A Most Dangerous Lady (2 page)

     Had they been given orders to kill him and dispose of his body in the woods? He had a number of enemies in town, it was true, and several gentlemen owed him substantial amounts of money. But were any of them this desperate to be rid of him?

     He and his captor had been walking through thick woodland in an uneasy silence for some fifteen minutes before the other man caught up with them again, riding a stocky cob and holding aloft the lantern from Trajan’s carriage. The beam of light bounced eerily from tree to tree, illuminating the dark wood.

     ‘It’s done,’ this one told the hooded man, keeping his voice low. His gown had disappeared and now he was dressed, like his companion, in dark trousers and shirt, with what looked like an old hunting jacket slung over his shoulders, a generous muffler concealing much of his face. ‘They’ll be halfway back to town soon, I should think.’

     Trajan’s blood ran cold. They were trying to conceal their whereabouts by sending his horses back to town as runaways.

     Had his instincts been right? Did a shallow grave lie in store for him in these woods?

     There was a light ahead. Some kind of shadowy dwelling, half-hidden amongst the trees; a light glimmered in one of its windows. As they drew nearer, he saw a rough shack, little better than a barn, with a horse tethered outside the ill-fitting door, peering round curiously as the three men approached.

     Trajan’s eyes narrowed on the horse. It was a gelding, muscular and well-cared for, clearly of excellent stock. Not the horse of a common highwayman, he thought.

     The man with the pistol spoke softly to the animal, then signalled his companion to open the door.

     ‘In you go!’ he directed Trajan, and gave him a less than friendly shove in the back to help him into the musty, candlelit interior. ‘Up that ladder and into the loft. We’ve made it good and cosy for you up there.’

     It was nigh impossible to climb the ladder, steep and rickety as it was, with both hands bound behind his back. Still, with one man at his front, hauling impatiently on his coat, and the other bringing up the rear, encouraging him with prods and bursts of coarse laughter, Trajan finally managed it and fell forwards onto his face at the top.

     The room in which he had landed was narrow but high-ceilinged, clearly once a hay loft, now given a homely air by the addition of an uneven wooden floor, one shuttered window and some crudely fashioned furniture. A small branch of candles, set on a low table and nearly burnt down to the nub, gave a soft flickering light to the room.

     Seething inwardly, Trajan rolled over onto his back and stared up at his soon-to-be executioner. ‘Well, man, you’ve got me up here now. I’m not afraid to die. So get on with it!’

     But the man with the pistol merely laughed, exchanging a knowing glance with the other man. ‘Eager for death, ain’t he? Come on, let’s make his lordship more comfortable.’

     To his surprise, Trajan found himself dragged forcibly upwards and across the floor to a waiting chair. He was placed firmly upon it in a sitting position, each leg secured to the chair legs with rope, hands still bound painfully behind his back. Thus trussed-up, like a bird ready for the pot, Lord Randall waited in bitter silence for his captors to make known their intentions - determined not to give way either to blackmail or torture, whichever might be forthcoming.

     Once he was secure, the hooded man turned to his companion. ‘You’d best go below. Saddle Jupiter. And prepare a special drink for our friend here. He looks in need of some shut-eye.’

     ‘You intend to drug me?’ Trajan watched in helpless fury as the other man descended the ladder, pulling the trapdoor shut behind him. ‘How noble of you.’

     ‘There’s no one around to hear you shout. But just in case, I thought your first night in our little establishment would be best spent asleep.’

     His captor uncocked his pistol and laid it aside on a low table, dragging off his gloves. He seemed less gruff and threatening now that they were alone. Trajan frowned, watching him intently. Had there been a note of laughter behind his last words?

     ‘I’m sorry for the subterfuge, my lord,’ the man continued, swinging the cloak off his shoulders. ‘But you’ll soon understand how necessary it was.’

     ‘What the devil are you talking about?’

     By way of reply, the man peeled away his heavy muffler, revealing an elegant white neck, a less than stubbly jaw and a soft mouth entirely at odds with his masculine attire.

     Then the hood was thrown back too.

     Trajan, utterly bemused, found himself staring into the captivating, heart-shaped face of a woman. A cluster of blonde curls bobbed about her shoulders and a pair of sparkling blue eyes watched from behind her black mask.

