric shop across the street while enduring the weak brew the English tried to pass off as coffee.

  But surely this was a mistake. What would a lowbred criminal like Swift have to do with a shop that purveyed costly laces and velvets and feminine frippery?

  He had considered going inside and asking questions, but if the store was connected with Swift in some way, he didn’t wish to arouse suspicion. So he patiently watched and waited for a clue to present itself.

  Did Swift have a paramour here? Some woman with whom he kept assignations? Or perhaps a sister who took care of his bank deposits for him?

  Rochambeau had seen few men so far, all footmen or coach drivers. None looked the least bit like a dangerous, daring highwayman. Mostly he had seen a steady stream of women.

  Tall women, petite women, elegant women, plain women, thin women, and a few plump beauties who—were he not working on an investigation—he might have persuaded to make his afternoons a bit more enjoyable.

  Nothing but women.

  Sighing, Jean-Pascal ordered another cup of coffee. Something would come to him.

  If not, he would sneak in after dark tonight and finally see for himself what secrets Osgood’s held.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sprawled behind one of the massive trestle tables in the Black Stag Tavern, Marcus stretched his legs, the air around him thick with the aroma of tobacco smoke, sweat, and ale spilled on the dirt floor. It was a supremely masculine scent… almost strong enough to blot out the memory of a sweet feminine perfume. A gentle touch against his cheek. The warmth shining in a pair of violet eyes. Soft lips parting beneath his.

  And the cold words flung at him moments later.

  Stop watching over me, stop trying to help me, stay away from me.

  He glowered down at the plate of food in front of him—bubble and squeak, the favorite meal of many a British peasant and very few earls. Marcus usually dug into the boiled beef, fried cabbage and sizzling onions with gusto. But tonight, he merely stabbed at it with a fork, unable to summon much of an appetite.

  For a fortnight now, he had wandered among his favorite pubs, played billiards at the coffee houses, taken in boxing matches, gone to the races. But perversely, the more he tried not to think of a certain female outlaw, the more aware he felt of having lost… something.

  Something he couldn’t even name.

  And the disagreeable feeling seemed to be getting worse rather than better with time. He hadn’t been sleeping well. Or writing at all. Even Quinn had noticed his foul mood. The ever-loyal, ever-discreet butler hadn’t said a word, but Marcus knew he had noticed. Which only added to his irritation.

  He pushed away the plate of food in front of him. How could it be possible that one rather small woman could wreak such large havoc on his life?

  One small, headstrong, exasperating woman. Determined to save the poor, of all things. Fiery little lady Robin Hood. With her high hopes and her soft heart and her most unladylike love of danger.

  And her terrible dancing. And that shimmering laugh. And her Oh Lawks.

  Marcus realized he was smiling.

  God help him, just thinking of her made him smile.

  He rubbed a hand over his face, cursing himself as a fool. It was pointless to keep wanting a woman who belonged to another man. Lord Barnes-Finchley, the heedless drunkard who had used her so badly that he’d left her terrified of intimacy.

  God, how Marcus wanted to hunt the bastard down and kick his arse.

  I will not break my vows.

  Grimacing, he raked a hand through his disheveled hair. Regardless of his opinion of her worthless husband, Marcus had to respect Elizabeth’s wishes. Never mind that she had been badly mistreated by the sot and left abandoned, unprotected against the dangers all around her. Never mind that her vulnerability only deepened Marcus’s instinct to watch over her, to keep her safe.

  He had given her his word: he wouldn’t see her again until twenty-three days from now.

  Not that he was counting.

  He lit a cigar, the match flaring red in the darkened room, the smoke swirling about his unshaven chin as he exhaled.

  I want you to keep your distance.

  Elizabeth had made her feelings for him abundantly clear. She didn’t want his protection or anything else from him. If he thought he’d sensed something different in her smile, her touch, her kiss, he’d been mistaken.

  In all of history, had any man ever guessed correctly what a woman was thinking or feeling?

  Marcus clamped the cigar between his teeth. He was better off this way. Truly, he was. On his own. Nobody to worry about but himself.

&nb
sp; Same as always.

  Reaching into the pocket of his greatcoat, he flipped open his silver pocket watch, noticing that it was past midnight.

  Twenty-two days.

  ~ ~ ~

  In their small town house near the shop, Georgiana stumbled down the darkened hallway toward Nell’s room, clutching a single candle as if it were a weapon against the panic that gripped her heart.

