At the Highwayman's Pleasure (20 page)

‘I was never more relieved than when I saw you leave Weston’s house,’ he told her, masking his concern with a tone of indifference.

‘No more so than I,’ she responded feelingly.

There was a hectic flush upon her cheeks and her eyes looked overbright. He wanted to fold her in his arms and tell her she was safe, but that could not be. If their suspicions were correct and they could prove Phineas to be a villain, then perhaps... He dare not even think so far ahead.

He suggested the maid should go into the kitchen, then turned back to Charity.

‘Let us go into the house and you can tell me all about it. I left instructions for a fire to be kindled in my study, and refreshments to be waiting there for us—ratafia or brandy. I thought you might need something stronger than tea.’

They did not speak again until they reached his study. Ross went over to the side table, where decanters were set out in readiness, and as he filled two glasses he watched Charity from the corner of his eye. She paced about the little room, stripping off her gloves and then pulling them through her hands with quick, nervous gestures.

‘My father has done very well for himself since I left home,’ she said at last. ‘His house is overstuffed with every fashionable thing! Even my new stepmama is dressed in the highest kick of fashion, and very unbecomingly, too!’

She broke off, sending him a glance full of apology but he shrugged.

‘You may say what you like about Hannah. It is a long time since I thought of her with anything other than abhorrence.’

‘She is very pretty, but there is a hardness about her, a calculating look in her eye.’

‘She is a good mate for your father, then.’

He was pleased to hear her laugh, so much more natural than the brittle smile she had given him upon her arrival.

‘Yes, I think you are right. He will not be able to bully her as he did his other wives.’

‘And you had the opportunity to see the layout of the house?’

Her answering look positively brimmed with mischief.

‘Better than that. The diversion we planned worked very well. I was in the study when your messenger called, and Hannah was obliged to leave me alone for a while, but she thought I was reading from the Bible.’ Again she laughed, the sound raising his spirits like sunshine. ‘I gave a performance worthy of the great Sarah Siddons herself. I rattled off Psalm Thirty-two in the grand manner. I am not Phineas Weston’s daughter for nothing, and the psalms were drummed into me from an early age. However, it is fortunate that my new stepmama is not so familiar with the Bible as Phineas, for I pretended it had opened fortuitously at the Psalms, when in fact I was looking at Deuteronomy!’

She sank down in a chair beside the fire and accepted a glass of ratafia. Ross frowned when he saw the way her hands were shaking.

‘I should never have let you go there. It was not necessary—’

‘Oh, but it was for me. How can I be free of my past until I have faced it?’ Her smile widened. ‘And I have the letter.’

‘You stole it! But when Phineas discovers that—’

‘No, no, I knew if I took it that Phineas would notice and be on his guard.’ She laughed and pointed to her head. ‘It is in here. I memorised it. Now bring me paper and a pen and I shall write it all down for you.’

Chapter Ten

T
he sun was high in the cloudless blue sky when Ross rode into Scarborough. The restless waves of the German Ocean danced and glittered in the distance, and brought back all the old longing for the naval career that had been snatched away from him. Regret, bitter as gall, rose in his throat, but he forced it down. No point in worrying about what was past. It was the future that concerned him now, a future that might—if everything worked out—include Charity Weston.

During his ride to the coast he had recalled their evening together, how he had watched her as she sat at his desk, furiously writing down the letter she had memorised. She’d been too engrossed to look up and catch him off guard. He’d made the most of the opportunity, taking in the full glory of that shining hair, the long curling lashes that swept down over her eyes, the straight little nose and determined chin.

He’d wanted to kiss every part of her beautiful face, but most of all he’d wanted to kiss her mouth, to taste her again as he had in her dressing room, when her inexpert but fervent response had fired him with desire. He’d known other women, but none had roused him in quite the same way. He had watched her as she bent over the paper, and had thought how comfortable it was to have her with him. If only he could keep her there.

But what did he have to offer, save a crumbling estate and a drawer full of debts? Even if he could prove that Phineas was a spy, his own circumstances would not change. He remembered turning his eyes to the smoke-grimed ceiling, thinking he must be the most ineligible bachelor in Allingford.

Then some slight sound had brought his attention back to the table to see Charity sitting back in her chair, a little smile playing about those luscious red lips.

‘That is it. Complete, verbatim.’

She had covered two sheets of paper with elegant, sloping letters.

‘Surely not. How can you recall everything in such detail?’

‘It is a gift I have always had, to be able to read something and remember it easily, and my years in the theatre have only made it stronger. Trust me, this is word for word what was said in the letter.’

Trust me.
He stared out now across the sunlit waves, smiling at the memory of Charity sitting in his chair, at his desk. His glorious golden girl. A cloud blocked the sun and the sudden chill brought him back to reality. She was not his and never would be, not while her father held such power.

He stabled his horse and made his way to a neat little house in a quiet side street, where he was informed by a bobbing maid that Captain Armstrong had gone to the spa to take the waters and had not yet returned. The delay was frustrating, but Ross realised it could have been worse, since his friend might well have left Scarborough without informing him. He therefore went off to while away a couple hours in the company of the seamen at the harbour.

