Raven's Ransom

by Hayley Ann Solomon

  “Ah, yes. The Welsh Pendarran Railroad. A milksop! What about William Hedley? He builds a locomotive with guts! Last I heard, his engine was hauling ten coal wagons at a rate of five miles an hour. Now that is what you need, boy!”

  “Possibly, but I should like to make that decision myself.”

  “Hah!” The earl snorted and looked about for his Morning Post. “Spare me the details, boy. Just get the best design you can find. That Stephenson fellow might do the trick. He is completing some newfangled design with six wheels and a multitubular boiler. Talk to him.”

  Lord Barrymore bit his tongue. He would not ask the earl who that “Stephenson” fellow was. Doubtless he would find out for himself in due course. Now, he pressed his point home.

  “Then you will cede the authority?”

  His lordship waved his hand testily. There was a cough, then a grudgingly whispered, “Naturally.”

  Barrymore sighed inaudibly before taking the next hurdle. “For the duration of the intervening ten years I would have to draw on a working wage. Say, twenty thousand pounds.”

  “Ten. The rents from your lands will keep you in your confounded waistcoats!”

  The whisper of a dimple could be detected in my lord’s firm, decidedly rakish jaw. He held his own.

  “Fifteen, or I could not countenance the undertaking. The risks are too great.”

  “Nonsense! Where is your bottom, sir? Without this arrangement, you would be in debtor’s jail now!”

  “Yes, but out in the next quarter. If I sink myself as deep in debt as you suggest, I might rot in prison forevermore!”

  “True.” The earl’s eyes gleamed. He always enjoyed a game with high stakes.

  “Very well, you shall have your fifteen thousand pounds. You may draw on my banker tomorrow. Grafton-Everest in Caversham. And not a penny more, mind!”

  There was a moment of silence. Lord Barrymore pulled the ribbons out and twisted them about so that Lily, had she seen him, would have protested loudly. Then he laughed. “I believe I shall take you on, sir! Ten years. Once you are repaid, I shall keep title to the mines and all of their contents.”

  The earl inclined his head slowly. “You drive a hard bargain. It is good. I cannot abide namby-pamby milksops who cannot take a horse by the bit upon occasion.”

  Lord Barrymore bowed. He was just congratulating himself on a magnificent escape—Hoskin was right, he did have the luck of the devil—when the earl regarded him from under magnificently bushy brows that had not yet quite been tamed by his illness or age.

  “And now, my lord,” he said, with a wicked, rather self-satisfied smile upon his face, “I believe you have the necessary collateral to make the greater wager.”

  Lord Barrymore understood him perfectly. He did, however, take a moment to raise his brows in a suitably inquiring manner.

  “Would you, if you win Lily and my ransom, return one to keep the other? I wager not.”

  “And I, my dear sir, wager so.” The earl gazed, for an instant, at the younger man. He seemed hideously full of vitality and energy. A reflection, in truth, of himself at that age. He sighed. Lily would no doubt like him that way.

  “Then it is agreed.”

  “Just a moment, my lord, two small questions.”

  “The first?”

  “May I have Miss Lily’s hand in marriage?”

  “Would you care if I say no?”

  Barrymore grinned. “Not overmuch.”

  “Hmmph!” The earl glared, but there was a glint of youthful appreciation in his baleful eyes. Barrymore would not be the man he thought him if he quailed at the first obstacle.

  “You are honest, if not polite. Very well, if you can tame her, you can have her.”

  “Perhaps I do not want her tame.”

  “More fool you, but have it your way. What is the second question? I grow fatigued.” The earl did not look fatigued, but Barrymore decided not to press him upon this point.

  “What are you staking on this wager?”

  “Audacious pup!” The earl’s eyes gleamed. Then he grinned as if he were but eighteen, and not a wizened old man, held out a bony hand to Denver, and whispered something into his left ear.

  Richmond, straining his ears behind the partition to hear, could have kicked himself that he did not. He sidled away in deep disgust. All he had heard—and that muttered with a frightful guffaw of laughter—was something that sounded very much like a “haven’s dancem.” He would have been astonished to know how close he was to the truth.

