A Highwayman Came Riding (2 page)

Marianne fell to her knees, trying to resuscitate her mistress. “Brandy. Do you have brandy?” she asked the highwayman who was called Captain. She saw no wound, no blood. Her heart, then.

The highwayman replied, “Not I. Miguel, do you have—good God!
You’ve
been shot as well.”

“Just a scratch, Cap’n,” he said in a weak voice and, clutching his arm, promptly fainted dead away.

“There’s wine in the carriage. Get it,” Marianne said. In the agitation of the moment, with fear of the duchess’s death staring them in the face, she spoke without thinking of the consequences. She was familiar with her mistress’s condition and took charge automatically.

The captain rushed to the carriage and returned with the bottle of wine. It had been opened and recorked. There was half a bottle left. Marianne propped up the duchess’s head and he held the bottle to her lips. The wine dribbled down her chin. “It’s her heart,” she explained.

It was like a blow to the stomach to see the proud dame reduced to the drooling of a baby. And it was all the fault of this man who would rather rob helpless old ladies than do an honest day’s work. She turned on him in fury. “She’s dead! You’ve killed her. Murderer. I’ll see you dance from the gibbet for this!”

When she glanced over her shoulder and saw again that menacing black mask, with the glittering eyes staring at her, she could hardly believe she had spoken so boldly. She winced, waiting for a blow or a shot, but heard only silence.

The highwayman remained frozen a moment, then leapt into action. “Untie the coachman and postilion,” he said. “See if you can revive Miguel and get some of that wine into him. We have to get them some help, quickly.”

Marianne was so overwrought, and the man spoke with such authority, that she obeyed without question. She assumed that by “some help” he meant a doctor. It was a relief to have someone else take charge. She untied Beeton and left him to struggle with Tom’s bindings.

“Tom’s been hit. Just a flesh wound, it looks like,” Beeton said. As Tom looked quite pleased with his wound, she decided it was not serious and continued following her orders.

While she poured wine down Miguel’s throat, she was dimly aware of the men moving about, with the captain giving orders. They were lifting the duchess gently into the carriage, while the captain arranged her pillow and the blanket she carried against the autumn cold.

After a moment, the captain appeared at Marianne’s side. “How is he?” he asked, taking Miguel’s hand gently. Miguel had pulled down his mask. She noticed the grim set of the captain’s jaw as he bent over his henchman, a small, dissipated-looking man with a scar running from the outer corner of his left eye to his jawbone.

“He’s taken a little wine,” she said.

Miguel opened his eyes and essayed an impish grin. “Wounded, not conquered,” he said. “ ‘Tis only a scratch on my arm, Cap’n. We’ve survived worse.”

Marianne saw the blood on his sleeve and realized, though an arm wound was not life threatening, what a perilous business this robbing of travelers was. “How is the duchess?” she asked.

“Not dead,” the captain replied. “Go to her. Keep her warm, and try to get some of that wine into her. I’ll have a word with your coachman. There’s a place nearby where we can get help.”

This area was completely unknown to Marianne. She knew they were headed to London via Chertsey, and that is all she knew, for she had never been this far east. There wasn’t a town or inn or even a house in sight. The highwaymen had chosen an isolated stretch of road for their attack. She had no recourse but to put the duchess’s life, and her own, in the hands of this criminal and be grateful he didn’t abandon them. She took the wine bottle and got into the carriage, where she propped the duchess up against a corner of the banquette and sat beside her. She arranged the blankets around her. It proved impossible to get her to drink.

In a moment, the carriage door opened. The captain and Miguel entered and sat on the banquette across from her. “You’re not coming with us!” she cried. It was half a question, half a command. She hardly knew which of them was more frightening, the big man in the black mask or the little one with that disfiguring scar down his cheek.

“My friend is unable to ride,” the captain replied. “Be careful how you breathe, Miguel. We would not want to contaminate the ladies,” he said ironically.

He handed Miguel a pistol—Beeton’s antiquated gun, in fact—murmured a few words in some foreign language, and left. Were they Frenchmen? Her French was not good, but she usually recognized the language. It didn’t sound like French. She had thought they were at least English criminals. English highwaymen had a reputation for their gentlemanly manners, so long as one went along with them. French highwaymen, on the other hand, were notoriously vicious.