  “Nell!” She pounded on the door, her voice tremulous, her hand shaking so hard the candlelight danced nightmarish shadows along the flocked wallpaper. “Nell, wake up!”

  The bedroom door was wrenched open before Georgiana could knock again. “What is it? Did ye hear another odd noise out back? I’ll get me flintlock—”

  “No, no, it’s not that. That must have been a stray cat in the alley. All the doors are locked tight.” Georgiana pushed past her friend and into the room, barely making it to the upholstered chair by the hearth before she collapsed. The pain in her head was so sharp she thought she might faint. “It’s Elizabeth. She’s… she’s—”

  “She’s on holiday in Northampton.” Nell tied the belt of her dark green robe. “She left the mornin’ after the costume ball. Don’t ye remember? Said she wanted a visit home to rest fer a bit—”

  “I know that.” Georgiana shook her head, unable to speak for a moment. “But I-I just had the most horrible premonition.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, Nell, it was horrible!”

  Nell grabbed the candle from Georgiana’s hand before it could tumble to the carpet. “Now, now, Georgi. Don’t go gettin’ yerself all flusterpated.” She set the candle on her writing table. “We had a little scare earlier, and it just gave ye a nightmare—”

  “But it wasn’t a nightmare!” Georgiana reached out and grasped Nell’s arm. “I was wide awake, Nell. As awake as I am right now. It was some kind of… vision. I saw Elizabeth. There were men with her. Strangers, beastly-looking. Two of them. They were pointing pistols at her—”

  “It was a nightmare—”

  “No, Nell, it was not! And do not look at me as if I were unhinged!” Georgiana immediately regretted shouting, as it made her headache worse. Her heart racing, she tried to put the awful images she had seen into words. “The men were yelling. One of them put the gun to her head. And… and then…”

  “What?”

  “That was the strangest part. Lord Darkridge was there. He struck the man’s arm just as the gun went off.”

  “Darkridge?”

  “I know that sounds odd. He saved Elizabeth from being shot. B-but then…” She released Nell’s arm and put a hand to her forehead, trying to ignore the pain. “I heard Elizabeth scream.” She shut her eyes. “Oh, Nell, that scream! I can still hear it.”

  “Then what happened?” Nell whispered, her face serious now.

  “I don’t know. The vision ended there.” Georgiana massaged her temples, her fingers trembling. “I’ve never experienced anything like it before. I’ve had odd feelings about things, but this was like… like a play, right before my eyes. Nell, you must believe me.”

  “I know ye well enough to know ye wouldn’t make this up. We have to do somethin’. We have to warn her.”

  “But the last time I warned her about one of my premonitions, she ignored it and ended up badly hurt. And that time I had only an uneasy feeling. This was like… like seeing the future.” She began to cry and covered her eyes with one hand.

  “There, now, Georgi.” Nell patted her shoulder. “We’ll think of somethin’.”

  Georgiana felt helpless and determined all at once. “The only thing I can think of… Nell, I know this is going to sound mad. But we weren’t in the vision. It was Lord Darkridge protecting her.”

  “What are ye suggestin’? That we send him to Northampton after her? Bess would have our heads!”

  “I know she dislikes him—”

  “Dislikes him? She didn’t even want to hear his name mentioned after she came home from that costume ball. One minute, she’s explainin’ all about the ‘business agreement’ she made with Lord Darkridge—and the next, she starts packin’ her bag for Northampton.” Nell folded her arms. “And did ye notice her nervous laugh when I asked about them little marks on her neck? Tried to blame it on mosquitos. Ha! That was one strappin’ big mosquito, if ye ask me.”

  Georgiana frowned. “I warned her to keep her distance from that man. He has the most nefarious reputation.” She dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “And yet… he saved her life once before. And he took care of her…”

  It took Georgiana only a moment to decide she must honor her feelings.

  “Nell, I will not take a chance with Elizabeth’s life. She’s in terrible danger.” Georgiana stood up, tucking her handkerchief away. “She might never forgive us, but could we live with ourselves if we didn’t send Lord Darkridge to protect her, and something awful happened?

  Nell lifted her hands in an exasperated gesture. “And how are we s’posed to go about this? Walk up to his town house and say, ‘’Scuse me, my lord, but Georgi had this real odd vision and we want ye to go save Bess?’”

