Midnight Raider Page 3

  The bold little chit must have galloped off alongside it! He urged his horse forward, but already knew it was too late to give chase. She would be long gone into the trees by now, taking all the money with her, along with any chance of getting his questions answered.

  Marcus swore under his breath. He didn’t know how, or by God’s truth, why, but Blackerby Swift, the infamous highwayman, was a woman.

  A woman with more audacity than most men, an ornate silver-chased pistol, a curiously disappearing accent…

  And generous curves and strikingly beautiful eyes.

  Marcus shook his head, not sure which he felt more: outraged, perplexed—or intrigued. Who the devil was she?

  And what was that odd oath she had used? Oh Lawks. An old-fashioned way of saying Oh my Lord that he hadn’t heard in years.

  All at once, he felt a stab of conscience. How could he turn a woman over to the ruthless “justice” of the London magistrates?

  Pressing his hand against the bleeding bullet wound in his arm, Marcus forced that question aside. She was the one who chose to play this dangerous game. He was merely going to end it. He had worked ten years to avenge his family’s ruin, and he was too close to his goal to allow anyone to interfere.

  He was going to capture Blackerby Swift and turn her in. And it didn’t matter a damn who she was.

  Chapter 2

  “Lady Barnes-Finchley?”

  Elizabeth didn’t respond to the woman sitting beside her on the richly upholstered settee, nor was she paying attention to the feminine conversation that filled the Marquess and Marchioness of Rowland’s drawing room. She had come to this assembly to gather information about Montaigne, but instead found herself thinking about her encounter on Hounslow Heath three weeks ago.

  A delicate cup and saucer teetered precariously on the lap of her lavender silk gown, her tea untouched, her apple tart not even nibbled.

  Who was the highwayman she had accidentally shot that night? Was he in fact the notorious Midnight Raider, or only someone boasting? She found it hard to believe that an outlaw of lethal reputation would be found gazing up at the moon and quoting Shakespeare, as the tall stranger had been doing when she first noticed him.

  Whoever he was, the dark-eyed rogue now knew that Blackerby Swift was a woman. What might he decide to do with that information? What if he went to the newspapers?

  Elizabeth reached up and fidgeted with her hair, tugging on a short curl that had escaped her chignon. Oh Lawks, she didn’t need things to be any more difficult than they already were.

  She tried to take a deep, calming breath but was foiled by the fashionable Watteau gown she wore. The low bodice, decorated with an echelle of navy blue velvet bows, was laced too tight.

  “I say, Lady Barnes-Finchley?”

  A nudge in the shin from Georgiana, who sat on Elizabeth’s right, brought her attention back to the conversation.

  “You will have to excuse my niece, Lady Kimble,” Georgiana apologized. “She always gets a bit sleepy after dinner.” She gave Elizabeth a stern glance.

  Elizabeth forced a smile. The inheritance she had collected three months ago had provided enough for her, Georgiana and Nell to let a modest town house together and buy a few clothes and necessities. Georgiana, explaining that she had been out of the country on holiday, introduced Elizabeth to society as her niece, Lady Elizabeth Barnes-Finchley, recently returned from an extended stay on the Continent.

  Elizabeth wore a wedding ring, and gave out the story that her husband was in Italy attending to family investments. Posing as a married woman allowed her the freedom to move about in genteel society that an unwed lady wouldn’t enjoy—and mingling with the monied classes allowed her to learn what she needed to know about Montaigne, his business, and the comings and goings of his coaches.

  Georgiana had spent weeks teaching her the etiquette required of an aristocrat, but Elizabeth was having the deuce of a time just remembering to respond to her title. “I’m sorry. You were saying, Lady Kimble?”

  After supper the ladies had retired to the drawing room for tea and dessert, leaving the men to their port and political talk in the dining room.

  “I was saying…” Lady Kimble darted glances around them, her thin, sharp features and elaborately puffed coiffure making her look rather like an overly excited hedgehog. “Have you heard the latest about that outrageous Blackerby Swift?”

  “No, I haven’t.” Elizabeth surreptitiously checked the charming little pocket watch attached to the bottom of her fan. “Do tell me all about it.”