This night, which had been miserable to begin with, became worse with every new development. As if being held up by highwaymen and the duchess being near death were not enough, she now had to share the carriage with this criminal. To add to the horror of it, the carriage soon left the public road, where they might meet someone who could help them, and entered a narrow, dark, rough path. The pallid daylight had vanished, plunging them into total darkness. They were in a tree-lined lane. She could hear the branches brush against the carriage.

“Where are we going?” she asked in alarm. “This can’t be the road to a hospital.”

“The captain knows where we’re going,” Miguel replied. “He’s driving.”

“Where is the coachman?”

“Him and t’other lad are riding our nags—and they’d best not cripple them. The captain is mighty fond of Juno.”

She soon came to the conclusion that the captain was driving them to his lair, to conceal that he had killed the duchess, who had not stirred a muscle since her attack. He would not leave Marianne and the servants alive to bear witness. He was going to kill them all. That is why he was taking them down this narrow, twisty lane.

Why were Beeton and Tom going along with it? But with the duchess and herself as hostages, what choice did they have? The captain had taken their pistols from them. She was trapped for the present. She could not jump out and leave the duchess to these killers, but as soon as they reached their destination, she would try to work out some plan with Beeton.

The three of them should be able to overpower one man. Miguel was not able to fight with his wounded arm, though he could probably fire a gun well enough with his good one. She needed a weapon. She sat silent, mentally reviewing what was in the carriage. Blankets, books, reticules, a basket of apples, wine bottle. The bottle was the only item with any potential for inflicting damage. She would conceal it in her skirt and wait for an opportunity to strike the captain over the head with it as hard as she could and count on Beeton and Tom to overpower Miguel. It was not much of a plan, but it was the best she could think of over the next half hour while the carriage jiggled and jostled over the rough track.

After what seemed an eternity, Miguel stuck his head out the window and announced, “Nearly there, miss. It won’t be long now.”

The words no sooner left his mouth than there was a loud crack. Marianne’s first thought was that the captain had shot Beeton. Before she could fly into a panic, the carriage lurched perilously and tilted. The left side hit the ground with a jerk. Marianne was kept busy preventing the duchess from sliding to the floor.

“The axle’s gone,” Miguel announced. “I’d best see if the cap’n needs a hand. No tricks now, miss.” He waved the gun at her as he opened the door and leapt out.

Within seconds, he was joined by the captain. Marianne listened at the open window, but again they spoke that foreign language. She didn’t understand a word they said, but she knew from their voices they were distressed. It did not seem the optimum moment to use her wine bottle, when Beeton and Tom were some yards away.

After a moment, the captain’s head appeared at the window. “The cottage is only a few hundred yards farther. I’ll carry the duchess. You follow me. Bring your bandboxes and anything you need.”

When he opened the door, Marianne saw that he had removed his mask. It was dark in the carriage, however, and she could not really see what he looked like. He opened the door, bundled the duchess into the blanket, and lifted her into his arms. She was old and frail and the captain was young and strong. He carried her as lightly as if she were a sack of feathers. Marianne gathered up her reticule and the duchess’s, added their bandboxes and the wine bottle, and followed him down a rutted lane to a cottage nestled in a clearing in what she now realized was a forest or spinney. The wind had risen. It bucketed the treetops and howled around her head, lifted her skirts and whipped the duchess’s blanket about. A fine mist was in the air, not quite rain, but promising a deluge soon.

She took some comfort in seeing Beeton and Tom following on horseback. At least she would not be alone with these dangerous criminals. If it were not for the duchess, she would leap on that big bay mare with Beeton, and the three of them could thunder off to safety. But of course they could not abandon Her Grace.

The door of the cottage opened as they approached. A small, grizzled man in shirtsleeves welcomed them.

“Captain Jack! What brings you out on such a night?”

“Necessity, my friend. I have a sick lady here. Is there somewhere I can leave her?”

The man stood aside to let the captain enter. “You didn’t shoot her, lad! The law takes a dim view of shooting your victims. There’s no bribing your way out of murder.”

