Pale Moon Rider (50 page)

It had been a small traveling chariot drawn by a pair of match
ed grays. It boasted one postill
ion, a driver, and a liveried coachman, none of them too alert.

He had waited until they were abreast then spurred Ares out of the shadows. He had cocked and fired one of the flintlocks into the air as a warning, and at his shout to stand and deliver, he heard a scream inside the coach and a cry from the outrider who nearly toppled out of his saddle in his haste to rein in.

“This is a robbery, gentlemen,” Tyrone had snarled. “If you know what is best, you will lay down your arms and do nothing to tempt me to shoot off the tops of your heads.”

There was another shriek from inside the coach, but he had ignored it, waiting until the driver had thrown his musket and handgun over the side of the box. The outrider seemed frozen in place, but thawed quickly when the pistols were trained in his direction.

“It’s Captain Starlight,” he had cried, owl-eyed with fear. “It’s Captain Starlight! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Then he had thrown his weapons onto the road as if they were red hot and searing holes in his flesh.

Tyrone had turned his attention to the narrow door. “Inside! I am not a patient man tonight. Do not make me ask twice.”

The door was flung open and a young man of about twenty years disembarked, his face looking ruddy with indignation even in the dim glow of the lamp. His companion was an equally young, fresh-faced girl in evening dress, sobbing and terrified.

“I demand you let us pass,” the young man had declared. “My wife and I have done you no ill will.”

“You are on my road,” was Tyrone’s answer. “That is ill will enough. But I will overlook the offense if the weight of your purse is convincing.”

“Y—you are a bounder, sir!”

“I’ll not sleep tonight, knowing that.”

“M—my purse is in the coach. I—I have to fetch it.”

Tyrone had jerked the nose of the snaphaunce to indicate consent, shaking his head as the earnest young fool reached inside and bravely produced a pistol instead. By the time the valiant groom had balanced the weight of it in his hand and swung the weapon around, Tyrone had fired again, the flash of powder preceding the cannon-like explosion in the darkness.

“You didn’t kill him, did you?”
Dudley
asked, drawing Tyrone’s stare away from the window.

“No, I didn’t kill him; I just gave him a sting in his fingers. But I made him hand over his pathetic little purse with his fourteen shillings. His wife was weeping all the time, begging him to do whatever I asked if I would only let them pass unharmed. They were hardly more than children and there I was waving my guns around and scaring them half to death for fourteen shillings.”

He took a deep swallow of the brandy and faced the window again. What he did not tell
Dudley
was that he had very nearly gone back and returned the miserable pouch. He had ridden away with the image of the child-woman’s face twisted with fear and he had had a sudden glimpse into the future, seeing himself as the one who was a hundred years old with nothing to show for it but a reputation for terrifying helpless young lovers.

He should have gotten out of this business a long time ago. He should have just taken his profits, boarded a ship—bought a damned ship for that matter—and pursued his quest for adventure elsewhere, if that was what he needed.

If that was what he needed?

Now where had that damned thought come from? He was a thief, for Christ’s sake. A highwayman, a rogue, a heretic who lived from one breath to the next and thrived on danger and deception! What was the alternative? A cozy home, a warm hearth, a wife and—and seven mewling children clinging to his ankles at every turn?

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head as he stared out at the darkness. The thought of respectability, of hearth and home, had never even occurred to him as the faintest, most distant possibility. Not until he had stood in the shadows and watched a half-naked French beauty walk through a path of moonlight to press her hand against a windowpane. The look on her face had been one of such utter sadness and loneliness, he had almost forgotten why he was there. And when he had kissed her, he had forgotten why he had to leave.

His instincts had warned him then and he had ignored them. They were warning him now, and, as he turned and hurled the half-empty glass into the fireplace, he knew he was going to ignore them again.

Dudley
stared calmly at the spray of shattered glass and the sudden burst of flames where the liquor splashed the burning logs. “What did Roth demand?”

“The jewels, the pearl. Me.”

Dudley
almost missed it. “You?”

“And a full confession in writing or he sets Vincent’s hounds loose on Renée and her brother.”

“And in exchange?”

“The three of them go free, with full pard
ons.”

“Do you believe him?”

“No farther than I can smell him. But if I go through with it, he will have to agree to some of my nonnegotiable terms, such as the time and place for the exchange, the proceedings witnessed by an officer of my choosing who will respect the terms of the agreement even if the colonel does not.”

“Roth will never agree to all that.”

“If he wants me badly enough, he will. And I made sure he will want me badly enough.”

Dudley
started to rake a hand through his hair, but stopped halfway, leaving one tarnished lock flopped over his eye. “What do you mean … if you go through with it?”

“I don’t really see that we have another choice, do you?”

“We can hire some men of our own and when Roth shows up, we grab the old man and show them our dust.”

“How far would we get? An old man, a young boy, two women—one of them pregnant—me not in peak form and you …”

“A cripple?”

Tyrone frowned. “I was not going to say that. But you have to admit we would make for an easily identifiable group of travelers.”

“Well, there must be something we can do!”

“I gave my word.”

“What?”

“I gave Roth my word. If he met all my conditions, I would meet his.”

Dudley
glared and pointed his finger. “You’re not thinking clearly, that’s your problem. Two weeks ago, this would never have happened. You would have laughed, spit in Roth’s face, and blown a hole in his scrawny chest.”

