The Highwayman's Mistress (7 page)

 
“She has never said how her brother died.
But a duel to the death?”

 
“It was her choice, and her brother duelled
accordingly.”

 
“Poor mother, so in love, and so jealous of
another woman she wanted your father dead, and instead lost her brother.”

 
He hugged her, a reassuring hug. “That is
why you can be sure I will not betray you. For you have, I think, that same
jealous streak running through your veins. I have not forgotten the look you
cast at every woman spied on my arm at the
Élysée
Palace.”

 
“I may have been a little jealous, but I
would not
 
. . . did not wish you dead
because of your philandering.”

 
“Philandering?” He laughed out loud. “And
what would your mother accuse me of, if she knew the truth about us?”

 
“She’d declare you nothing less than a
rake.”

 
He hugged her so tight it stole her breath,
and she almost tripped over his feet. “It matters not what your mother may
think of me, you’re mine now.”

 
She loved those words:
you’re mine now
.
She loved his arms about her, and in her heart knew he meant every word, but
how would her mother react if Leohne let slip word of Francois residency at Park
House?

Chapter Eight

~

Sat on the terrace,
parasol to hand shading sun from her face, she savoured the peace and
tranquillity of the scene before her. She watched the swans idling on the lake,
dipping their beaks below the surface then preening. Or was it a lover’s mating
dance, for the male seemed to be edging ever closer to the female, his actions
becoming more exaggerated.

 
Her thoughts idled, too; the masked ball
that evening drifted to the forefront of her mind. Thrilled with her gown,
thrilled at the prospect of a secret liaison with Francois, she hoped and
prayed he would be returned from London in time. Though why he frequented the
city quite so often remained a mystery, for he never discussed business except
to say he’d purchased several pieces of land and a house soon to be his. Where
she knew not, nor did Angelica, but he had promised Richard they would be gone
from Park House within the month.

 
“Diamonta, Diamonta,” squealed Leohne,
rushing from the house. “Mother has just returned from town, and you will never
believe what has happened.”

 
“Oh do stop dramatising and just tell me.”

 
“Well, it seems a highwayman was shot today.”

 
Her heart lurched. “
Our
highwayman?”

 
“No one knows for sure. He was shot on the
London road not far beyond Malmesbury.”

 
“Killed?” Oh God, please, let it not be
Francois.

 
“No, not dead. He escaped, but it was said
he near fell from his horse so it was thought he was badly wounded.”

 
Sense of nausea and dizziness overwhelmed
her. She dared not stand, dared not display any sense of concern as to the
highwayman’s welfare, yet her need to know finite details of the man’s escape
was a must. “Who shot him, and which way did he go?”

 
“In this direction, I suppose, because
mother said a horseman rode past her carriage at the gallop and barely keeping
to his saddle. It wasn’t until she reached town she discovered what had
occurred a few miles ahead of her.”

 
Oh Francois, what have you done?

 
“Diamonta, are you all right, you’ve turned
as white as the sheets on our beds.”

 
“I have a bit of head pain, and need to go
and lie down for a while.”

~~

It was wonderful to see
lanterns lit and hanging within trees in the garden, and Park House gilded with
light from glittering chandeliers, and beautiful gowns and glorious masks, but
it all paled when one felt as alone as she did.

 
It was almost midnight and still Francois
remained absent. Where was he? Had he been shot and now hiding somewhere, or
might he be lying dead on a bridleway? She could leave she supposed, unnoticed,
but where to look for him was the burning question. She had already taken to
her horse and ridden several bridleways, but had to return to home to prepare
for the ball.

 
She glanced at her mother and Leohne, at
that moment fussing around Richard. Unfortunately, he’d fallen from his horse
and injured his shoulder whilst out riding that very morning and hadn’t wanted
to dance with Leohne. Not that her sister seemed to mind and had danced all
evening with anyone and everyone who’d asked her, and even now she was about to
desert him for a young hussar officer.

 
Bad shoulder or not, there was no reason why
Richard could not dance, or at least promenade around the dancers or take a
stroll in the garden. What possible motive could he have for letting Leohne
dance at will with whomever asked her?

