The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter (6 page)

“You're a dangerous woman,” he said, “which means you ha' something to hide.”

“No, I'm poor.” Tossing her parasol back inside the coach, she cradled the statue across her bodice. “I was angry at your companion because he frightened my maid and disturbed my journey. I swear I have nothing.”

“Your coach looks first-rate, m'lady.”

“The coach was an extravagance I could ill afford.”

He gestured with his pistol toward his prostrate companion. “You strike me as a most resourceful woman. I'll wager you would not be above a bit of trickery to ha' your way. I canna' see your face, so I canna' read your expression. Please step before the lights so that I may ha' a better look at you.”

After a moment's hesitation, Elizabeth obeyed. While he scrutinized her face, she felt increasingly uncomfortable. Despite her words to Grace, highwaymen were not always patricians down on their luck. Furthermore, they had been known to force their unwanted attentions on their victims.

“Your gown is expensive,” he finally said, lowering his pistol, “but your jewelry is of the most indifferent quality.”

The highwayman seemed to be weakening, thought Elizabeth. However, the brute with the head wound was now stirring, and she feared his volatile reaction. If she wanted to escape with her money, she must act decisively. Perhaps the dark-haired highwayman might be susceptible to a little feminine charm.

“I swear I'm just an impoverished spinster,” she said, shifting her cloak to expose more of her bosom. “The most expensive thing I own is this bronze, a gift.” She displayed it, slightly raised. “I have nothing else.”

Pocketing his pistol, he laughed. “Since 'tis impossible for me to believe that someone as lovely as you could utter a falsehood, I must accept your word. I see no point in further distressing you, so we shall just agree that a mistake has been made and you can be on your way.”

The wounded highwayman jerked his bloody head up, then struggled to his knees. “Are ye mad? That strumpetin' whore tried t' kill me. She's hidin' somethin', a bit full o' jewelry, or lord knows what. And if I've ever seen anyone actin' peery, 'tis that one.” He nodded toward Grace, who was bouncing from leg to leg and twisting her handkerchief in her hands. “You! Tell me! What's your mistress hidin'?”

“Nothing,” Elizabeth cried.

“Nothing,” Grace parroted, her voice weak. Like a human pendulum, her face moved back and forth between the coach and the highwayman.

“Go get it,” the wounded brute barked. “I'll not shoot ye in the back.
Move,
lass!”

“No!” As Elizabeth stepped forward, Grace screeched and scrambled inside the coach.

“Stay where ye're at, ye double-poxed, long-arsed bitch!” The injured highwayman groped for his pistol. “Don't come anywhere within strikin' distance.”

“But—”

“Don't argue,” he growled, waving his weapon none too steadily in her direction.

“Cousin, take care,” said the dark-haired highwayman. “Your pistol might go off by mistake.” Dismounting, he stepped in front of Elizabeth.

Grace descended from the coach. Eyes feral, she stumbled—and dropped Elizabeth's book. Apparently deciding the wounded giant's pistol was less frightening than her mistress's wrathful expression, she scurried over to the coachman and guard, whose hands were still raised.

Despairingly, Elizabeth watched the giant retrieve the sheaf of bills from her book.

“Lord a'mighty,” he said. “Grunting cheat! Not bad for a bloody poor spinster.”

“If you steal that, you'll be robbing me of my independence and all my hopes for the future.” Elizabeth's eyes brimmed over with tears, which were only partially forced.

“Why not allow her to keep it?” the dark-haired highwayman said.

His partner shook his head, as if to clear it. “Has that crack on me head affected me ears, or have ye gone daft? Me sawbones's bills alone will run me hundreds o' pounds.”

“Your reputation would be assured by such a chivalrous act,” Elizabeth pleaded, turning toward her ally. “You would both become immediate legends, like the Gentleman Giant and his Quiet Companion.”

The wounded highwayman snorted while the second affixed a rope to the guard and coachman's wrists, binding them together. Grace thrust out her hands, but the dark-haired highwayman shook his head.