     ‘A woman!’ he exclaimed, staring. ‘I’ll be damned!’

     The masked woman laughed at his shocked expression, her mouth twisting wryly.  ‘Very probably, my lord. But your appointment with the devil is not yet at hand, so let us get down to business instead.’ She took a step towards him, hands bunched into impressive little fists perched on each hip, her voice hardening. ‘It has been widely noted in London that you do not believe in the existence of a certain Petticoat Club. I am here to assure you, Lord Randall, that not only does this club exist, but it is very much interested in your much-vaunted disbelief.’

     His eyes had narrowed fiercely on her face at her first words. Now, realising why he had been abducted – to be taught a lesson, no doubt, and then returned to the bosom of society in order to bear witness to the existence of their ridiculous Petticoat Club – he found himself laughing out loud.

     To think he had been steeling himself to face a shallow grave out there in the woods when, in truth, it was merely a parcel of unruly girls who had disturbed his journey!

     ‘And how many of you are in this Petticoat Club, my dear?’ he drawled. ‘Just you and your lover there?’

     He noted to his satisfaction the angry flush which rose in her cheeks at his jibe. ‘He is my servant.’

     ‘If you say so.’

     Looking her over with undisguised contempt, he guessed his captor to be perhaps two-and-twenty, and clearly a woman of
experience
. Her speech was too refined for a common whore, but he could not bring himself to believe that such a creature could ever move in the higher echelons of society. Privately, he might admit to some grudging admiration for her courage and daring, but he would never allow that to show. Besides which, she was undoubtedly mad. Any female who dressed as a highwayman and abducted male members of the aristocracy - just to teach them a lesson in manners! – had to be touched in the upper storey.

     ‘You are free to mock me, Viscount Randall. But you may feel differently once you have been my guest for a few days.‘

     ‘You do not seriously mean to keep me incarcerated in this place?’ he demanded, his temper rising swiftly. ‘I grant that you took me unawares out on the Kent road.
Brava
indeed! But it would be wiser for you to release me. One word from me could see you and your friends brought to the gallows for this night’s work.’

     She blenched at that, and he regretted his harsh words. To punish this woman for her impudence was certainly his plan. But he had no intention of seeing her swing by that soft neck.

     Still, he told himself, the beautiful fool must be made to realise how much danger she was in – and for what? To preserve the reputation of some semi-mythical club whose only purpose was to punish men for their misdeeds towards women? Such misplaced loyalty would gain her more than she bargained for, he thought sternly, eyeing those alluring curves under her tight male clothing.

     The door below them closed with a thud. His captor straightened, her mouth curving into a smile again as she reached for her cloak and pistol.

     ‘My horse has been saddled and I am bound for town. So this is goodnight, my lord. I wish you sweet dreams.’

     Before he could muster a suitably caustic reply to that valediction, the lady highwayman had bent and kissed him full on the lips. No swift peck, but a long, lingering kiss. One of her tumbling blonde curls stroked his cheek, a soft tickling somehow redolent of strawberries, while her free hand lay warmly on his chest. Her tongue teased him until his mouth opened under that persuasion, when it darted inside, playing against his own.

     Certainly no innocent, this one!

     Such an impudent kiss from a commoner should, by rights, have left the Viscount cold. Yet to his embarrassment, the longer her kiss went on, the more violently his heart began to beat, until, by the time she moved away, Trajan had to shift uncomfortably in the chair, knowing himself to be inexplicably aroused.

     ‘You’ll return tomorrow?’ he asked huskily.

     Her smile caught him on the raw, as did her quick glance down at his lap, swollen now with unmistakable excitement. ‘Perhaps, my lord,’ she murmured. ‘And perhaps not.’

CHAPTER THREE

Lady Caroline Lacey entered the bright, buttercup-yellow salon where she habitually entertained her morning callers, hands clasped devoutly together as though in prayer – an attitude she had learnt to strike whenever under observation, to avoid too close scrutiny.

