“I beg your pardon?”
Her breathtaking smile flashed again. This time Tom suspected that it was deliberate.
“I was just indulging my vanity with the thought that you rode all the way from the village to pay me a call, and now I discover that your interest instead lies with my father. A very lowering realization, sir.”
“My dear Miss Wimbourne, I am certain you know that there is not a gentleman in the entire county who would not ride far farther than a mere five miles to be granted the privilege of your smile,” he said dryly. “Your return to Knightsbridge has created a greater stir than the rumors that the railroad might reach our tiny community.”
“Most charming.” She waved a hand toward the threadbare settee. “Are you certain you will not be seated?”
“No, thank you.” He was too shrewd to become overly comfortable in this maiden’s presence. She would charm him into insensibility given half the chance.
Moving to perch on the window seat, Miss Wimbourne tilted her head to one side. “I believe that you have only recently moved to Knightsbridge?”
“Yes, I lived in London until three months ago.”
“Ah.” She wrinkled her nose. “I am sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“You must have done something quite terrible to have been sent to such a remote, tiresome place.”
He gave a low chuckle. It was an assumption shared by most of the community. “On the contrary, I requested to come to Knightsbridge.”
“Whatever for? It is home to me, but I would think it the last place anyone else would wish to be. Especially a handsome, ambitious gentleman who could be enjoying the delights of London.”
In spite of himself, Tom experienced a small heat in the pit of his stomach. The woman was a born temptress.
“Knightsbridge has one thing that London could never offer.”
“And what would that be?”
“Actually I should say two things. The first, of course, is the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes upon.”
“And the second?”
He shrugged. “The Knave of Knightsbridge.”
She blinked, as if caught off guard by his blunt confession. “The highwayman?”
“Yes.”
“There are no criminals to be had in London?”
“An endless supply, but none with the reputation of the Knave.” He eyed her carefully. Since arriving in Knightsbridge he had nurtured a suspicion of the charming Josiah Wimbourne. Unfortunately, possessing a suspicion and possessing evidence were two entirely different matters. After last eve, however, he cherished a hope that his search might be at an end—and not even this beautiful angel was going to be allowed to stand in his way. “Surely you have heard the stories of the dashing rogue?”
“Who has not? Not that I believe a word of them.” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “What man could possibly appear and disappear like smoke? Or lead entire militias into the bogs? Or so enchant the ladies that they happily hand over their jewels and flatly refuse to give the authorities a description of him? He would have to be one of the fey creatures to possess such unearthly skills.”
“No doubt the gossip has greatly exaggerated the bandit’s skills, but he has proved to be a most cunning cad who has outwitted every officer who has come against him. It will take a man of considerable cleverness to capture him.”
“I believe I begin to understand.” She slowly rose to her feet. “You think to enhance your own reputation by being the one to bring the Knave to the gallows?”
He was caught off guard by her shrewd perception. By God, this was a dangerous woman. And one who was deliberately attempting to distract him.
The question was, why?
“As much as I am enjoying your companionship, Miss Wimbourne, I have many duties awaiting my attention and I must speak with your father. Would you be so kind as to request he attend me?”
“I fear I cannot, Mr. Harper,” she replied, smiling. “He is not at home.”
Tom stiffened, his instincts on full alert. “Indeed. May I inquire when you expect him to return?”
“Not for several days. He has gone to town to deal with some business interest or another.” She gave an innocent bat of her lashes. “No doubt he told me the tedious details, but I must honestly confess I paid him little heed. I have no head for investments and such.”
“He is in London?”
“Yes, sir.”
Tom clenched his hands at his sides. He would bet his finest pearl stickpin the maiden was lying, but they both knew he could not openly accuse her.
Nor could he insist on searching the cottage for the treacherous bastard, damn the luck.
“For how long?”
“He promised to return within the week, but of course, he does tend to be rather impulsive and he might very well discover something that amuses his fancy and remain longer than he first intended.”
“And he left you here alone?”
Her smile never wavered. “I am hardly alone. Both Foster and Talbot are here, as well as Mrs. Stone.”
“It still seems odd he would not wish to take his daughter.” He paused, allowing his suspicion to be revealed in his expression. The fact that Miss Wimbourne was so determinedly attempting to keep him from her father only confirmed Tom’s belief that Josiah was the Knave of Knightsbridge. “Or his favorite mount.”
She moved to straighten a candlestick on the mantel, her face serene, but Tom sensed a tension in her slender form. She was not quite so calm as she wanted him to believe.
“Since we have no town house I would only be forced to remain in some hotel while my father was busy with his solicitor, and as for his mount—he traveled post.” She abruptly turned back to him with a narrowed gaze. “Is there a reason for your questions, sir?”
He briefly considered confronting her directly. It was amazing how often people blurted out secrets when they were nervous.
Then he gave a small shake of his head. This chit might be young, but she possessed the polished composure of a woman twice her age. She would not be teased or bullied into betraying her father.
No. He would have to hold on to his patience a while longer. Sooner or later he would catch Josiah Wimbourne. It was as inevitable as the sun rising.
“I am by nature a curious man,” he murmured.