Elizabeth rushed on. “I'm a sister of the quill, an authoress. Perhaps I could even compose a tale about you, forever immortalizing you in print, like
Tom Jones.
Wouldn't that mean more than mere money?”

“I wouldn't mind being immortalized,” the dark-haired highwayman said. “It seems a fair trade, cousin.”

“What in God's name has come over ye, ye bloody flat? Ye think to return a bloody fortune so that this toad's harlot can fill some bloody reader with fancy lies about ye? I say we keep every damned shillin'!”

“I have brilliant powers of observation,” said Elizabeth, losing her temper. “I shall report everything I've seen to the local justice of the peace. He'll track you down and you'll hang from the nearest gallows.”

The injured highwayman leveled his pistol at her heart. “Then maybe I should save meself a lot o' trouble by poppin' ye right now.”

Still cowering near the guards, Grace wailed. “They'll slit our throats and open our stomachs and fill them with stones, then throw our bodies into the stream. Oh, we'll die, Mistress, and 'tis all yer fault.”

“Enough,” said the second highwayman. “If you must take the money, take it, but there's no sense in threatening anyone.” As he returned to his horse, Elizabeth saw that he walked with a slight limp.

“Damn my soul,” she whispered, dropping the statue.

Why hadn't she figured it out immediately? His broad shoulders, stalwart chest, lean hips and muscular thighs. His hair, the shape of his eyes.
John Randolph was a highwayman!

She turned her attention to the wounded highwayman, now wobbling toward his mount. She knew exactly who this pair was: the Gentleman Giant and his Quiet Companion. Most likely they had planned to rob the Beresfords, then something had gone amiss. Whereupon John, remembering what she had said about the Dales' bumbling justice of the peace, had retreated north.

The Gentleman Giant leaned across his horse until his balance steadied. Easing himself up into the saddle, he groaned. “If I'm not dead now,” he mumbled, “I should live forever.”

John had also remounted. Elizabeth figured he knew who she was and thought to spare her. Which seemed commendable enough, except they still planned to leave with her two hundred pounds.

“Sir,” she said, taking a step toward John.

“Yes, m'lady?”

Placing her hand on his thigh, above his glossy brown boots, she gazed up into his eyes. “I have long imagined someone like you in my novels.”

He stared down at her for a long moment. Then, moving his mask away from his mouth, he cradled her chin between his palms, lowered his head, and kissed her hard upon the lips.

The Giant's raucous cheers and Grace's renewed wails overlapped his words.

“I'll return your money, Bess,” he said softly, “and that's a promise.”

“When?” she asked, ignoring the sensations that coursed through her body. She felt as if she had just swallowed a bolt of hot lightning.

“In my own time.”

Why should I believe him? Why should I trust him?

John trusted
her,
thought Elizabeth. She knew his name and had seen him all too clearly during Beresford's drum. He could have shot her to protect his identity.

But she had a feeling John wouldn't kill a woman, no matter what the circumstances, so that justification didn't hold water.

How about this? If she gave Lord Stafford a physical description and the inept lawman somehow managed to capture the Gentleman Giant and his Quiet Companion, she'd never recover her two hundred pounds.

She must believe John's promise. She really had no other choice. Besides, betrayal was repellent.

All these thoughts ran through Elizabeth's mind as the coach turned into the yard of the White Hart. Distractedly, she gathered her things together.

“Remember, Grace. Do not say one word about the unfortunate incident.”

“You mean the robbery, Mistress?”

“I mean the unfortunate incident.”

“But we must tell Lord Stafford. No respectable woman will be safe so long as those two monsters are free.”

“I'd hardly call them monsters. They did us no physical harm. I'll take care of the matter myself, in my own way. Do you understand?”

As the coachman blew his horn, Elizabeth peered through the window. She saw that the area was crowded with incoming and outgoing carriages, stable hands, guards, and passengers.
I hope no one is awaiting me,
she thought. On the other hand, she had sent word with an earlier coach, so no doubt she would receive a hearty welcome.