  It was almost nine, thank God. She and Georgiana would be leaving in an hour. She could hardly wait to change out of the stylish outfit she wore. The white lace at her elbows itched, her high-heeled shoes pinched, and the layers of petticoats were too warm for late June. And the thick cosmetics Nell had applied, to cover the circles under her eyes and add some color to her cheeks, only added to her discomfort.

  Even her hair hurt. Georgiana had devised a clever little chignon to disguise the fact that Elizabeth’s black tresses barely reached her shoulders, and it had involved a great deal of pulling and combing.

  “Well,” Lady Kimble began, speaking in a dramatic whisper. “Lady Hargreaves tells me—and she heard it straight from her lady’s maid, who heard it from the scullery girl, who got it directly from a groom—that Swift robbed the Duchess of Wembly last Saturday. Right in New Bond Street, in broad daylight, no less!”

  “Really?” Elizabeth tried to sound suitably shocked, and wondered how the devil such rumors got started. She hadn’t been anywhere near New Bond Street on Saturday. “How terrifying!”

  “Yes! And the latest word is that the scoundrel named himself after the Blackerby Arms, that inn up in Northampton that burned down last year and killed all those people. Well, there was even a rumor that he might be the son of Liam Blackerby, the innkeeper. But then I heard yesterday that it couldn’t be true, because the man didn’t have any sons.”

  “No,” Elizabeth said softly, her amusement fading. “Only daughters.”

  “What’s that?”

  Elizabeth caught herself. “You say he had only daughters?”

  “Yes, and a woman couldn’t possibly be responsible for the daring attacks this Swift has carried off. The name must have some other meaning for the ruffian.” Lady Kimble leaned in closer and lowered her voice further. “They say he’s quite handsome. It would be just too scandalous of course, but I for one would be willing to sacrifice a necklace or a few guineas for the chance to have, shall we say, a tête-à-tête with such a bold and handsome man. It would be quite a thrilling encounter! Can you imagine?”

  “Quite,” Georgiana said in the same whisper.

  “Yes, thrilling,” Elizabeth added.

  The woman giggled. “Oh, I am just too wicked for admitting all my secrets, aren’t I?”

  Elizabeth took a sip of her tea to conceal a frown. She was risking her life and this woman thought of the whole thing as an entertainment.

  When choosing her nom de guerre, she hadn’t realized the amount of attention Blackerby Swift would get from the newspapers—or that Londoners would make the connection with the inn in Northampton. But it was too late for regrets now. And she needed only a few more weeks to finish her revenge.

  To put Montaigne out of business, permanently. Stop him from ever hurting anyone else as he had hurt her.

  And put his ill-gotten riches to very good use.

  “My dear Lady Alden.” Lady Kimble turned to Georgiana. “You must tell me all about your holiday in France—that is where you have been since last summer?”

  Elizabeth felt her friend stiffen at the doubtful tone in Lady Kimble’s voice.

  “France and Italy, in fact,” Georgiana said smoothly. “Anthony took ill and we couldn’t return as soon as we’d planned. When he passed away, I decided to remain on the Continent for a time. I simply couldn’t face returning to London without him.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, I suppos
e the rumors are only malicious gossip.”

  “Rumors?” Georgiana asked lightly.

  “Rumors, my dear,” Lady Kimble said with a smug expression, “that when the viscount passed away, you did return and you were,” she lowered her voice again, “imprisoned upon your arrival. Something about your husband’s gambling debts. They say you sold all your possessions and still couldn’t repay them.”

  “Really, Lady Kimble.” Georgiana laughed, a long, rich chuckle that set the other woman back on her heels. “You know how stories start to fly when someone is absent from London for an extended time. I should think you would be able to sort such tales from the truth, my dear. I’ve always depended on you as such a reliable source.”

