Highwayman: Ironside (9 page)

In
that moment Samson Lyle could have wrung Hippisley's neck as though he were the very bird he portrayed. "Accident, sir?" he said, every ounce of strength poured into restraining his ire. "It sounds like murder."

No
sooner had the words left Lyle's mouth than he knew he had overreached himself, for Hippisley's shoulders were suddenly squared like a defensive barricade, his eyes somehow darker. "Does it now?" he retorted coldly, the mirth all gone. "Then I commend you to keep your thoughts to yourself in company such as this. It was ruled an accident."

Lyle
took a small rearward step. "My apologies, Sir John. It was wrong of me to suggest."

"Wrong
of you to think, Sir Ardell. Suffice to say, however," Hippisley continued, apparently content with the retraction, "that Lyle believes you are right. He returned last year. Rides with two others, one a woman of all things! Both are masked, though he is not. They target members of the ruling class. Judges, soldiers, lawmakers, tax collectors, businessmen, merchants. The common sort love him, as the peasantry are wont to do. William Goffe, as you'd imagine, would rather like to see him dance the Tyburn jig."

"As
would I," Lyle intoned gravely.

"Quite
so, my good man, quite so." Hippisley clapped his hands together, the big palms slapping loudly despite their covering of kid skin, and he made for the door to the ballroom. "Now, I must not neglect my guests, though I know not who they are behind their guises, and you must come too."

Lyle
tensed. "Very kind in you, Sir John, but I would not be such an encumbrance on my gracious host."

"Not
a bit of it, sir! You said yourself that you do not often leave your estates. This is the opportunity to meet folk that might be of interest to you. Those of a like mind and mutual interests. This is why I have been permitted to hold such an event, after all."

Lyle
could only nod. How could he refuse? And now he would be escorted about the crowd, directed from one foe to the next, each with their own tale of how the Ironside Highwayman had menaced them, how he should be gibbeted on the highest point of Butser Hill as a warning to others. Each man and woman would look into his eyes, and one, he knew, would eventually recognise him. With creeping trepidation he followed the big man into the main hall. People still mingled, chattered, ate, drank, danced and brayed to the high ceiling. A few heads turned to appraise them, eyes glinting with intrigue. He noticed one woman, resplendent in green and silver, took particular interest, her almost black eyes bright within a mask that had been styled to resemble the face of a cat. She held his gaze for a second, the eyes at once unreadable and intense, and it took all his willpower to tear himself away.

"Might
I ask, Sir John," he said as he moved in the wake of Hippisley's imposing frame, "if Sir Frederick Mason is here? I have been meaning to speak with him for some time upon a certain matter."

Hippisley
paused, turned, drew breath to speak.

"Sir
John!" a man exclaimed with startling breathlessness, bursting from the crowd. He was a servant, wearing the ubiquitous kingfisher livery of the house, and his face, uncovered, was flushed and glistening with sweat.

Hippisley
swung the long beak on him. "What is it? Well, spit it out, man!"

The
servant stared at the floor. "We are running low on the good claret, sir."

For
a moment it looked as though Hippisley might explode in rage, but his broad chest suddenly deflated as he sighed in exasperation. "Must I deal with everything myself?" He turned to Lyle. "Forgive me, Sir Ardell. I will return forthwith."

Lyle
nodded rapidly, thanking God for His timely intervention. He might have been denied Hippisley's answer, but at least he would avoid the inquisitive gazes. He watched Hippisley stalk away, now alone in a sea of people, the thrum of the dance like waves lapping all around.

Lyle
took the opportunity to flee, making for the antechamber from whence they had come. He needed to clear his head, walking straight to the ugly exterior door that he had guessed would open out into the gardens. It was not locked, the bolt sliding back with a deep rattle, and he stepped quickly into the night air.

