Pale Moon Rider (25 page)

What he saw was not exactly comforting. He had expected her to be beautiful, for Tyrone rarely stayed out the entire night for anything less. The vaguely dismissive descriptions of yellow hair and blue eyes, however, had only made Robert Dudley curious to know what had sent the usually confident and complacent swordsman reaching for the bottle of brandy so early in the morning. He’d had no chance to ask, what with Roth pounding on the front door scant moments after the first swallow, but being neither blind nor celibate, he suspected the reason was shimmering softly in front of him now.

Calling her hair yellow did not do justice to the silky, silver blond clusters of curls that surrounded the pale oval of her face, and using the word blue to characterize the color of her eyes was like describing the sky as being big. Yet beauty alone was not enough to affect a man like Tyrone. She could have been the homeliest creature in twelve parishes and it would still have been the
look
in those eyes that would have given a man pause. Dark and quiet and haunted, it was the look of a wounded doe trapped in the sightlines of a hunter’s musket.

Dudley
had not known what he would find at Harwood House and he had made his approach cautiously through the woods hoping to avoid being caught in a trap if one had indeed been sprung. He certainly had not expected to find Tyrone tinkling a sonata on the piano. The
piano
for God’s sake. The complete incongruousness of the situation aside, they had been together seven years and in all that time,
Dudley
had never once known Tyrone Hart even to admit to possessing the ability, much less to play the instrument for anyone outside his own four walls. It was an intensely private passion, his only connection to a past he had forsaken along with the name he had used for the first twenty-one years of his life, The fact that he had been playing Mozart here, now, for her, was nearly as staggering as the announcement he had made while he had been
pouring
the brandy that morning. He had said they were going to steal the rubies anyway, despite the fact Roth would likely be ready and waiting for them.

He, Robert Dudley, was getting too damned old for personal vendettas. This business between Roth and Tyrone had definitely become personal, and if Hart wanted to torment and humiliate Bertrand Roth, that was his prerogative, of course, but
Dudley
had responsibilities now. He had a wife—well, he would as soon as he and Maggie Smallwood could say the proper words in front of a priest—and in a few months, he would have a child. They certainly did not need the money the rubies would bring; they had acquired more than enough lucre to live out the rest of their days in luxury. Although he did not think it likely he would hear the words from Tyrone’s mouth any too soon, it was well past time for both of them to retire. It was only a matter of time before Roth’s sheer, dog-like persistence paid off. He was arrogant and cocky and too brutish for subtlety, but he had been in the military longer than Tyrone had been on the highways. He had seen service in
Austria
and
Flanders
and had returned to
England
a wounded hero, lauded for his victories in the war with
France
.

And while Tyrone had certainly modified his activities in the past months since Roth had come to Coventry, he had only laughed at the colonel’s open declaration that he would not rest until Captain Starlight was caught, hung, and his corpse left to rot on the gibbet as a warning to all who sought to follow in his footsteps.

Over the past seven years, Robert Dudley had come to know Tyrone as well as anyone could. As well as anyone was
allowed
to know him, which was not admitting to a great deal. Tyrone Hart was as much an enigma now in his clownish wigs and powdered eyebrows as he had been the first time
Dudley
had seen him curled on a bed of mouldering hay in a fetid, stinking gaol cell in
Aberdeen
.

He was as capable of cold, killing violence, as he was of dancing a gavotte with the proper turn of ankle. He could drink his way to the bottom of a rum barrel without batting an eye, or he could nibble on crumb cakes and crook a delicate pinky while sipping tea. He fit everywhere, like a chameleon, yet belonged nowhere, and he seemed content to live for the day, cavalierly dismissing the likelihood that he had no place to go when it was all over and done, except a gibbet and a shallow grave.

Dudley himself had almost had his heart stop when an ebullient Tyrone Hart, newly fitted out in satin breeches and a tailored coat had blown through the door of their rented rooms and announced he had purchased the position of Surveyor of turnpikes for the shire of
Warwick
. The gold they had taken from the young whiplashed lord, combined with the results of several profitable robberies had not only provided enough cash to deck himself out like a proper gentleman, it had given him the where-withal and brashness to bribe his way into the coveted appointment as Surveyor of roads. For the ludicrous sum of a hundred pounds a year, he had been given free reign to chart every road, every hill, every forest, every stream, and in return was not only paid a portion of the tolls collected along the turnpikes that crossed his territory, but in his guise as the supposedly bored scion of a distant and disapproving nobleman, he was welcomed into society with the gaiety and oblivion that seemed to be a singular trademark of the aristocracy.

It had been as ridiculously easy, in his paints and powders, to ingratiate himself with the lords and ladies of Warwickshire, as it had been in his greatcoat and tricorn to win the sly cooperation of innkeepers and courtesans.

Dudley
felt a cool prickle down his spine and realized Renée was staring at him.

“Have you … worked … for m’sieur Hart very long?”

“Seven years, miss.” He raised a hand and respectfully touched his forelock.

He saw her eyes widen slightly and the blue actually deepen as she stared at the shiny stub where his baby finger used to be. His face had been hidden behind a mask the first time she had seen him on the moonlit road, but he had made a point of drawing her attention to the stub and she had marked it then the way she marked it now.

“I see. And has he always been this … foolhardy?”

“Foolhardy, miss?” There was a surprising lightness in his step as he walked back to the door. At the threshold he paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Up to today, I would have said there wasn’t a foolhardy bone in his body.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

R
enée noted the decreasing rumble of the wheels as the coach began to slow. She suspected Finn would have preferred to keep the horses at full gallop and not stop until they were on the docks of Manchester, but Antoine was still at Harwood House and even though Roth and Edgar Vincent had remained behind at Fairleigh Hall, Renée had no choice but to go through the motions of keeping her meeting with Captain Starlight tonight.