  Nine

  Lord Armand Valmont whistled through his teeth as he allowed his prize bay mare to be saddled. He had spent a splendid morning, outfitting himself in such an outrageous rig that he dared not don it in front of the groomsman, for fear of being carted off to Bedlam. Still, he could feel the gay bandanna—an interesting confection of crimson shot with yellow—deep in his pocket.

  Under his sensible greatcoat, he had on a dark cape lined with a delightfully gaudy flamingo satin. It was trimmed with black fur to match his immaculate hessians. His sword presented something of a problem, for it was hard to tuck it into his faultless buckskins without having it noticed. Likewise, he could not mount his horse wielding the wretched thing—half his staff would have an apoplexy, fearing, for certain, an impending duel. He thanked the Lord his well-balanced pistols presented no problem. They were nicely hidden—thanks to a saddlebag more accustomed to carrying grouse than deadly weapons. Still, it served the purpose well, so it was now only the matter of the ruby-encrusted sword to worry about.

  Lord Valmont was inclined to replace it upon the mantelpiece of his ancestral home, where he had lifted it down earlier that morning. A stubborn voice told him, however, that a certain Miss Daisy would be far happier if he brandished it in a suitably villainous manner. Swords, he had it on the best authority, were romantically superior to common pistols. They also had the decided advantage of being Gothic.

  His lordship stepped up to the darker side of the stable, where he had set it down upon a bale of hay. Looking at it with whimsical resignation, he picked the sheath up nonchalantly and returned to his horse.

  “Oh, don’t stare, Jackson! I am not about to murder somebody!”

  “No, my lord.”

  “And I am not going to kill myself in a duel either, so you can take that tragic look off your face!”

  “Yes, my lord. Begging my lord’s pardon . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “What are you going to do with that thing?”

  “Do with it?” Lord Valmont looked suddenly jaunty astride his bay.

  “Why, Jackson, how odd of you to ask! Is it not perfectly obvious? I am going to cut purses and hold up carriages!”

  Whilst poor old Jackson was spluttering a bewildered reply, his lord and master kicked his knees in and cantered off at such a rate that there was no remonstrating with him. As he later told Brunhilda, the scullery maid, “There is just no telling with gentry folk!”

  My lord was not so devious as to keep to his word, for though he might have enjoyed the novelty attendant on such unsavory escapades, there was simply no telling when Miss Chartley might be pleased to either take a lonely stroll, carrying her reticule, or call her carriage up. Though ardent, he harbored no burning desire to lie in wait in his spectacular costume for hours on end. He was therefore forced, sadly, to dream up a simpler scheme. One that he hoped, nonetheless, would cause violent tremors in the heart of the lovely Miss Chartley and convince her forever of his perfidy.

  Or, at the very least, he reasoned, cause her to fall into his arms with wild abandon and pronounce him more heroic than Gawain or Lancelot or any other hero she might have filled her darling, ringleted little head with.

  At precisely midnight—though he could not exactly tell, for it was too dark to consult his fob despite an obliging moon—my lord dropped down from a plum tree, where he had tethered his horse—and into the grounds of Lord Raven’s estate. He crept to the back of the imposing house, li
t only, he noticed, by wax tapers, and regarded each window carefully. It was impossible to tell which might be Daisy’s, for they all seemed quite dreadfully alike. Nevertheless, my lord put his trust in faith. If the third sister was anything like the two he had already met, there was nothing, surely, to worry about. He put a leather-gloved hand to a masked mouth and yelled in a low, but eerie tone.

  “Miss Daisy, Miss Daisy, I have come as I promised! Miss Daisy, by the light of the moon, I pledge you my troth! ”

  Nothing happened, and my lord wrapped the cloak about him closer, wishing that the whole of it were fur-lined, not just the elegant edges. He began again, feeling rather more foolish than he had at the beginning of the whole escapade. What if she did not come? What if he were arrested by the watch and taken up before a magistrate? Oh, fie on such traitorous thoughts.

  “Daisy, Daisy!”