* * *

When he returned to the house some hours later the same little maid informed him that Captain Armstrong was expecting him. He was shown into a small but comfortable parlour, where he found his friend sitting in a chair beside the window.

‘No, no, John, don’t get up,’ said Ross quickly, coming into the room.

‘Don’t think I could if I tried,’ came the laughing reply. ‘My energy is spent after going to the spa!’

‘You are taking the waters, I believe,’ said Ross, pulling up a chair. ‘Is that aiding your recovery?’

‘Aye, it’s kill or cure, my friend. Have you seen the place? The spring is at the bottom of a cliff. It’s ironic that one needs to be fit as a fiddle to get up and down all the damned steps! But enough of this—tedious stuff, to be talking of one’s ailments. Tell me instead what brings you back to Scarborough again so soon.’

‘A serious matter, John. You’ve stood by me since I left the navy in disgrace, so I wanted your opinion.’ Ross frowned. ‘All the way here I have been wondering how much to tell you,’ he said heavily. ‘It will make no sense unless you know the whole—’

‘Wait.’ John stopped him with an imperious hand. ‘Is this going to take long? Hmm, and if it is serious, too, then we will need to refresh ourselves. Will brandy suit you, or would you prefer grog?’

Having called to his maidservant to bring in the brandy bottle, the captain poured a generous helping into two glasses and handed one to Ross, commanding him sternly to tell him everything and look lively about it.

* * *

‘So there you have it,’ said Ross, some time later. ‘You may brand me for a villain, John, but my deeds pale into nothing compared to what I believe Weston is involved in.’

‘I’ll brand thee a fool,’ growled the captain. ‘Taking to highway robbery is the road to the gallows, nothing more, but I admit this Weston sounds a nasty piece. Never did like preachers using the Lord’s word to justify their bullying ways. But you say he’s been corresponding with someone in Yarmouth?’

‘Aye, someone purporting to be his brother, although Char—Mrs Weston says her father is an only child.’ Ross drew a folded paper from his coat and held it out. ‘This is the copy she made of the last letter we know of, the one that arrived for Weston two days ago.’

He waited in silence while his friend took out his spectacles and read the document.

‘And you think this is all coded references to the military preparations?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ replied Ross. ‘Weston has no Cousin George and the family he says are gathering in Yarmouth could well refer to soldiers and ships.’ He saw the frowning look in his friend’s eyes and gave a snort of impatience. ‘Come, John, any naval man worthy of the name would know that Yarmouth is the ideal place from which to launch an attack upon Bonaparte’s northern fleet. And look at the names he cites—he says Richard and Robert are in town. Captains Dacres and Stopford, perhaps? And he says Uncle Sam is expected any day—that could be Commodore Sir Samuel Hood. And his very last line—he says James is expected to organise the festivities and he will advise him of the arrangements! If that isn’t a reference to Admiral James Gambier and the date he plans to sail, I don’t know what is.’

John returned his frowning gaze to the paper.

‘It
could
be so and you make a good case for it, Ross, but—’

He broke off, shaking his head, and Ross said sharply, ‘Well? Out with it, man.’

John took off his spectacles and fixed Ross with a solemn gaze.

‘This is not proof, Ross, it is no more than hearsay, since it was written out by Weston’s daughter. Have you considered that this young lady—if she is so estranged from her father as you suggest—might be seeking to punish him? She may have made it all up—’

‘No, never!’

‘Let us say she embellished it, then. Do you truly believe that she read this letter only once and remembered it all so perfectly?’

‘Remembering lines is her trade.’

John sat back in his chair, smiling slightly.

‘I know. I saw her when she played in Scarborough last year and was captivated. She is certainly a beauty, Ross, but for all that, can you trust her?’

‘With my life, sir.’

The two men stared at each other while the longcase clock in the corner ticked slowly. At last John Armstrong nodded and looked back at the letter.

‘I had word from London only yesterday that Bonaparte crushed the Russians in a sea battle at Friedland. The Czar must now sue for peace, of course. We did send a fleet to hit the French lines of communication, but we were too late, dammit, and Bonaparte will use the fact that we did not come to the aid of our allies to blacken our name. Perhaps I should not be sharing this with you, but I’ve no doubt it will be in all the newspapers in a day or two.’ He tapped the paper in his hand. ‘The reference here to his previous correspondence and “Cousin George” sending some of the family ahead of him two weeks ago might refer to the contingent that set sail from Yarmouth in mid-June—the timing is certainly correct.’ He paused again, frowning over the letter. ‘Very well. Leave this with me. I shall take it to those who will know better than I if there is something amiss here.’

‘Would you like
me
to—?’

‘No, no, my boy, just because I haven’t yet regained my sea legs doesn’t mean I can’t travel at speed.’ John heaved himself out of his chair. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I must make my arrangements. You take yourself back to Wheelston and sit tight.’ He held out his hand, gripping Ross’s fingers tightly and giving him a faint smile. ‘Pity you are no longer in the navy, Durden. Your talents are sadly missed.’