Any hope that this man might help them died with this warning. He was a friend of the highwaymen.

“I said sick, not wounded,” the highwayman replied. “Heart, I think, from the looks of her.”

“This way.” Their host took up a lamp and led them, with the captain carrying the duchess, through a cozy parlor to a small bedchamber at the back of the cottage. There was only the one story to the building and, she suspected, one bedchamber. Their host handed Marianne the lamp and left. She saw the room was modest, with a simple uncanopied bed, a chair, a toilet table, and a braided rug on the floor. A small fire was burning in the grate. She placed the lamp on the bedside table.

The room was at least clean. Marianne turned down the quilt to allow the captain to place the duchess on the bed.

“We have to send for a doctor,” she said. She sensed that the duchess was looking a little better. Her complexion had a hint of color now.

“Ned, our host, is as good as a sawbones,” the captain replied. He went to the duchess and felt her pulse, laid his hand along her cheek, and seemed satisfied.

“He is only a woodchopper or some such thing,” Marianne objected. “You must get a proper doctor. Tell the man it is for the duchess. He’ll come. We’ll pay whatever he asks.”

The highwayman lifted a well-arched eyebrow and said, “What will she use for money? Or is it your own two guineas you mean to spend?”

“I believe you will find the Duchess of Bixley’s credit is good,” she replied loftily.

The man’s lips quirked in an amused way that was not quite a smile. In the confusion of settling the duchess, Marianne had not taken time to look at him closely. She stared at him now, assessing him as an opponent.

He had a rugged, weathered face with a strong jaw. When he lifted his hand and removed his hat, she saw that his hair was as black as a crow’s wing, with the same glossy iridescence. He wore it barbered close to his head, combed back, not brushed forward in the more stylish Brutus do. This surprised her, as his clothing was that of a dandy.

He was still in afternoon dress, but beneath his dark cape she glimpsed an elegant blue worsted jacket and a finely striped waistcoat of dark blue and yellow. A dotted Belcher kerchief was knotted casually at his throat in lieu of a white cravat. A pair of buckskins revealed a board-flat stomach and well-muscled legs. His top boots were a little the worse for dust, but they were of finest leather, not down at the heels. He wore no jewelry except a watch chain, with presumably a watch in his pocket. A ring could prove dangerous for a highwayman. One of his victims might recognize it if she saw him again and identify him by it.

His general appearance told her the captain was well-to-do, which only proved that he was a successful thief. She was more interested in assessing his character. That he was a thief already told her a good deal, but what sort of thief was he? Were there some personal weaknesses she might put to advantage? This would reveal itself in his eyes and mouth, and of course in his behavior. She studied his eyes. Dark blue, intelligent, heavily fringed—and pitiless. Her gaze lowered to his lips, which were set in a grim line. She could expect no mercy from this criminal. He would have abandoned her on the road with her dying mistress were it not for the severe penalty her death would bring him.

The penalty for a convicted highwayman was hanging, but it was commonly said that he could buy his way off the gallows for five hundred pounds as long as he had not physically harmed his victims. That was all their fine manners amounted to.

“Well, are you going to send for a doctor?” she asked.

“Let us ask the duchess if she wants one, if she is through with her performance now,” he said, and turned toward the bed.

On cue, the duchess emitted a low moan, then opened her eyes and struggled up, resting against the pillows. “A sawbones will not be necessary, Marianne, but I shall have some of that wine now. Or brandy, if you have it, Captain.”

“It will be my pleasure,” the captain replied and left.

“Your Grace!” Marianne exclaimed in astonishment.

“I am fine now,” the duchess said, “though I really feared I was going to have one of my attacks.”

“But why did you—”

“I could not let that jackanapes ride off with my diamonds. I needed a ruse to stay with him. He has them in his pocket. He is a wide-awake scoundrel. He’ll not be easy to fool. We must come up with a plan, or at least discover what cave or shack he calls home. He will not sell them to a fence right away. He knows I shall report the theft as soon as we reach civilization. The necklace will be too hot to unload for a month or two. Hush! He is coming back. We’ll lay our plan later.”