The Tudor Signet (2 page)

“The fellow wouldn’t take a vowel,” he said sulkily. “There’s no need to make it sound as if I’m constantly losing it, dammit. This is only the second time.”

“Good gad, once was enough.” The previous occasion was all too clear in her memory. “How could you do it again?”

“I was sure he couldn’t go on winning. He must have cheated. Yes, that’s it, he looked like the veriest fop but he was a regular Captain Sharp, devil take him!”

“You were playing with a stranger?”

“Don’t fuss so. After all, you don’t care for my friends. Mariette, you’ll redeem it for me, won’t you? I’ll pay you back, honestly.”

“I daresay, and I’ll lend you the money, of course, but I’ll be dashed if I’ll do your dirty work this time! I’ve never been so humiliated in my life as when I redeemed the blasted thing from Lord Wareham for you. He treated me like a particularly insignificant, yet irritating earwig.” Her face burned as a vision of the baron’s handsome, contemptuous countenance rose before her inner eye. “Besides, your Captain Sharp has probably vanished by now.”

“Oh no, it’s the greatest bit of luck!” The eternal optimism of the born gamester revived. “He’s driving to Corycombe in the morning. The landlord told me he’s Lady Lilian’s brother, Lord Malcolm Eden.”

“Another lord! I don’t want anything to do with him.”

“But you know Lady Lilian.”

“Only to say ‘good day’ and ‘what lovely weather we’re having’ if I meet her in her barouche when I’m out riding. And though she’s always quite polite, she’s never introduced me to her daughter or her companion. I know she’s shocked that I wear buckskin breeches and ride astride.”

“Well, it ain’t proper.”

“Jim says it’s simply not safe to gallop on the moor riding side-saddle,” she pointed out with a touch of defiance, straightening her heavy skirts. Safety was more important than propriety, she told herself, as warmth was more important than fashion in the draughty old manor.

“I know, I know,” said Ralph impatiently, “but dammit, the point is you do know her so you can easily call tomorrow.”

“And ask to speak to a man I’ve never met? No.”

“Please, Mariette,” he wheedled. “The sphinx has been in my family for nearly three centuries. It’s not just a piece of trumpery.”

“You should have thought of that before you wagered it.”

“If you get it back for me, I swear I’ll never lose it again.”

This time Mariette’s sigh escaped her. She had only herself to blame if her cousin relied on her to extract him from every difficulty. Though scarce six months the elder, she had always mothered him, always smoothed his path and rescued him from the consequences of his heedlessness. No wonder he turned to her when he lost his precious heirloom.

She could not let him down, but she wasn’t prepared to plead with a stranger, to humble herself to a high-and-mighty lord, to redeem the ring. There must be another way!

And then a daring solution struck her, a way to combine recovery of the signet with the adventure she craved, a brief escape from her humdrum life. “You said Lord Malcolm will drive from Plymouth to Corycombe tomorrow morning?” she asked.

“I heard him tell the landlord he’ll leave the Golden Hind at nine.” Relieved, he smiled. How handsome he was with his ruffled blond hair, bright blue eyes, wilful mouth, and deceptively firm chin. She had no illusions about him, which was surely a sound basis for marriage--one must be practical, as
maman
had often repeated.

In any case, she intended to marry him. Otherwise who would take care of him? Besides, said a wistful, treacherous voice in her head, she never met any other gentlemen and had no prospect of ever meeting any.

“You have a plan?” Ralph asked eagerly. His hopeful air reminded her of Ragamuffin begging for a walk.

“A simply splendid plan.” A bubble of excitement rose in her and she smiled. “I’ll hold up Lord Malcolm’s carriage.”

His mouth dropped open and he stared at her. “B-but...Good gad, you have run mad!”

“Fiddlesticks! I’ll wear a mask and pretend I’m a highwayman. It’s what Arnulfo did to retrieve the seal which proved him heir to the throne of Waldania. In my book,” she explained as he continued to gape at her.

“Oh, a novel,” he said dismissively. “That’s just make-believe.”

“Well, it won’t be a real robbery. I’ll only take the ring, which Lord Malcolm won by cheating so he’s not likely to raise a hue and cry over it.”

“All the same, you won’t catch me doing anything so harebrained!”

Since Mariette had not expected him to raise a finger to help himself or her, that was no surprise. It dawned on her that he’d be suspected anyway if only the ring was stolen. “Better if you don’t come,” she said. “You must ride down to Plymton, or even into Plymouth, and go somewhere where they know you and can swear you were not on the road to Corycombe between nine and ten. Make it from nine till eleven to be safe.”