  A window flew open and a lamp flared. So! Lord Raven did use gas, after all!

  “Hush!”

  Not Daisy, though there was a glimmer of her smile behind the admonishing eyes.

  “You shall wake up the household.”

  A vision of beauty confronted him, with lashes dark and thick and dreamy. More sultry than Daisy, but perfection, nonetheless. My lord sighed. How sad that his heart was already lost, else he might well have tarried awhile . . .

  “You must be Miss Chartley the third.”

  “And you must be the cutpurse, or that splendid bandanna is sadly wasted!”

  “Do I not cast fear into your heart?”

  Lily giggled. “Should you? I believe you are too handsome, sir!”

  “And I believe you are a baggage! Is your sister within?”

  “Who, Primrose?”

  My lord’s mouth trembled on the brink of an appreciative smile. “Are you a scatterwit, then, Miss Chartley?”

  Lily laughed. “I have been told so, on occasion! But if it is Daisy you want, you are depressingly out of luck. She is snoring quite dreadfully and I fear I shall not wake her.”

  “Try, then, for this sword is prodigious heavy and I should like to lay it down, soon.”

  “Very well, but you must stand still, for if you move about too much you shall wake the dogs. They bark quite fearfully and you will be discovered in a matter of moments.”

  “How comforting! Hurry, can you?”

  My lord was rewarded with an impish grin before the head disappeared from the window and a brighter flame seemed to light the chamber within. It seemed an age before he heard anything more, and he was just wondering whether the confounded girl had gone back to sleep, when he heard a rustling sound at the curtains. Then an infectious giggle. He cleared his throat and began his rather out-of-tune chant once more.

  “Miss Daisy, dream Daisy, I yearn for thee at moonlight, at starlight, at midnight . . .”

  A head popped out of the window. The right one, this time. It was delightfully tousled, the color of moonbeams, ringlets all helter pelter and cascading about wide, cornflower blue eyes. True, my lord could not exactly see the color in the darkness, but what sight was short on, imagination made up for amply. A closer sight of her and he damned his imagination to perdition, for she was wearing nothing but a thin shift with a couple of modest flounces that did nothing more than inflame desire further than it was already inflamed.

  “Barnacle Jack!” Her face lit up with such patent joy that my lord was gratified.

  He bowed outrageously low and flourished the sword so that the rubies gleamed red against the brilliant gold.

  “You kept your word!”

  “To call out your name on a moonlit night? I am doomed, Miss Daisy! Doomed to moan it forever!”

  Miss Chartley, far from being sympathetic to this sad fate, clapped her hands with delight and declared herself well pleased. Whereupon my lord cursed the distance between them—a mere matter of two stories—and begged his little flower to consider herself kissed. Despite the darkness, he could see her blush at these words, but since she did not slam the window shut, call out the guard, or indeed, do anything more than part her wide lips and swallow hesitantly, my lord was moved to believe that the little darling had actually done his bidding. He laughed in triumph and was just about to inquire whether his kisses—even imaginary ones—improved with age—when another familiar face peeped at him from an adjoining curtain. It was rather more disapproving than the first, but my lord endeavored not to quail with fright.

  “Miss Primrose! Well met, though I fear you interrupt a very pretty interlude between myself and my loved one.”

  “Nonsense, sir! I would wager my last hatpin you fear nothing!” Though her voice was familiarly tart, he could sense her laughter.

  “True, madam! Barnacle Jack is as fearless as the night itself! Does your sister love me a little, do you think?”

  There was a gasp from Daisy and a chuckle from Primrose. “Very likely, for she was always a featherheaded widgeon!”

  “Well, do you?” Armand kept his voice as soft as silk as he gazed up at the middle Miss Chartley. Though he found the heroics amusing, he was unusually serious as he awaited the reply. Little Miss Chartley, it appeared, had crept into his heart when he was least expecting it. She was so warm, so unreserved, so unutterably charming, that he felt himself defenseless against the great tide of tenderness that welled up when he saw her. It was unaccountable, really, for it was Primrose’s sense of the ridiculous that more nearly matched his own. Still, Daisy’s round eyes and childlike naivete appealed to some deeper, more primitive part of himself that had, until now, remained untamed.