  “I see your point.” Georgiana considered the problem, then brightened. “You might relay the message through Mr. Quinn.”

  Nell made a face. “I am not gettin’ within five miles of him.”

  “This is no time to be stubborn. He seemed nice enough, and I do believe he fancies you.”

  “Hmph.” Nell folded her arms.

  “He does. After all, he sent you that pretty little bracelet, with a note to say how much he enjoyed making your acquaintance. And he apologized for having to be so secretive that first night.”

  “And if I had half a shillin’s worth of sense, I would’ve sent it right back.” Nell was blushing. “Him with his fine clothes and lofty airs—men like that only ever want one thing from a woman like me. And if he thinks a bracelet will get him what he’s after, he’d best think again.” She waved one hand in a dismissive gesture. “Besides, he’s not goin’ to believe in yer premonitions any more than his lordship would.”

  “You don’t have to mention anything about my premonition. Just let him know where Elizabeth has gone. And that we’re concerned she might be in danger. I’m sure he’ll tell Lord Darkridge, and the earl will… he’ll go to her. I’m sure of it.”

  “And how would I happen to bring up Bess’s holiday in the conversation?”

  “You’ll think of something.” Georgiana was already feeling better, now that they had a plan. “Just let Mr. Quinn know where she’s gone. But don’t let him know that you’re letting him know. You’ll have to be… subtle.”

  “Subtle?” Nell blinked, realization dawning on her pretty features. “Georgi, I am not goin’ to let him kiss me!”

  “Now, Nell,” Georgiana admonished. “You must think of Elizabeth.”

  “I am thinkin’ of Bess. But I’m not goin’ to flutter my lashes at no puffed-up dandiprat who thinks I’m just here for the takin’.”

  Georgiana winced at her friend’s volume. “If you wish to argue over this further, please let’s go down to the kitchen so I can make myself a compress and some tea for my headache.”

  Nell planted her hands on her hips as she followed Georgiana from the room. “I am not goin’ to let him kiss me.”

  Chapter 10

  This was a mistake.

  Elizabeth had decided that before the public stage even left London, when her traveling companions exhibited a great deal of curiosity about what a young woman was doing traveling alone.

  With no need to be in the city for several weeks, she’d thought to seek a brief holiday at home, in the country. To find rest and solace among her old neighbors and acquaintances in Northampton.

  Only later did she realize how awkward it would be trying not to answer the questions they would naturally ask. She couldn’t discuss what she had been doing since going to London.

  When the coach stopped at an inn for the night, she purchased some men’s clothing from th
e innkeeper, who seemed to care more about the offered coin than her reasons for wanting the clothes.

  The next morning, she donned the oversized garments, then tied her hair in a queue and topped off the outfit with a tricorne hat so large it kept slipping down over her nose. Satisfied that no one would recognize her, she took a different coach and continued her journey home. To her relief, a young man traveling alone didn’t attract any questions at all.

  But now, after more than a fortnight in Northampton, she realized it was time to admit defeat and accept that this wasn’t the refuge she had hoped to find. Wandering among her favorite places only filled her with sadness. She felt every inch the criminal she was, skulking about trying to avoid familiar faces. Worst of all, the small, rather shabby inn where she stayed brought tearful memories of the more spacious, charming establishment her family had owned.

  At the moment, ensconced in a shadowy corner of one of the town’s taverns, she was trying to drown her sorrows in a tankard of dark ale that the tavernkeeper had served her. The stuff tasted bitter and strong and she didn’t understand why men seemed to enjoy it.

  She couldn’t help thinking that Marcus would probably like it.

  Never in her life had she felt quite so lonely. She missed Georgiana and Nell and…

  Oh Lawks, there was no point in denying it. She missed him. The scoundrel lord she’d been trying so hard to forget.

  She missed the way he teased her. And their verbal duels. And the sound of his deep voice. And that smoky look in his coffee-dark eyes every time their gazes met.

  She had lied to Georgiana and Nell, but she couldn’t lie to herself: when she had left London, she hadn’t been seeking a holiday.

  She had been fleeing him.

  Coward, she chided herself.

  Yes, she was. A complete coward when it came to the matter of Marcus Worthington. But her life was already far too complicated and dangerous. The last thing she needed was any sort of romantic entanglement with a man like him: a fellow outlaw with a wicked reputation, a grin to match, and kisses that could make her forget… everything.