“But I’ll have to get up at eight,” he complained. “Oh, very well. You had best take Jim Groom with you.”

“No, it wouldn’t be fair to involve a servant and he might be suspected. No one will suspect a female. I’m tall enough to pass as a smallish man, in a mask and cloak and with my hair tucked up under a hat.” Dropping her book on the sofa beside her, she jumped up. “Come on, let’s go and see what you have in your wardrobe that I can wear. No, the gun-room first. I’ll need a pistol to wave at him.”

Ragamuffin bouncing after her, Mariette sped from the room, trailed by her reluctant cousin.

* * * *

The morning air was icy. When Mariette left the manor, the sun had not yet cleared the ridge of Grevin Moor, though to the north the sprinkle of snow on high Bell Tor already glistened in its slanting rays. She was glad of the warmth of Ralph’s outgrown greatcoat.

She glanced back at the house. Long and low, built of grey limestone with lintels and sills of granite and a slate roof, it seemed a part of the hillside. It showed no signs of life but the smoke from the chimneys. No one called her back.

Before Ralph set off for Plymouth he had entered a final token protest, a feeble attempt to persuade her to approach Lord Malcolm in a more conventional manner. Uncle George, already absorbed in contemplation of his pig/badger, had smiled absently when she kissed his cheek and told him she was going out riding. Jim Groom, saddling Sparrow for her, had made his usual offer to go with her but was unsurprised by her refusal; his old bones ached so early in the morning.

Only Ragamuffin did not fall in with her plans. She had intended to leave him at home, for he was well-known in the district. A report of a dog of his unique ancestry and distinctive colouring accompanying the highwayman would point to her as surely as a compass needle points to the poles. However, when she looked for him to shut him in, she could not find him. She added a length of cord to her equipment.

As if the dog had read her mind he was waiting for her, grinning, outside the gate to the stable-yard. Too late to take him back

 He roamed ahead as she and Sparrow started up the rocky path behind the house. As soon as they left the shelter of the trees, the east wind hit them. The sure-footed gelding took the blast in his stride, never faltering. Mariette, clinging with both legs, was certain a side-saddle rider would have been swept from his back on the instant.

Fortunately she had thought to put her highwayman’s hat--an old
chapeau bras
rescued from the attic--in a saddlebag and to bring some extra hairpins. Though her own riding hat was firmly tied on with ribbons, her knot of hair escaped in no time and streamed in a matted mass about her shoulders. She’d never get a comb through it!

In the hollows between grey-green furze thickets and rusty banks of withered bracken, sheep huddled. Ragamuffin ignored them, intent on a rabbit trail. He followed it to the edge of Bell Brook, here a tumbling rill, then gave up in disgust and returned to Mariette and Sparrow. She was glad of his company.

The path forked. One branch twisted up the hillside towards the pile of massive stones topping Bell Tor. They took the other branch, slanting westward across the steep slope of Wicken’s Down. Gorse and bracken gave way to the dark green of heather and sparse, ochre grasses. Here and there the bare bones of the moor showed through in slabs of grey rock.

At the top the wind blew fiercer than ever, and colder though the sun shone in the pale sky. The air was crystal clear but shoulders of the hill hid both valleys from Mariette. Sparrow picked his way down until Corycombe came into sight, still far below. Mariette drew rein to inspect the scene.

She knew it well. The square, red-brick house stood on the lower slope with its back to her, facing west. The road to it ran along Cory Brook, mostly hidden by a grey haze of leafless trees. Farther south, where the valley widened, brick-red Devon cattle grazed the meadows around the straggling village of Wickenton.

At one point the road emerged from the woods to cross a low spur of the moor, skirting an outcrop of rocks. That was the best spot for an ambush, Mariette decided. The rocks were tall enough to hide behind, and the ground was fairly level for several hundred yards, allowing a quick escape. She turned Sparrow’s head downward again.

In the shelter of the outcrop she coiled her tangled hair and pinned it up. Concealing her face with a mask cut from a black silk stocking reluctantly surrendered by Ralph, she jammed the tricorne on her head and turned up the collar of her coat.

Ragamuffin watched, fascinated. As her face disappeared, he gave a questioning bark.

“Hush!” she said. “Come here.” She took him behind a large clump of heather, tying him to the tough stalk with what she hoped was an easily released knot. “Down and stay!” she ordered.