The dark eyes flashed. “Then you are fortunate in your choice of careers.”
“Yes.” Sensing he had accomplished all that he could on this morning, Tom offered a shallow bow. “I will keep you no longer. I pray you tell your father that I called upon him?”
“Oh, you may be assured he will be told the moment he returns.”
Their gazes locked and held, both of them knowing that the battle between them had just begun.
“Then I bid you good day.”
“Good day, sir.”
Raine sucked in a deep breath as her guest walked to the door and disappeared.
She knew beyond a doubt that her efforts had been futile. The magistrate may appear a polite, unassuming sort of man, but she hadn’t missed the sharp glitter in his pale eyes. Nor the suspicion that had hardened his youthful features.
Mr. Harper was convinced that Josiah Wimbourne was the Knave of Knightsbridge, and her hasty story of Josiah’s trip to London had only confirmed his belief.
How long would it be before he checked with the inn to inquire if her father had indeed traveled by post to London? Or even sent word to town to check the various hotels for his presence?
Not more than a day or two, she was certain. And then he would be back insisting on seeing her father.
Dear Lord, she had to do something to distract him.
Something that would force him to second-guess his own certainty in Josiah’s guilt.
Pacing across the carpet, Raine came to a slow halt as she was struck with sudden inspiration.
Of course.
It was bold and daring and no doubt dangerous, but it might very well be precis
ely what was needed.
And she was just the woman to accomplish the outlandish feat.
Two months later
THE SMALL COACHING INN set near the crossroads was no doubt considered by the natives to be a source of pride. It did, after all, boast a fine wooden sign proclaiming it the King’s Arms, and a newly thatched roof that offered some protection from the bitter chill of the night air. It could even lay claim to a stable yard, although the snow had piled high enough to make it nearly impassable.
Seated in the comfort of his carriage, Philippe Gautier was singularly unimpressed.
He had traveled too widely to suppose the inn could offer more than watered ale, food boiled to tasteless mush and an infestation of vermin. No matter how cold and miserable the night, he intended to press onward. His carriage was preferable to the hospitality of the King’s Arms.
A preference that the innkeeper clearly found galling as he waddled his way through the snow and pulled open the carriage door to offer up the steaming mug of hot cider that Philippe had ordered.
“Here you are, sir.” The man shoved the mug in Philippe’s hand with a fawning smile on his round, ruddy face. “Nothing like a bit of cider on a cold night.”
Philippe pulled back, his austere features frigid with distaste. There was an overwhelming stench of stale tobacco and onions that clung to the man.
“That will be all.”
Impervious to Philippe’s icy dismissal, the innkeeper cleared his throat even as his gaze covertly took in Philippe’s exquisitely tailored greatcoat and Hessians that had been polished to a blinding perfection. The avaricious gaze lingered a moment on the gold signet ring that graced Philippe’s slender finger before returning to meet the narrowed green eyes.
“Such a miserable night and only to get worse, I fear.” He raised pudgy fingers to smear back his thinning patch of gray hair. “The cook swears that she smells snow in the air, which means it shall be upon us before long. She is uncanny, she is. Never wrong.”
Philippe gave a lift of a chiseled brow that perfectly matched his raven locks. He was well aware the man was attempting to frighten him into remaining the night at the inn. The ridiculous imbecile.
“Do you mean to tell me that you possess a cook who is also a witch?” he demanded in a low, silky tone that was only faintly accented.
The innkeeper gave a choked cough. “Oh, nay, sir. Nothing of the sort. She merely has a nose for weather.”
“A nose? Like a bloodhound?”
“All perfectly natural, I assure you.”
“It does not strike me as perfectly natural.” He lifted the mug to drain the cider. The dregs were bitter on his tongue, but it at least provided a warmth to his chilled body. “Indeed, I should think it most unnatural.”
“Aye, well.” The innkeeper awkwardly cleared his throat. “She is harmless enough, and makes a fine shepherd’s pie that will melt in your mouth. Just what is needed on this cold, miserable night.”
“I abhor shepherd’s pie,” Philippe informed the man as he shoved the now-empty mug back into his hands. “And before you begin to bore me with the delights of your boiled-oxtail soup and the perfection of your ale, be assured that nothing could prevail me to remain beneath your roof.”
The beefy face flushed with offended pride. “Sir, I must protest…”
“What you must do is close the door before you allow any more of the night air into my carriage,” Philippe announced in a voice that brooked no argument. “I grow weary of your chatter. Be off with you.”
“As you wish.” Offering a stiff bow, the man backed away just as a large, dark form slipped past him to enter the carriage and shut the door in his flushed face.
Philippe watched as his companion settled himself on the leather seat across from him.
At a glance Carlos Estavan did not seem the sort of man that Philippe Gautier would choose as a trusted friend. While Philippe was a slender, elegant gentleman with a cool, some would say aloof, composure and an aristocratic air, Carlos was broad and dark with the swarthy complexion of his Portuguese ancestors. He also possessed a fiery temperament and the sort of earthy passions that were decidedly absent in Philippe.