  “I hardly know you, sir!”

  “What does that matter? Time marches not with the soul. Does your spine tingle when you see me?”

  “Don’t answer that, Daisy, it would be unseemly.” Primrose’s voice was sharp.

  But Daisy was nodding, slowly. The eldest of the trio sighed and removed her head from the window. She stared hard, for a moment, at the cutpurse’s outrageous attire and his equally outrageous profile, for it was far too handsome for his own good. Then, smiling a little, she made up her mind. She disappeared into the shadows and indicated Lily to do the same. Much encouraged, Lord Valmont continued.

  “A little?”

  “Prodigiously.”

  “Ah, truthful one! I would you are ever so endearingly forthright.” There was a slight pause, then Lord Armand began his questioning again, this time with a tiny smile creeping up the corners of his delectable lips.

  “Have you dreamed of me, dear heart?”

  Again, the bobbing bright ringlets and wide, slightly shy eyes.

  “Then you know me well enough.”

  “Do I?”

  “Would you prefer to wait to know your own mind?”

  “No! I know it.”

  The future Earl of Westenbury allowed the smile to widen a fraction. He was suffering from a cricked neck and decidedly frozen feet, but he could not have cared less. Only one more hurdle to cross and the maiden of his dreams would truly be his pledged. Strangely, he was more nervous about the question he was about to ask than about any of the others before it. He fiddled with the cape so that the flamingo satin breezed back a little. It was too dark, now, for Daisy to see, but she sensed a certain restiveness.

  “Would you mind terribly if I turned out to be a gentleman and only a rogue on weekends?” He set down the sword, ruby side up, upon the wet grass. The gold was as heavy as lead.

  Daisy’s eyes widened. She was silent a little, considering. “I should like you, I think, even if it were the other way round—a rogue on weekdays and a gentleman on Sunday.” My lord’s eyes gleamed appreciatively.

  “What if I were to wed you for the Raven’s Ransom?” There was a moment’s silence. Then Daisy, ever truthful, swallowed hard.

  “You would likely be disappointed, sir. Primmy is always luckier than I.”

  “Ah, but I would have you to console me!”

  “I am not very rich, sir. As a matter of fact, I have only my pin money
to sustain me.”

  “But it is a prodigiously generous sum, is it not?”

  “Yes . . .” Daisy sounded doubtful. A man who could sport a sword like he was doing, would likely consider her prodigious allowance a paltry affair.

  He understood her hesitation and smiled. “If it is not, I could always rob some coaches.”

  “You could get killed.”

  “I shall be careful.”

  “Will you spare the elderly and people who are particularly frightened?”

  “Cross my heart. I shall scrutinize all my victims carefully. In certain instances, I shall interview each one and take care to rob only those who are fierce, mean, and cowardly.”

  Daisy stared at him with suspicion. Though it was too dark to see the laughter lines about his mouth, she caught some of the irony of his tone.

  “You are not telling me Banbury stories, sir?”

  “On my honor! When next I choose to rob a passing barouche, all passengers who show the slightest inclination toward heroism shall be spared.”

  “And the elderly and sick?”

  “Oh, undoubtedly them, too, if you will it. I shall reserve my talents purely for the spineless and the selfish.”

  “Very well, then, sir, I am satisfied.”

  “Excellent! Then, Miss Daisy, delight, I shall make haste to steal you from all chance suitors and wed you out of hand. There is no time to waste, I believe, with a ransom as rich as Raven’s on your pretty angel head.”

  “Oh!”

  “That does not please you?”

  “It does, oh, it does! But . . .”

  “There are buts?” Lord Valmont’s face clouded momentarily. Miss Daisy, he had noticed, did not want for suitors. Perhaps he should not have rushed his fences....

  “I have not a thing to wear!”

  The cloud vanished. “I like what you have on.”

  “Oh!” Daisy realized how flimsy her shift was and flushed quite delightfully. A little of the lamplight fell on her face so that Armand could just glimpse the delicate pink before her countenance was shadowed, once more.