He gave her a disgusted look and flopped to the ground.

Mariette found a spot where she could peek between two rocks and watch the road to the point where it dipped behind the trees. Now, out of the wind and after the exercise, she was quite warm. Nonetheless she shivered. She wasn’t afraid, she assured herself, merely a trifle nervous. After all, she had never held up a coach before. Unconventional, perhaps, but vastly preferable to the alternative--wasn’t it?

The image of Lord Wareham’s sneering face flashed before her mind’s eye. Playing highwayman was infinitely preferable to such a mortifying scene!

Sparrow pricked his ears and a moment later she heard the jingle of harness and rumble of wheels. Four splendid bays came into view. They moved faster than she had expected, because they pulled not a heavy coach but a smart sporting curricle, moss green picked out in yellow, driven by a man in a multicaped greatcoat. Another man sat beside him, and a third up behind. A roan mare trotted after, tied to the rear.

Swinging hurriedly into the saddle, Mariette urged Sparrow forward. The distance was too short to attain a gallop, so she did not exactly thunder down upon her victim as she had pictured herself. However, she waved her pistol at the driver and shouted in her deepest voice, “Stand and deliver!”

The effect was gratifying. She had to admire the way the driver smartly pulled up his team, keeping control as he came to a halt right beside her. By his dress he must be Lord Malcolm Eden, the others his valet, perhaps, and a groom. Her plans had concentrated on the villain who cheated Ralph of his ring and she had not reckoned on so many. Training her gun on his lordship, she hoped the servants would not risk injury to their master.

She dropped the reins on Sparrow’s neck, thankful she had trained him to stand still. “Give me your purse,” she ordered Lord Malcolm gruffly, “and any rings or other baubles you are wearing or carrying.”

He stared at her, a frown creasing his brow. “You’re not...”

“Hurry, or I’ll shoot!”

Laying his whip across his lap, he reached into his pocket. “My purse.” He set it in her outstretched hand.

“M’lord!” the groom protested.

“Quiet.” Lord Malcolm’s voice was steady, unalarmed.

One-handed, Mariette loosened the drawstring, her gaze and her gun fixed on him. With his teeth he pulled off his right glove and showed her his bare fingers.

She nodded.

Transferring the reins to his right hand, he removed the left glove. Bare fingers again.

As she felt in the purse, he raised his chin and turned to the small, neat man beside him. “Padgett, pray remove my tie-pin for our friend.”

“Never mind.” She had the signet ring. Pocketing it, she tossed the clinking purse into the curricle. “My thanks, my lord.”

Laughter bubbled up at the sight of his puzzled face. With a half-choked chuckle she kicked Sparrow into motion. They swung away from the curricle and raced for the shelter of the rocks.

Ragamuffin rose behind his heather bush and woofed a greeting.

“Oh damn!” She had forgotten him.

Flinging herself from Sparrow’s back, she swiftly unhitched the cord to set the dog free. Her foot in the stirrup, she sprang upwards just as a voice behind her yelled, “Don’t shoot, you fool!”

Crack! A fiery flail struck Mariette in the buttocks. She lost her balance, tottered, fell. Her foot slipped from the stirrup as the world whirled about her, then her head met solid rock and blackness closed in.

Chapter 2

“Numskull!” Malcolm raged. “I told you he was to be allowed to escape. Go to their heads!”

“But it warn’t the same bloke,” Jessup squawked, jumping down from his perch and hurrying forward to hold the bays. “I seen ‘im at the inn, m’lord, the fella you...”

“He returned my purse, didn’t he?” Malcolm vaulted from the curricle. “Never mind now. Padgett, come with me.”

He set off at a run across the uneven ground. Dammit, this could ruin his plans! Though Jessup was right in that the highwayman was too small to be Ralph Riddlesworth, he was undoubtedly an accomplice. Now how the devil was Malcolm to return the ring to Riddlesworth without arousing his suspicions?

A volley of barking halted him in his tracks. A skewbald dog stood over the sprawled body, lips drawn back to reveal teeth far more fearsome than its middling size warranted.

Malcolm advanced slowly but steadily, speaking in a low, soothing voice. “Here, boy, is your master hurt? I didn’t mean it to happen, I promise you. You must let me help him. Come on, there’s a good chap. I cannot claim to be a friend but I don’t want him to die any more than you do.” Such an outcome would thoroughly dash his hopes! “Good boy.”