“Two weeks ago, you were the one laughing. Your fondest wish, if I recall correctly, was to be able to say ’I told you so,’ that one day someone would get far enough under my skin I wouldn’t be able to get her out. Well, I am admitting it. It has happened. And the only thing I am thinking about now is how to get her out of harm’s way and guarantee her safety.”

“At the cost of your freedom? Your life?”

“I gave him my word,” Tyrone repeated tautly. “Something I have bandied about all too freely these past few years. Something that has not meant too much either until recently.”

Dudley
stared, too shocked to answer for a full minute. “This is a hell of a time to turn noble on us. And what about Miss d’Anton? How impressed do you think she will be when she finds out what you plan to do?”

“She isn’t going to find out,” Tyrone insisted quietly. “Not now. Not ever. I’ll want your word on that, Robbie. I do not want her to have any reason to doubt we will all be together tomorrow, toasting yet anot
her triumph at Roth’s expense.”

“But—”

“She is young, she is beautiful. She will survive. These past two weeks have been an infatuation, like playing; with fire, and she will get over it. I doubt it would have worked out anyway. I could hardly have expected her to—to …”

“Love you just for the surly, mean-spirited bastard you are?”
Dudley
supplied dryly.

Tyrone’s eyes narrowed. “Among other things.”

“One of those being, of course, the lack of blue in your blood?”

“It does pose a certain barrier.”

“When she was standing over you in the tower room, aiming a gun at the door, prepared to fire on anyone who entered, I did not get the impression she cared too much about her rank in society, or anyone else’s.”

“It is a moot point,” Tyrone countered evenly. “I have made up my mind.”

“Aye, well, it’s not like you to just give up so easily. Dammit, you can’t just walk up to Roth with your tail between your legs and offer up your neck to the noose!”

“I have no intentions of dying at the end of a rope. Not if I can help it.”

“Well thank God for that!”

“Actually, I have always found the thought of hanging quite offensive. I would much prefer to end it with a bullet through the head or a blade through the heart.”

“Marvelous.”
Dudley
threw up his hands in exasperation. “You’re going to meet him with your chest bared and large bulls
-
eye painted over your heart?”

Expecting some sort of wry retort, Robbie lowered his hands and stared at the somber expression on Tyrone’s face. “You can’t be serious.”

“If I anger him enough, he might just offer me the opportunity to take him with me.”

“He is a crack shot and a master swordsman. He has fought a dozen duels that we know about and never lost one yet.”

“I did not say I would beat him, just that I would relish the chance to damage him a little.”

“You do realize we are standing here calmly discussing the method of your suicide?”

“Would you prefer ranting and foaming at the mouth? Would it change anything?”

Dudley
’s shoulders drooped. “No, probably not. But it might make me feel better.”

Tyrone came around from behind the desk and clapped his hand on Robbie’s shoulder. “Don’t feel bad, old friend, and don’t get maudlin on me either. We
have
had a good run at it. And we both knew it was bound to end one way or another. Just promise me you will take care of Renée and the boy. And for God’s sake, make an honest woman out of Maggie before she poisons you in one of her fey fits.”

Dudley
could not even muster the imitation of a smile. “What are you going to tell Miss d’Anton?”

“Nothing. Only that I am taking Roth a sackful of ill-gotten gains and exchanging them for Finn.”

Robbie looked intently into the pale gray eyes and cursed. “Of all the bloody, useless wastes …”

Tyrone clapped his shoulder again and returned to the desk. “I’d best start writing before the entire discussion becomes irrelevant. Maybe you could ask Maggie to mix me up some of her special Irish? I’ve never penned a confession before; am I expected to list all my past indiscretions or only the highlights of a blazingly successful career?”

Robbie shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. He quickly exited the library, his limp more pronounced than usual, and when he was gone, Tyrone felt his shoulders sag. Alone, he turned to the window, his fists clenched so tightly by his sides the knuckles threatened to pop through the skin.

He was still seated at the desk writing when Renée found him two hours later. She had obviously been sleeping; her face bore pink creases and her hair hung in a loose, fat plait over one shoulder. She was wearing his Chinese silk robe, and because the hem was so long and dragged behind her, he could see glimpses of pale white legs peeping through the edges as she walked across the room. It was equally apparent that she was wearing nothing underneath and watching her approach, Tyrone suffered a painful tightness in his chest, a sensation he was coming to realize had nothing to do with his wound or the rigid layers of bandaging.

“I fell asleep in the chair,” she confessed. “When I woke and you were not there—”

Tyrone gathered up the sheets of paper that were in front of him and stacked them neatly before placing them in a leather folder. “I would have been up in a minute or two. I was … just writing out some letters for business associates. I am still the Surveyor of turnpikes, until tomorrow, anyway, and there were some things—”

“Did you find Roth? Did you meet with him?”

She was close enough for him to reach out and invite her gently forward onto his lap. “I did, and I did. Everything is arranged.”

“He is going to set Finn free?”

“He wanted a bit more than I went prepared to give him, but,” he shrugged, “in the end, we agreed on a price. All that is left to do is arrange where to make the exchange and you shall have your Mr. Finn back.”

“And Roth?”

“Roth … will be a very rich man.”

“That was all he wanted? Money?”

“Were you under the mistaken impression he was dedicated to his profession?” She was looking so intently into his eyes, he was afraid she was detecting something he could not control, and with a sigh he added, “I do have a bit of bad news for you, however. It seems your uncle has gone back to
London
already, hell-bent on clearing out his vaults before the firm hand of the law steps in and starts asking too many questions.”

“Can he do this?”