Winter Wonderland (6 page)

To Barnaby's relief, the sprinkle of snowflakes dissipated by the time the coach pulled in to the innyard of the Queen's Head at Islington. The sonorous chimes of the bells in St. Mary's Church were ringing out the hour of eight. The yard of the Queen's Head was usually alive with activity at this hour, with ostlers and stableboys and porters dashing in and out among the waiting passengers. But this morning, Barnaby was surprised to see only one passenger waiting to board. The freezing weather had undoubtedly deterred most of the travelers. The lone passenger, a woman, was being cruelly battered by the wind. With her pelisse whipping about her and her skirts billowing, she had to hold on to her bonnet with one gloved hand while directing a porter where to stow her two large portmanteaux with the other.

Barnaby, having turned his attention to his newspaper, barely glanced at the woman as she climbed into the carriage and brushed by his knees to take a seat opposite him. But the other passenger lifted his hat. “Good morning, ma'am,” he said in so obsequious a tone that Barnaby assumed the woman must be pretty, “Augustus Woodley, at your service.”

Barnaby glanced over the top of his newspaper to see if his surmise was correct, but the woman was turned away from him, for she was nodding politely to Mr. Woodley in acknowledgement of his greeting. When she turned back, he got a glimpse of her face. At the sight of it, he felt a sharp tightening of his stomach even before his brain registered her identity.
Good God
, he thought, horrified,
it can't be! Not … Miranda Pardew!

Instinctively, he hid himself behind his newspaper. He must be mistaken, he told himself. Miranda Pardew, or whatever her name was now, would not be taking a journey on a public conveyance, without a maid or companion. She could not travel like any ordinary housewife. Besides, his impression of this woman, quick as it was, was of a rather dowdy person of middle age. She seemed to be dressed somberly, her pelisse more serviceable than decorative and her gown a subdued grayish blue. As for her bonnet, it was not at all the high-crowned sort that women of fashion liked to wear.
No, no
, he assured himself,
it can't possibly be she
.

Slowly, he lowered the newspaper and squinted over it. Fortunately, the woman was engaged in searching through her reticule for something, enabling him to take a long look at her. Though not middle-aged, she was certainly past the flush of youth. Her skin was very pale, her eyes (which he had to admit were still beautiful, tilted upward in the corners and thickly fringed with dark lashes) seemed red-rimmed as if she'd been weeping, her lips were tightly pressed together, and her hair so primly pulled back from her face that it was completely hidden by her bonnet. One
might
call that face lovely, he admitted reluctantly, but it was no longer a face that would attract the eyes of half the men in a ballroom. Yet it
was
Miranda Pardew. There was no mistaking her.

As she fished a handkerchief from her reticule, he quickly ducked behind his paper. The act filled him with shame. What was he afraid of? It was unlikely that she would recognize him. They had met only once, and although she'd left an indelible mark on
him
, he had certainly not left a mark on
her
.

Nevertheless, he kept his eyes fixed on his newspaper for the next hour or so. During that time, Mr. Woodley tried repeatedly to engage the lady in conversation, but he received only murmured monosyllables for his pains. When they stopped at Epping to change horses and take a bite of luncheon, Barnaby watched Woodley follow the lady into the inn. She obviously tried to avoid him, but the fellow was persistent. Later, when Barnaby entered the taproom, he saw that Woodley had seated himself beside the lady at her table. Barnaby took a table near the window where he would not be in her direct line of vision but where he could observe them. As he ate his bread and ham and sipped at his mulled ale, he saw that Woodley's attentions were bringing a look of chagrin to the lady's face. Barnaby wondered why she didn't give the fellow a set-down. She'd certainly been very good at that in her youth. Had she lost the knack?

When they returned to the carriage, Miss Pardew (or whatever her name now was), the first to climb aboard, took a seat on the opposite side. It was a clear message to Mr. Woodley that she wished to avoid him, but he did not take the hint. Shoving himself up the coach steps ahead of Barnaby, he plopped down beside her, in the seat that Barnaby had occupied earlier. When Barnaby seated himself on the other side, the lady threw him a helpless glance, as if she were pleading with him to change seats. Nothing in that glance, however, showed even the tiniest bit of recognition. He looked back at her coldly and lifted his paper up between them.
If you need help ma'am
, he told her in his mind,
I'm the last man in the world who'll offer it to you
.