The coach rumbled to a halt beside the grooming shed, adjacent to the stables. A cheer went up and a small crowd immediately surrounded Elizabeth's window. She saw her father, dark as a Gypsy, a big grin on his face. She saw Dorothea, looking as deceptively fragile as the crystal drops that hung from a chandelier. And Walter Stafford, half a head taller than those around him.

Most women would call Stafford handsome. He did not possess the dark ruggedness of a Ralf Darkstarre or a John Randolph, yet he could easily pose for one of Elizabeth's book heroes. A cauliflower wig cascaded down his narrow shoulders, enhanced by his padded coat. The rest of his body lacked the muscularity of a Ralf or John, but his visage was noteworthy. Mahogany brows shaded pale blue eyes whose intense expression often unsettled her. His nose was long and straight, his lips too thin, bowed on top. But this small discrepancy was disguised by a mustache and a well-trimmed goatee. When all the facets of Lord Stafford's face came together, he looked like an imperial pirate.

“Remember what I told you,” Elizabeth warned Grace, as the coachman pulled down the steps. “Not one word.”

She opened the coach door to cheering and clapping, but before she could descend, Grace pushed her aside and tripped down the stairs. “We was robbed by two horrible highwaymen!” she yelled.

The welcome party uttered a collective gasp.

Strong arms lifted Elizabeth from the coach, and she gazed into her father's shocked face. “Did they hurt you?” he asked. “Insult you in any way? Lay a hand on you?”

“No, of course not. It wasn't—”

“I've never been so afraid in my life,” Grace cried. “They said they'd kill us, and do all manner of unspeakable things.”

Another collective gasp.

Grace began sobbing. She glanced around, as if seeking solace, then collapsed against Lord Stafford's chest.

Ignoring Grace, Stafford looked at Elizabeth, his eyes narrowed to slits. “What exactly happened? Where were you when you were robbed? How much money did they take? What jewelry?”

She attempted a smile. “It was nothing, really. Just a misunderstand—”

“They took
all
of Mistress Elizabeth's money.”

“No!” Dorothea's hand flew to her mouth. “Not your entire fortune.”

“Of course not,” Elizabeth snapped, irritated by what she considered her stepmother's inappropriate concern.

None too gently, Stafford pushed Grace away. “How much, Elizabeth?”

Grace shook herself like a dog who had just emerged from a lake. “It was more than two hundred pounds, m'lord.”

“It was less than twenty.”

“But Mistress—”

“I know how much I lost!”

Elizabeth felt her father's arms tighten around her. “I'm just glad you weren't hurt,” he said. “And since you have much more on account, 'tis no calamity.”

“I thought you told us you were going to return with the first installment of our loan.” Beneath her powder, Dorothea's face was as white as curdled milk. “Which is it, Elizabeth, twenty pounds or two hundred?”

“I assure you, everything is fine. My funds are still intact.” Handing Papa her statue and parasol, she retrieved her bank statement from her traveling bag. “It's all here on account,” she said, waving the paper in front of a dozen startled faces. “The robbery was a minor matter, I tell you. The highwaymen were courteous and apologetic, a couple of patricians down on their luck.”

“Patricians, my arse.” Stafford jerked the statement from her hand. “This looks fraudulent to me, my dear. I suspect you've not only been robbed, but you've been duped by your publisher, which is hardly a surprising turn of events. Women have no place in the business world.”

Elizabeth snatched the paper back. “Enough! I know what I'm worth, and I know what I was robbed of, and I refuse to discuss this further.”

“My dear Elizabeth,” Stafford said, his voice and manner solicitous, the attitude of a rational man attempting to soothe an hysterical woman. “You've so often told me that your scribbling would afford you a decent living. I fear, however, that you have no head for figures, and I suspect that you've been deluded by a disreputable businessman. Which means, my dear, that you've risked spinsterhood for naught.”