  Clearly embarrassed at being made light of, Lady Kimble fidgeted with her teacup. “Yes, well, certainly you may continue to do so. And you can also depend on me to quash that story if ever I hear it again.” Glancing around, she changed the subject. “Don’t you ladies find that these affairs are becoming dreadfully crowded? I remember when only those of prominent rank could secure the best invitations. Now it seems that being prominent in commerce is sufficient.” She made a sour face. “Appalling, if you ask me.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t hold back a pained sigh. She used to love nothing better than to spend hours talking with guests at her father’s inn, listening to tales of their travels, and to their debates about whatever issues were currently before Parliament. She had never attended school, but her education had been rich and varied.

  By contrast, the gossip that passed for conversation among the upper classes seemed petty and painfully dull. The women never discussed anything truly meaningful. She was about to excuse herself when a serving woman entered through a side door, carrying a small bundle wrapped in fine lawn and white lace. A curious murmur went through the room.

  “Come, ladies,” their hostess beckoned with a proud smile. “I know you are all eager to see how much little Alfred has grown since his christening.”

  “Oh, it’s the Marchioness’s new baby!” Lady Kimble set her cup aside and leapt up from the settee as quickly as her three-foot-wide pannier would allow. The women in the room converged on the nurse.

  Georgiana stood, but Elizabeth sat frozen, unable to move, unable to look away.

  Her friend’s ruddy features softened as she glanced down. “It’s all right, lamb, I’ll make your excuses.” Georgiana gently touched Elizabeth’s arm. “You go outside and catch your breath.”

  Elizabeth nodded gratefully, her throat so tight she couldn’t speak. She rose and exited the drawing room as inconspicuously as possible, relieved that she could no longer see the baby boy through the crowd of cooing women.

  Then the infant started to cry. The sound struck Elizabeth’s heart like a dagger.

  She slipped out the door and closed it, leaning against it for a moment while she fought back a rush of tears. Then she turned and hurried down the hallway toward the glass French doors at the back of the house, her steps echoing like pistol shots on the gleaming marble floor.

  On the terrace outside, she ran to the stone railing and grabbed onto it with both hands, gulping in aching breaths of the night air. Don’t think about it, she told herself fiercely. Don’t feel it.

  Six months had passed, but the pain was still there, just beneath the surface, threatening to overwhelm her. She didn’t dare give in to it, not certain she would be strong enough to survive it.

  Wiping at her eyes, she looked across the neatly trimmed lawns that covered acres of the Rowlands’ estate. The pathways and gardens had been thoughtfully lit with lamps so guests might admire the flowers. The smell of the burning oil mingled on the breeze with the scents of roses and cherry blossoms. Elizabeth spied a small gazebo on the far side of the grounds.

  She descended the long terrace steps and headed toward the little building, grateful for a rare chance to be alone.

  The gazebo turned out to be a small imitation temple, fashioned after the monuments of Greece. A large man-made pond flanked it on one side, a stand of Scotch pines on the other, carefully planted to look as if they grew there naturally. All false, Elizabeth thought as she walked to the edge of the water. She had quickly learned that nothing was as it seemed among the wealthy elite.

  Moonlight and the flickering oil lamps traced ribbons of silver fire across the glassy black surface of the pond. Ruffled by a breeze, her reflection shifted and scattered into dozens of bright pieces. Elizabeth put her hands over her face, blocking out the image of the splintering shards, trying to hold back tears.

  That was exactly how she felt—shattered. Some days, it seemed impossible to hold the pieces together.

  She was just as false as the temple or the pond. By day she masqueraded as Lady Elizabeth Barnes-Finchley, by night as Blackerby Swift. A slip in either disguise at any time could end her plans for Montaigne, and her life. She had dug herself into a pit of deception that she might never escape.

  But she could have no peace until Montaigne’s downfall quenched the need for retribution burning inside her.

  Until he paid for the innocent life he had taken.

  “Please don’t hide your face, Lady Barnes-Finchley,” a nasal voice requested from behind her. “It is far too lovely.”

  Startled, Elizabeth spun around. She groaned when she recognized the man approaching along the path. It was Lord Andrew something-or-other, an utter boor who had bothered her endlessly during supper. His round body was encased in yellow silk, and he wore a full-bottomed periwig topped by a black tricorne with a feather in it. He looked like a bumble bee flown astray.