The
area immediately surrounding the house had been landscaped and planted with various kinds of shrubs and bushes. There were several rows of what he guessed to be fruit trees running through the lawns, their branches naked under the moonlight, and a maze of ivy and honeysuckle sprawled over a complex of trellised fences. Beyond that was the high, moss-clothed wall, keeping the garden separate from the rest of the large estate, and Lyle instinctively walked towards it, wanting to be as far from the heady masquerade as possible.

The
sounds of the ball faded as he strode into the night. The air was crisp and fresh, chilling his nostrils and throat, making him feel as if he could finally breathe freely. He paced steadily through a miniature orchard of wizened apple trees, the ground slick beneath his boots, until he came to the ivy-woven trellis, moving to the far side so that he could not be observed from the house. There he paused, tilted back his head at the night sky, wondered how best to abort this evening's reckless task now that it had been shown to be borne purely of hubris. The stars winked, mocking him. He removed his mask, worked his jaw to free it of the stifling feeling the disguise had engendered, and blew a warm gust of air through his nostrils. He knew he needed to find Grumm before he could do anything, so, with another steadying breath, he turned.

"I'm
surprised you found the time to attend this evening, sir, given your busy schedule," Felicity Mumford said. "Robbing honest folk, and such.” She sniffed daintily. “Still, at least you appear to have bathed for this engagement."

"Madam,
I..." Lyle spluttered, replacing the mask despite the terrible knowledge that it was all too late.

She
grinned. "Fear not, Major Lyle. I had rather hoped I would meet you again. Though I confess I am surprised it is so soon".

"Thank
you," Lyle said, lowering the pointless disguise. He stared at her. In her hand was her own mask. It was green and silver, like her dress, the eye holes turned up at the corners in a distinctly feline manner. "You saw me in the hall."

"I
did. I knew it was you. Could tell by your eyes." She ran her free hand through hair that had been freed of the coif she had worn when first they met. The gesture mesmerised him. "Who are you supposed to be? I cannot imagine you were invited in person, sir, for where would they send the invitation?"

He
laughed at that. "Sir Ardell Early."

She
raised a single brow in amusement. "Not a great likeness, though perhaps similar in height. Besides, Sir Ardell is a bore, and not many here would know him."

"That
was my hope." He stepped forward a fraction. "Why did you not raise the alarm before? Why not now?"

"My
uncle is a vile man, Major. He despises me, I despise him. We must suffer one another, since he is my only living kinsman, but that does not compel me to like him." The corners of her mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. "And I like you. Lord knows why, but I do. I suppose you were kind to me, even as you threatened me with that ghastly pistol you carry." She shuddered, casting her gaze to the grass between them. "But will you tell me the truth?"

"Truth?"

Now she searched his face again, her dark visage illuminated by the warm glow from the house at her back. "They say you ride against the government for the memory of your late wife. Is that really why you turned outlaw?"

He
nodded. "Aye. She was murdered in vengeance for my betrayal. Her and my unborn child."

Felicity's
fingers went instinctively to her lips. "Oh, Lord. I am sorry, Major. Truly."

He
looked away, unable to meet her eye. "No matter." He found himself walking amongst the dense barricades of ivy and honeysuckle. She was with him. "The passage of time serves to numb the pain, if not the fury," he said after a short while. "I have rebuilt my life. Made my money. I am, I suppose, content. But I'll wage my private war until there is no more breath in my lungs."

"And
why did you betray them?" she asked tentatively.

"I
joined the Parliamentarian struggle when I was a child, Miss Mumford. Served under Cromwell at the age of sixteen at Naseby. A boy before the drums began to beat: a man after they fell silent. Campaigned against all the bitter uprisings of the second war and rode with our newly made force in the third. I saw many terrible things. Too many horrors to number. And yet none of that mattered when we went to Ireland. Women and children. The infirm, the weak. They were as rodents to us, and we exterminated them as we would a nation of rats. It was no longer war. I decided to ride away. A decision that I have paid for every moment since."