Elizabeth pictured the Beresfords' palatial town house, her shelf of published books, the sums she had periodically withdrawn from her account, and she felt like whacking Stafford over the skull with her parasol. “If
your
name headed this document,” she said scornfully, “you would have no doubt as to its authenticity. You seek to discredit me and Minerva Press simply because it angers you that a woman can earn a comfortable livelihood through her own efforts.”

“My beautiful Elizabeth, how I do admire your spirit. Unfortunately, locked up with your books, you know nothing about the real world. Twenty pounds is hardly a comfortable livelihood.” He held up a hand to still her heated protests. “Nevertheless, you have been robbed, no matter how paltry the sum. Since today is Sunday, the Sunday Trading Act relieves the authorities of any responsibility. I mean, of course, for the reimbursement of your money.”

“Yes. And since it was such a paltry sum, I don't even plan to pursue it.”

“What? Do you have a fever? Are you overcome with fear?” Stafford stretched to his full height and looked down his long narrow nose, as he always did when trying to intimidate her. “Of course you'll pursue it. You must. Those blackguards will not stop with one coach. Now, give me a description of them, anything you can remember. I shall attempt to jog your memory with pointed questions. What were their clothes like? Their accents? What kind of horses were they riding?”

“It was dark. I couldn't see well. Their horses looked like horses. They wore masks.” She smiled. “The men wore masks, not the horses.”

“One was hugely tall with a big belly,” Grace offered. “And the other one wore a black cloth over his face, and his hair was dark, I think.”

“What else?”

“They both had pistols, and the dark-haired one pointed his at Mistress Elizabeth.”

“Yes?” Stafford prompted impatiently. “What else?”

Grace considered. “I was so scared, m'lord.”

With her maid's powers of observation, Elizabeth figured the highwaymen were in no immediate danger. Stafford then questioned the coachmen and guard, who recalled little more than the pistols and masks.

“I am sorry this happened,” said Lawrence, still holding Elizabeth's parasol and bronze. With his free hand, he patted her head. “It was fortunate you did not carry a large sum on your person.” He glanced toward Dorothea, then focused on Elizabeth again. “That's my Bess. 'Tis a blessing you inherited your brains from your mother, not your old papa.”

“We must pursue this in all haste,” Stafford told Lawrence, who was one of the local constables. “If those brigands think to terrorize the Dales and thwart me, their reign will be short, their end brutal.”

“Aye. So it will, m'lord.”

The men gathered together in an excited cluster. The ladies, save for Dorothea, comforted Grace.

Brown eyes bright, Dorothea faced Elizabeth and spoke in a low, angry voice. “You'd better hope Lord Stafford is wrong and you are still a wealthy woman. If there's no two thousand pounds on account, in a few months' time you'll lose your entire inheritance, and your father and I will be homeless. How will you feel about that?”

“Before Papa wed you, he seldom gambled,” Elizabeth replied. “Perhaps his marital unhappiness has forced him into reckless habits.”

“Your father always gambled. If you think otherwise, your illusions have become reality.” Dorothea lifted her chin, and with an air of dignity remarkable in so petite a woman, she walked back toward the inn.

Clutching her traveling bag, Elizabeth followed. “Welcome home,” she muttered.

But everything wasn't pure disaster. Far from it. John Randolph was in the Dales and they would meet again. He had said so. She would make certain of it. He had promised to return her money, and somehow she knew, deep down inside, that John was a man who honored his vows. The only danger lay in Lord Stafford finding him before she did. But Stafford couldn't find his way home. How could he be expected to find a couple of highwaymen intent on hiding from him?

After she met up with John, she would retrieve her two hundred pounds and talk him into giving up his life of crime.

Then what? Perhaps she'd write a novel about him, something like
Confessions of a Former Highwayman.

Reforming John would be the first order of the day, Elizabeth calculated.

She couldn't let herself fall in love with a man who might end up swinging from a hangman's noose.