* * *

Charity could find no rest. She prowled around the little house in North Street, jumping at every noise outside the door, hoping it might be Ross.

‘Although why you should expect him I don’t know,’ she told her reflection when she went upstairs to change her gown. ‘He said he would not come, not yet.’

But remembering that last, lingering look he had given her when she had left Wheelston, she hoped—prayed—that he would not be able to stay away.

She was engaged to dine with Hywel that night at Beverley House, where her hostess had promised her a quiet evening.

‘Just the four of us,’ said Lady Beverley, when she welcomed Charity into the drawing room. ‘I hope you do not mind.’

‘No, indeed, ma’am,’ Charity assured her, relieved that she would not be expected to converse with dozens of people when her mind wanted to dwell only upon one dark individual.

‘And we shall not be keeping late hours,’ added Hywel. ‘Mrs Weston must be at her best for her benefit evening at the end of the week.’

‘Ah, yes, of course,’ murmured Sir Mark. ‘What is it you are doing again?’

‘We are replaying
The Rivals
,’ said Hywel. ‘We opened the season with it.’

‘Ah, yes, of course, of course. Lady Beverley and I will be there to see it, will we not, my love? I have no doubt the house will be packed for Mrs Weston’s last performance of the season.’

‘We shall see.’ Charity smiled. ‘At this time of the year no doubt many people will have moved away for the summer.’

‘Not from Allingford,’ said Lady Beverley comfortably. ‘In town, perhaps, there is some reason for moving out of the heat, but not here. We are all very happy to stay at home, save for those who are gone to try a little sea bathing.’

They went into dinner and Charity made an effort to converse freely, although part of her mind was constantly thinking of Ross, remembering that parting kiss and wondering how soon he would return to her. She managed to keep up her cheerful pretence until the end of the evening, when the tea tray was brought in, but being allowed a few moments to herself, her mind wandered off again.

It had been very late by the time she finished writing out the contents of the letter for Ross, but he had refused to let her stay in his house until the morning.

‘I would not be able to keep away from you,’ he’d told her, the look in his eyes sending a delicious shiver running down her spine.

She had dared to tell him that she would not wish him to do so, but although he had laughed at that and kissed her, he’d been adamant.

‘You must go back to Allingford and act as if you had not seen me. Every time we meet increases the chances of discovery.’

‘We could go away from here, far away, where it would not matter—’

‘No.’ Ross held her away from him. ‘I will not do that to you. You said yourself you were tired of being a fugitive, always looking over your shoulder.’

‘Rather that than I should lose you for ever,’ she had begged him, but she did not care. When she’d put her hand up to his cheek he had covered it with his own, pulling it down to his mouth to press a kiss into the palm.

‘There,’ he had said, folding her fingers over the spot where she could still feel the burn of his lips. ‘Hold that for me until I can come to you again.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Take this letter to a friend who will know how to use it against Phineas.’

‘And if it isn’t enough?’ She’d clung to him. ‘Will you give up your quest for justice and come away with me?’

‘Perhaps, but let us hope this letter will do the trick. It may take me a while to discover how best to proceed and it will be safer if we do not meet again until I know how the land lies. Now, let us find your maid. You must go home.’

He had escorted them to the front door, but when Betty walked out to the gig he had pulled Charity back into the shadows and wrapped her in his arms, kissing her long and deep. Charity had responded, holding him close, but when he’d raised his head she had not pulled him down again, accepting that they must part, at least for now.

‘Well, Mrs Weston, what is your opinion?’

Charity stared blankly at Sir Mark. She had no idea what he had just said to her. She smiled sweetly and was about to beg his pardon when they were interrupted by a knock on the door and the butler walked in. He approached his master and held out a silver tray, upon which lay a sealed paper.

‘What’s this?’ demanded Sir Mark testily. He fixed his eyeglass in place and picked up the letter. ‘Hmm, now who is sending me messages at this time o’night?’

Lady Beverley handed a cup to Charity, saying with her easy smile, ‘Being a magistrate’s wife, one grows accustomed to a constant flow of letters that cut up one’s peace.’

‘But not this time,’ declared Sir Mark. He held the paper out to Hywel. ‘Good news, I think. We may feel more comfortable when we travel in future.’

Lady Beverley looked up. ‘Oh, why is that, my love? What does it say, Mr Jenkin?’

‘It is a note from Mr Weston.’ Hywel flicked a quick glance at Charity. ‘It seems he has caught the Dark Rider.’

‘And you will never guess who it is,’ added Sir Mark, his bright eyes twinkling. ‘Mr Ross Durden, no less!’

It was all Charity could do not to drop the fine porcelain cup when Sir Mark made that announcement. Years of acting and self-control came to her aid. She sank down in her seat, praying that her hands would not shake and make the cup rattle in its saucer.

‘Good heavens,’ she said lightly. ‘Does he give any details?’

Hywel handed the paper back to Sir Mark, who shrugged.

‘Merely to say the fellow is safely in the lock-up. I suppose Weston will deal with him tomorrow.’