He knew he was not being gentlemanly, but she deserved no politeness from him. Miss Miranda Pardew was repugnant to him. When he was nineteen she'd treated him with merciless contempt, and even if she was now past her bloom and looking dowdy and plain, he didn't care. He remembered reading somewhere that one might forgive injuries but no one ever forgave contempt. How true. How very true.

He turned to the window and noticed, to his chagrin, that the snow had begun to fall again. And if this were not enough to raise his ire, he had to listen to Augustus Woodley's revolting attempts to gain the interest of Miss Pardew. The fellow kept up a barrage of asinine comments which did nothing to endear him to the woman he was trying to impress. “My, but you have tiny feet,” he'd remark. Or, “Those are very fine-looking gloves. What do you call their color?”

These ploys were greeted with only a stony silence.

“It's getting a lot colder, ma'am,” Woodley remarked several times. “Let me give you my muffler.” Once he actually tried to wind it about her neck. She had to fend him off.

Barnaby tried not to pay attention to the goings-on. But the lady's restraint surprised him. The girl he'd met at the ball would certainly not have kept her sharp tongue in check. She'd known quite well, back then, how to put a man in his place. Indeed, she seemed much changed in many ways. The slate-blue Kerseymere gown she was now wearing, with its prim white collar, straight skirt and simple gimp-cord trim, was a far cry from the clinging, enticing, soft green silk she'd worn the night of the ball. And her bonnet sported no feathers or ornamentation—it was modest in height and brim and was tied under her chin with the plainest of bows. She neither looked, dressed nor behaved like a belle of the
ton
. He couldn't help wondering if, perhaps, some sort of tragedy had befallen her.

While he was thus studying her, he noticed that the obnoxiously persistent Augustus Woodley had moved his leg to rest against Miss Pardew's thigh. The lady edged away. A few moments later, Mr. Woodley moved again. Miss Pardew edged away again. When the dunderpate moved a third time, and the lady, wedged tightly between him and the armrest, had no place to move, Barnaby had had enough. With an exclamation of disgust, he tossed his newspaper down, jumped to his feet and grabbed the fellow by the collar of his coat. “You don't seem comfortable, Woodley,” he said, lifting the fellow bodily and throwing him over to the opposite seat. “I think you'll be happier sitting beside
me
.” And he re-seated himself, picked up the newspaper and opened it to his place.

“Oh, I
say
!” Woodley cried in outrage when he regained his breath. “What do you think you're about?”

“I know what I'm about. And I know what you're about. So take my advice, fellow. Stay put and hold your tongue. We've had enough of your buffoonery.”

Woodley opened his mouth to retort, caught a glimpse of Barnaby's glower that had intimidated so many others, reddened and retreated to his corner.

The lady threw Barnaby a look of melting gratitude. “Thank you, sir,” she said softly, the corners of her lips turning up in a suggestion of a smile.

Barnaby did not smile back. He merely fixed his glower on her and, with cold deliberation, lifted up the newspaper between them. He could deliver a set-down, too.

How the lady took his set-down he didn't know, for he kept his eyes fixed on his newspaper. The journey proceeded in absolute silence. The only sounds were those of the carriage wheels, the horses' hooves and the whistling wind.

That was why, later that afternoon, on a deserted stretch of road between Barton Mills and Thetford, they all heard the clip-clop of other horses rapidly coming up from behind them. These sounds were followed by shouts, and the carriage rocked to an abrupt stop. Before they had time to interpret these signs, the door near Woodley was pulled open, and they found themselves staring into the black barrel of an ominously long pistol. Mr. Woodley started. The lady gasped. Barnaby let his newspaper drift to the floor.

A head appeared in the doorway, the eyes covered with a black mask. “Hands over yer heads, gents! And the lady, too. Quick now!” The voice had a low, frightening rasp.

All three did as they were told, but Barnaby was more irritated than frightened. “A damned
highwayman
!” he exclaimed in disgust. “Just what I needed.”