The two men had, however, been the closest of companions since Philippe had arrived at his father’s estate in Madeira when he had been but a tender lad. At the time Philippe had been devastated by his mother’s death and ready to strike out at anyone who crossed his path. Carlos had been the son of a local fisherman and an English maid who worked at Philippe’s family estate, and not at all shy about holding his own, even against a nobleman.
Philippe had been beaten senseless, but much to the astonishment of all, he had refused to allow Carlos to be punished. In truth, he had developed a grudging respect for the ill-tamed rascal who would rather risk the pillory than be bested.
It was a friendship that had flourished despite the disparity in their social positions, and Philippe knew there was no one he trusted more in the world.
Which was precisely why he had insisted that Carlos accompany him on this journey to England.
“So you do not possess faith in the cook’s uncanny nose?” Carlos demanded, revealing he had been lurking in the shadows to listen to Philippe’s conversation with the innkeeper.
“Ridiculous jackass.” Philippe settled back in the seat and pulled his coat about him. Lud, but he had forgotten just how cold and miserable England could be in November. “As if I were not perfectly aware he was attempting to cozen me into spending the night at his shabby inn.”
Carlos smiled as he rammed his hands through the long black hair that had been tousled by the stiff breeze.
“Well, you can hardly blame the man. He is stuck in the midst of this dreary landscape with no companionship beyond cows and half-wits. How often do you suppose such a fine and elegant gentleman arrives at his humble establishment? No doubt he was already plotting to have the town crier inform the local citizens that you halted for a mug of cider. Just imagine the bragging he could have done if you were to have actually slept in one of his beds.”
“Along with the bedbugs and mice?” Philippe shuddered. “No thank you.”
“We have bedded down in worse.”
That was true enough. Over the years Philippe and Carlos had bunked down in hovels, fields, and on one unforgettable occasion, in the dank cells of a Brazilian prison.
“Only when promised enough of a fortune to make it worth my while, and never where I am forced to endure such a despicable toadeater,” Philippe drawled. “What news from the stables?”
“There have been no strangers pass this way for the past fortnight.”
Philippe swallowed a curse. It was, of course, a great deal too much to hope that he would simply stumble across the scoundrel he was seeking, but not to have even the smallest inkling of the dastard’s location was straining his already raw nerves.
“No wonder the innkeeper was so desperate for my blunt.” He glanced out the frosted window. “How far are we from London?”
“We are still some thirty miles, with many of the roads impassable.”
“Devil take it. If we are to have a decent roof over our heads before the night is out then we shall have to dare the main road.” Philippe grimaced. He had lived too long in warm climates not to feel the bite of the winter air. “No matter, there will be few travelers about at this time of eve.”
“Not with the cook smelling snow in the air.”
Philippe narrowed his gaze. “Tell Swann to take the turnpike before I leave you here to grub among the natives.”
Lifting the hatch in the top of the carriage, Carlos passed the command on to the groom before resuming his seat with a smile that revealed a flash of perfect white teeth.
“I wouldn’t complain at lingering an hour or two. There is a very eager barmaid who was casting her eye in my direction. She would no doubt warm a man on such a cold night.”
The carriage swayed from the stable yard and began to pick up its pace as it hit
the turnpike. Philippe gave a shake of his head as he resigned himself to a chilly, disagreeable night.
“Good God, do you never think of anything else?” he demanded.
Carlos gave a low chuckle. “That is your trouble, you know, Gautier.”
“What? That I do not tup every chit who tosses herself at my feet?”
“That you don’t tup any of the chits who toss themselves at your feet. It’s no wonder you are so grim and cross. A man needs the comfort of soft arms to keep him in high spirits.”
Philippe smiled at the familiar chiding. Unlike Carlos he felt no need to possess a different woman in his bed every night. Oh, he was no saint. And certainly he was no eunuch. He had bedded the most beautiful, the most talented and the most exclusive women throughout Europe.
But his affairs were always discreet and conducted with the same cool precision he approached the rest of his life.
The mere thought of a hasty tumble with some tavern wench was enough to make him shudder in distaste.
“Do you have a point, Carlos?”
Sprawling with indolent ease, Carlos gave a small shrug. “Only that life is meant to be enjoyed.”
“I would enjoy life a great deal more if my brother was not languishing in Newgate prison.”
The dark, forceful features hardened at the mention of Philippe’s younger brother. Not surprising. Carlos held Jean-Pierre in barely concealed contempt, considering him a frivolous dandy who could boast no accomplishments beyond dallying away Philippe’s fortune.
Unfortunately Carlos was not entirely wrong. Jean-Pierre was only one year younger than Philippe’s one and thirty, but he had been absurdly pampered by their father. As a result, Jean-Pierre had grown into a man of weak character and dissolute habits who cared for nothing beyond his own pleasure.
“Jean-Pierre is always courting some sort of trouble or other, and you are always charging to his rescue,” Carlos said dryly. “It is what you do, after all.”
“His troubles to this date have involved moneylenders, illegitimate brats and cuckolded husbands, not treason,” Philippe felt compelled to point out. “This snare may be one that not even I can untangle.”
A Daring Passion Page 3