  “Lord—er—Awkwright,” Elizabeth greeted him, trying very hard to remember what Georgiana had said about being cordial to the noble gentlemen she met, no matter how much she might dislike their imperious attitudes.

  “Arkwright, my lady,” he corrected.

  The smell of the perfumed pomatum in his wig smothered the pleasant scents in the air. Elizabeth retreated to the far side of the temple. “Have the men finished their port already?”

  “No, but I happened to glance out the window, and thought I saw a lady out here. It is dangerous to walk about unescorted at night, Lady Barnes-Finchley. One never knows what sort of ruffians one might encounter out here in the country.”

  Elizabeth frowned. Ruffians didn’t scare her. Growing up in an inn, she had encountered more than a few in her lifetime—and learned how to take care of herself. The only “sort” she had to worry about was his sort: preening lords with liquor on their breath, long on lust and short on scruples. “I am quite well, I assure you, Lord Arkwright. I wish to be left alone.”

  Oh Lawks, was that too abrupt? She decided she didn’t care. She was doing her best to follow all the rules of propriety Georgiana had taught her, but sometimes it was asking too much.

  He sidled up next to her, and Elizabeth found herself with no place left to retreat but the trees.

  “I simply cannot leave you out here alone. However,” he let his voice trail off suggestively, “if you do not wish to return to the party, my lady, I should be only too happy to offer my carriage.”

  Elizabeth almost slapped him, but couldn’t remember if that was allowed in this situation or not. She had no interest in any sort of liaison with any man—especially not with an arrogant nobleman. “I remind you, sir, that I am a married woman.”

  “Yes, and I am certain your husband would thank me for seeing to your safety, were he here.”

  “Thank you for the generous offer, Lord Awkwright.” She purposely mispronounced his name. “But I really do wish to be alone.”

  He moved closer. “Come, now, Lady Barnes-Finchley—may I call you Elizabeth?—allow me to escort you to my carriage.”

  “No,” she said firmly. She wished she had her pistol. “You are too kind.”

  He suddenly grabbed her shoulders and stood on tiptoe. “I insist.”

  A voice startled them both before he could kiss her. It came from the evergreens behind he
r—deep and resonant, like a rumble of thunder in the silence of a sultry night, just before a storm. “The lady wishes to be left alone.”

  Elizabeth pushed free of the surprised Lord Arkwright and looked into the stand of Scotch pines. She found herself staring at a man she had never seen before. He drifted silently out of the trees, a shadow, then more than a shadow, as if God had breathed hot, vital life into a slice of the night sky.

  His muscular frame was rather alarming in its powerful lines, and a dark cloak fluttered about his back and shoulders. Elizabeth instinctively moved away, feeling a warm prickle of danger up the nape of her neck as he came forward with confident steps.

  “Darkridge.” Lord Arkwright spat the name as if it were a curse. “I don’t remember your being invited here. There are penalties for trespassing, you know.”

  The stranger walked to the little Greek temple and leaned against one of its pillars, his gaze never leaving Elizabeth. He looked as solid and unmovable as the column of stone. “Calling me out, Arkwright?”

  Tearing her attention from the stranger, Elizabeth looked at her supper companion and saw fear in his face. He had, in fact, blanched to a shade lighter than his starched cravat. “No,” he replied. “Certainly not.”

  “Then I suggest you return to your tea and cakes inside.”

  Lord Arkwright muttered something under his breath that Elizabeth couldn’t quite make out, though it almost sounded like bloody murderer. He held out his arm. “Come, Lady Barnes-Finchley.”

  “She stays,” Darkridge said.

  “I am not leaving this lady alone in your company.”

  “I think you will.” Darkridge turned a hard, unyielding stare on the other man.

  Arkwright tugged at his cravat, clearing his throat. Then with a quick, apologetic bow to Elizabeth, he made a hasty retreat.

  “Lord Arkwright! Wait!” Elizabeth started after him. She couldn’t believe the coward would so quickly abandon her to this… this… Lord knew what sort of man.

  “Don’t go.”

  The stranger’s words were not a command, but a request, his voice low and thoroughly unnerving. Her heart beating too fast, Elizabeth turned and started to speak, then forgot what she had been about to say.