They
reached the end of one of the ivy corridors where it met with the sheer face of the high wall. The moonlight was shut out of this corner and it was utterly dark. "Why are you here, Major?" Felicity asked. "It is unimaginably dangerous for you."

He
hesitated, wondering whether a confession would be sheer folly. But she had known it was him, and done nothing about it. "I would free a prisoner held by Goffe's men," he said. "Your uncle's strongbox..."

She
smirked. "The one you ruined?"

"Aye.
It contained a letter mentioning this man. One James Wren. He will be transferred from Newbury to Portsmouth."

"When?"

The sounds of giggling carried to them on the breeze and they both looked round. Nothing came from the darkness. Another couple escaping the crowds.

"That,
Miss Mumford, is my difficulty," Lyle said. "It did not indicate when."

"Watch
the road," she suggested bluntly.

He
shook his head. "Wren was a prominent Cavalier. The guard will be heavy."

She
arched an eyebrow. "Too heavy for the great highwayman? Could you not leap out in surprise?"

"Imagine
a cat leaping out upon a flock of sparrows, only to discover that they’re hawks."

She
laughed at that. "So you require time to plan."

He
dipped his head. "I need to know when he will be moved. And I had hoped Sir Frederick would attend this evening."

Her
jaw dropped. "And you were simply going to ask him?"

"Yes."

She laughed again in the darkness. "You are a strange creature, Major Lyle, that is for certain." Before he realised she had moved, her hand was on his cheek. It was warm and he angled his face, pressing against it. She was so close, though he could only discern her outline in this sepulchral recess of the garden. But he could smell her, and feel her breath.

He
inched away. Just a fraction, but enough to break the trance. She was perfect to his eyes, and that knowledge hurt him. Brought guilt crashing through his chest to invade his heart. He thought of Alice.

Then
she moved, closing the divide just as he had opened it, climbing to the tips of her toes, and her lips were on his, parting a fraction so that he could feel the lambent tip of her tongue. And then she was gone, stepping away from him as his rushing pulse hammered in his ears.

"He
is here," she said. "He does not condone such events, of course, but even dour men like Uncle Frederick concede such frivolity must be allowed on occasion. Hippisley is to be rewarded, for he served the revolution well, and his allegiance must continue to be nurtured. His charisma holds a deal of sway here in the Downs, so says my uncle."

"Where
is he?" Lyle managed to say, his mind still clouded by her actions. "Where is Sir Frederick?"

She
gave a sharp, bitter chuckle. "Uncle will not dance, or be seen to give it his blessing. But he is here. Put that mask back on, and follow me."

The drawing room was on the far side of the house, looking out onto the front courtyard via a pair of large, rectangular windows that were crammed full of diamond-shaped panes of glass. Samson Lyle waited in the corridor outside, watched with disinterest by a bored looking footman, but he caught a glimpse of the room's interior as Felicity Mumford half-opened the door and bustled in. Lyle watched as she walked, skirts hissing like a chorus of serpents behind, and, just as she disappeared inside, he spotted two familiar faces. One was that of Sir Frederick Mason. He wore no hat, but the rest of his attire had not changed since the robbery. Felicity had said that he disapproved of such events, but Lyle could see that such a claim was a stark understatement, for the sober black coat and plain white shirt were conspicuous in their absence of colour. Mason sat at a large table scattered with papers and scrolls. He studied one intently, not looking up as his niece entered, a quill poised in his right hand. The other man was standing at his shoulder. He wore the attire of a soldier, even donning a breastplate for the occasion, though it was no masquerade costume. Kit Walmsley, Mason's bodyguard, was grim-faced and alert. He looked up immediately upon seeing the door open, one hand reaching for the hilt of his sword, and frowned when he saw that it was her. For a heartbeat his little eyes flickered past her shoulder to stare at the doorway. They met Lyle's gaze, held firm. Walmsley cocked his head to the side like a confused hound as he stared at Lyle, and then the door slammed shut.