Five

They stepped down from the carriage into an icy wind and a swirl of light snowflakes. The masked footpad, a large, broadly built fellow as tall as Barnaby, looked from one to the other and chose Mr. Woodley to fleece first. Without a word, and keeping one eye and the barrel of his gun aimed at the other two, he efficiently set about removing Mr. Woodley's valuables: his watch, chain and fobs, and his purse.

Barnaby used the time to look about. They were standing in a rutted roadway edged on both sides by woodland. There was no sign of human habitation. He noted that the highwayman was not alone, for two horses were tethered to a nearby tree. A quick glance toward the front of the coach revealed a second felon, also masked, but much shorter and slighter than his confederate. He was aiming a pistol at the coachman, who was hesitating to climb down from the box. “Move yer arse down 'ere,” the footpad ordered. “I don't 'ave all day.”

The coachman's arm made a swift movement downward. Barnaby saw his hand grasp the trace of the horse on the left and break it loose, thus unhooking the harness. Before the footpad realized what he was up to, the coachman had leaped to the horse's back, dug his heels into the horse's side and was galloping off, the harness dragging behind him. The horse on the right whinnied wildly, reared up, broke from his already-loosened trace and quickly followed. The footpad cursed, aimed his gun and fired, but the rider and both horses were already disappearing into the distance. The whole incident had taken but a few seconds.

The second highwayman cursed again, very loudly. The stir had drawn the eyes of the others, who were grouped at the side of the carriage. “Damn you, Japhet,” the first highwayman shouted. “Whyn't ye watch—?”

But he got no further, for Barnaby had taken immediate advantage of his distraction and leaped forward, grasping the arm holding the gun. The tall highwayman dropped the gun, but not before a shot exploded into the air, causing the lady to scream. Barnaby and the highwayman toppled to the ground, rolling back and forth, first one on top and then the other. Barnaby was getting the better of the fight when the second highwayman, having reloaded, ran over and aimed his pistol at Barnaby's head. “Let 'im go or ye're a dead man,” he said coldly.

Barnaby let go. Both men got to their feet. The highwayman retrieved his pistol and turned to his cohort. “It's all yer fault, ye blasted looby,” he snarled as he reloaded. “Ye couldn' even 'andle the coachman.”

“You ain't doin' so bloody well yerself,” the one named Japhet retorted. “Seems t' me like you also lost one.”

It was quite true. One of the three passengers was gone. During the melee, Augustus Woodley had managed to steal off. “Howsomever, old chubb,” the taller footpad bragged, “I nimmed 'is goods afore 'e ran.” And he waved Woodley's watch in the other fellow's face.

“Damn it, woman,” Barnaby muttered to the lady, “you should have gone off with your admirer.”

Miranda threw Barnaby a startled look and opened her mouth to make a reply, but before she could do so, the tall highwayman swung round to Barnaby. “Still yer clapper!” he snapped. “Not one word or one move more, or it'll be the worser fer ye. Keep yer weapon on 'im, Japhet, while I go through 'is pockets.”

Barnaby's pockets produced the best of the loot. The highwayman gurgled with pleasure at the purse he found, heavy with guineas. And when he saw Barnaby's watch, gleaming with heavy gold and attached to a chain that bore a beautiful, jewel-studded fob (a gift from the Earl on the occasion of Barnaby's thirtieth birthday), he turned to Japhet with a shout of triumph. “Will ye clamp yer peepers on
this
?” he chortled.

Barnaby, cold, furious and humiliated, could bear no more. Grasping the fellow by the back of his collar, he pulled him around and landed him a facer on the side of his jaw. The miscreant staggered back, dizzied. Barnaby struck the fellow's arm a smart blow that sent the watch and chain flying from his hand. At the same moment, he made a lunge for the pistol. But the second felon, Japhet, shook himself into action and swung the butt of his pistol at Barnaby's head. Barnaby fell down, stunned.

He tried to lift his head, but the motion made the world spin round at so terrifying a speed he had to close his eyes. He dropped his head with a groan. When he opened his eyes again, he was staring into the barrel of Japhet's pistol. Off to the side the other footpad was digging about among the dead leaves and foliage at the edge of the road, evidently searching for the watch that Barnaby had made him drop. “Put the bullet in 'is noddle an' be done,” he was saying, “so you can come over 'ere and 'elp me search.”