Tyrone Hart had been much in evidence at the soiree this evening. A blaze of silver satin and fountainous lace, he had managed to amuse nearly everyone with his antics, instigating a game of charades after supper that had rendered most of the ladies insensible with laughter. The men had, for the most part, tolerated him and were content to entrust their wives to his company while they focused their attentions on card tables or dicing boards.

Fools, Renée had thought. They considered him a harmless buffoon, yet she could clearly see the rapt look in several of the women’s eyes that suggested they knew better. Just how much better, Renée did not want to speculate. She deliberately avoided whatever corner of the room he was in and, apart from the odd, fleeting glance she sent his way, attempted to ignore him as thoroughly as he ignored her.

Not that he would have had much opportunity to approach her. When Roth was not by her side, Vincent’s eyes and hands were on her. He acted as if she were already his wife, his property, his chattel, and led her around like a dog on a leash. When the clock passed eleven and chimed the half hour, she was thankful it was time for her to make her excuses. She left Vincent settling into a game of cards and Roth debating politics with their host. Her last glimpse of Tyrone Hart, taken while she waited for Finn to bring around the coach, put him strolling quite casually on the terrace with the buxom and flirtatious Lady Victoria Roswell.

No one had considered it unusual for Renée to depart early or alone. Apart from a few perfunctory invitations to join in on a conversation, most of the ladies had preferred to treat her as if she only spoke French and understood no English words above a single syllable. If it wasn’t for the fact that Edgar Vincent’s black market trade supplied their husbands with contraband wines and cognac, she likely would have been snubbed as a common whore. And in truth, she probably would not mean much more than that to him if she married him.

Renée drew the lap robe high under her shoulders. The windows were locked against the rush of cool night air but she was chilled to the bone anyway. She had not eaten anything all day. Wine, on the other hand, had taken a smooth and willing path down her throat and the combination of too many glasses of burgundy together with an excess of forced civility had left her feeling on edge. And cold enough to wish she were burrowed under a mound of warm blankets.

This was undoubtedly the most foolish charade of the night, riding out to meet a man who would not be there. They had said all there was to say last night. Moreover, he would not risk drawing attention to himself by leaving the party so soon after her. His nose was probably nestled snugly in the cleft between Victoria Roswell’s bosoms by now, resentful of any interruption that might delay his next conquest.

Just as two warm spots of anger started to prickle in her cheeks, she heard Finn call to the horses and felt a noticeable change in the speed of the coach. It was slowing. The churning of wheels rolled to a deliberate halt and a second voice, deep and bristling with authority, advised the driver to remain in his box and do nothing that might invite an unpleasant expenditure of a bullet.

Renée peered anxiously out the window but could see nothing through the distortion of the thick glass. It wasn’t possible, was it?

As the brisk crunch of footsteps approached the side of the coach, she shrank back against the cushions and stared at the door. A moment later the latch turned and the panel swung open to her soft gasp, for she was half expecting to see a man standing there dressed in a powdered wig and silver satin. Instead, she saw only somber darkness. It was him; she recognized the scent of wind and moonlight and saddle leather. But he looked much like he had the first time she had seen him, his tricorn pulled low over his forehead, the upper collar of his greatcoat standing tall against his cheeks to guard against any stray light from the riding lamp.

“I see you came alone. Very good.”

His words were crisp and businesslike. When a black gloved hand reached inside the coach she recoiled as if it were a snake, for in the other gloved hand he brandished one of the snaphaunces.

“What are you doing? Why are you here?”

“We arranged to meet tonight, did we not?”

“Well … yes, but—”

“Then meet we shall.” A mildly impatient wagging of the gloved fingers invited her to disembark. “If you have no objections, mam’selle, I still prefer to keep my view of the surroundings unimpeded.”

“But I do object. This is not necessary.”

He sighed, releasing a surly breath of alcoholic vapors past her face. His fingers closed around her wrist and he all but dragged her out of the seat and down the step to stand beside him.

“I have had a very long and tiring day, mam’selle. Kindly oblige me by sharing a few final moments of your company. Oh, and Mr. Finn”—as he led her away from the coach, he aimed the gun warningly at the silent figure perched in the driver’s box—“I would advise you to keep your eyes straight ahead and your ears tuned to the sound of the wind in the grasses.”

Renée heard a grumbled retort from the driver’s box and saw Finn’s shoulders stiffen at the threat. They had been as stiff as his upper lip all day, for he had not taken the news of Roth’s visit well. Her valise was still packed, however, and Antoine had been told to be ready and waiting when they arrived home. If it was true her uncle was arriving within the next day or two, they could not afford to delay their departure any longer.

Thus, it was with a small pang of guilt that she felt the sharp facets of the cravat pin dig into her flesh as she walked. She had not dared leave it behind where a snooping Mrs. Pigeon might find it, and although she had exchanged the blue velvet for a softer evening gown of pale pink muslin, the pin was snuggled beneath her breast and she could feel it pressing with each step.

“I did not think you would come, m’sieur,” she said, panting slightly at the haste with which he distanced them from the coach. “I thought we had decided there was no further reason to meet.”

“It would have been rather ungallant of me to leave you sitting out here in the dark on your own, would it not?”

“You took a terrible risk, m’sieur. Will you not be missed? Will no one wonder where you have gone in such a hurry?”

“Who the devil would wonder? The mustachioed Miss Wooleridge? Had you been paying attention, you might have noticed that I deftly deferred her into the hands of young Winston St Clair, the earl of
Kenilworth
’s nephew—addled as a newt, but by far a better catch.”