     As usual, her blonde hair had been drawn back from her face in a stern chignon, concealed beneath a lace cap. Her gown of demure dove grey and woollen shawl suggested the spinster, though Lady Caroline was in truth an heiress of but three-and-twenty and still perfectly eligible. A pair of spectacles – specially fashioned of plain glass, to give her the appearance of a harmless bluestocking without impairing her vision - were balanced precariously on the bridge of her nose.

     Thus soberly attired, she surveyed her unexpected callers through thick-rimmed spectacles for one startled moment before curtseying.

     ‘Lady Julia, Miss Levenshulme, Miss Pickfords,’ she murmured, stepping into the elegant morning room. ‘What a surprise – though always a pleasure, of course! – to see so many of my closest friends gathered together under my father’s roof. But I trust there has not been some unfortunate accident since we last met? That you are all in excellent health?’

     Without speaking, Lady Julia Fairfax’s gaze flickered discreetly to the elderly butler, Horton, still hovering in the doorway, and Lady Caroline turned to dismiss him with a nod.

     As soon as the door had clicked shut behind her curious major-domo, Miss Levenshulme burst out, ‘Oh Caroline! What have you done?’ and Miss Theo Pickford burst into noisy tears.

     From her reddened eyes and the pinkish glow of her nose, Caroline guessed that it was not the first time Theo had indulged in such unrestrained behaviour that morning.

     Perched on the sagging edge of the only available chair left in the room, Caroline met the accusing stares of her friends with a stubborn tilt of her chin.  

     ‘I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, Amabelle. What, pray, am I supposed to have done?’ To this, she added, with a dash of her father’s impatience, ‘And for heaven’s sake, Theo, stop that missish snivelling! You do not look to any better advantage when blubbing, trust me.’

     ‘I have two words for you,’ Amabelle Levenshulme replied with icy emphasis. ‘
Viscount Randall
.’

     Her hands convulsed in her lap, but otherwise Caroline gave no sign of having understood the reference.

     ‘Viscount Randall?’ Her thin brows rose in mock hauteur. ‘No doubt you will eventually condescend to add a few more words to that pair, my dearest Amabelle, if only to allow this fascinating conversation to progress any further.’

     At this unpromising response, her friends seemed determined to make their feelings known at one and the same moment, resulting in a cacophony of furious accusations.

     ‘Caroline Lacey, you know perfectly well what -’

     ‘Viscount Randall is missing!’

     ‘You told us you were planning to teach him a lesson, but we never dreamt you meant to – ’

     ‘Just tell us, what have you done with his lordship?’ Lady Fairfax rapped out, her voice louder than the rest, and all four young ladies leant forward, urgently waiting to hear Caroline’s response.

     ‘Hush, hush!’ Caroline cast a sharp glance over her shoulder, but the thick oak door was still shut fast. ‘Do you want the servants to hear? You know it is not safe to talk in this house.’

      Miss Levenshulme flinched. ‘You do not deny it, then?’

      ‘Since my very best friends already appear to have tried and convicted me, why should I bother with a defence?’

      ‘Caroline, this is nothing short of madness!’ Lady Julia Fairfax stuttered slightly in her panic. ‘Stripping Sir John Dallenby was one thing, and holding up coaches ... Well, no real harm was done there, and all of London laughed to see Buckby exposed as a shameless rake. But abducting a man like Viscount Randall? He is no fool. He will make a dangerous, unforgiving enemy for us!’

      ‘Fiddlesticks!’

      Lady Julia was not reassured by that exclamation. ‘But do you not realise, the Petticoat Club will no longer be a joke but a scandal after this? And if our true identities are discovered, we could hang!’

      ‘
Hang
?’ Miss Theo Pickford moaned, then burst into fresh tears, sobbing into her fine linen handkerchief. ‘I ... don’t ... want ... to hang! What would papa say?’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody will hang.’

      ‘Make no mistake, Lord Randall will seek revenge for this outrage,’ Amabelle insisted. She lowered her voice in response to Caroline’s warning frown. ‘So you admit that you are holding him? Where, exactly?’

     ‘You remember the place near the Kent road where we lay in wait for the Marquis’ carriage?’

     ‘That ramshackle old barn?’ Theo Pickford almost shrieked, her expression one of undisguised horror. ‘You have ruined us all with this mad venture, Caroline! When he escapes – ’

     ‘He will not escape,’ Caroline said confidently.