 
She hurried toward him and caught up his
uninjured arm. “I promised you this dance.” Ignoring his polite protest she
dragged him into the fray, her mother aghast at her shameless behaviour. “Put
your good arm about me. Pretend to dance and then we can retire to the outer
salon. I can see you’re as bored as I.”

 
She noted her mother in conversation with
Lady Fortnum and barely a glance in their direction, as though her brazen
behaviour was forgotten already. About to ask Richard a leading question about
Francois, he declared in hushed tone, “I think I’m bleeding.”

 
“Bleeding?”

 
“I have a wound in my shoulder, and I swear
blood is running down my arm.”

 
She instinctively glanced the length of his
arm to hand, and indeed his fingers were blooded and blood dripping to the
floor. “Oh Lord.” She snatched his lace-trimmed kerchief from his sleeve, and
discreetly wrapped it around his hand to cover his blooded fingers. “Just keep
walking toward the garden doors.”

 
“Damn fool, I’ve been such a damn fool,” he
said, as they hurried out into the cool night air, stars in abundance and as
yet no moon. “We can go round to the stables and perhaps slip back into the
house unseen.”

 
They quickly made their way around the house
aided by light casting through windows, and she asked, “How did you come by
this injury?”

 
“How do you think I got it?”

 
“I don’t want to think, I want you to tell
me.”

 
“You’ve guessed, have you not, that I’ve
been less than honest of late.”

 
“Oh Richard. I cannot imagine why you even
considered such reckless behaviour.”

 
“I confess I’ve led a life of subterfuge for
so long now, the thought of settling down as mere husband and landowner fills
me with dread. Yes, I love Leohne with all my heart, but I am a man who thrives
on danger and the thrill of it all.”

 
“Yes, but to scare poor old Lady Fortnum by
holding up her coach, although quite funny, she could well have died from
fright.”

 
“I am an adventurer, Diamonta. All those
times I travelled to France I went there to spy, to gather information for
England and our allies. Damn it, a peasant uprising in one country can easily
spread to another in much the same way French and Italian fashion has
influenced you ladies for years. To be forewarned is to be forearmed and ready
to counter any sway toward revolt by the people. History could easily repeat
itself, and royal heads thence to the block or hangman’s noose here in
England.”

 
They rounded the side of the house the
stable yard before them, dark except for light casting outward from kitchen
windows and rear door left ajar. “How are we to get past the servants?”

 
He chuckled despite his injury and obvious
pain in shoulder, and said, “ We go in heads held high and then we duck up the
back staircase to my bed chamber.” Which they did, and bar for one servant and
two party guests sneaking from a bedchamber no one said or seemed to notice
anything untoward as they hurried past.

 
Grabbing a candelabrum in passing, ablaze
with fresh candles, he urged her to open his bedchamber door. Once inside she
took it from him and proceeded to light as many candles as she could find,
whilst he set to in relieving himself of his blue damask coat, a bright red
patch just below his shoulder now evident upon sleeve. But when it came to
hefting his coat from injured shoulder he winced and cursed all in one breath.
She took it upon herself to assist in its removal, and to her horror, found his
shirtsleeve streaked with blood and waistcoat blood soaked.

 
“Oh God, it’s bleeding badly.”

 
“It’s not as bad as it looks, and I need to
bind it again,” he said, as she again assisted in removal of his upper
clothing. “It’s only a flesh wound.”

 
She untied a knot, which secured tight linen
binding and then unwound it from his shoulder, the proximity of half naked man
the least of her worries. “It’s a deep wound, Richard, really deep.”

 
“It’ll not kill me. I’ve suffered worse.” He
rushed across to his washing bowl and with china ewer poured water enough to
bathe his wound and arm. “I’ve always appreciated your company, Diamonta, and
hope I have not jeopardised our friendship, now that you know the truth of what
I am and what I’ve done.”

 
“I am your friend, and will remain so. But
please,
promise
me,
promise
you will not commit highway robbery
again. Not for my sake, for Leohne’s sake.”

 
“I promise,” he said, dabbing his wound with
a drying cloth. “In the chest drawer. Top one. There’s more binding. I cannot,
however, promise against return to that of government spy.”

 
“At least that is honourable, even if of a
secretive nature.” She retrieved a fresh bandage for him, and rebound his
shoulder. “That’s better, now let’s get you dressed again. Where do you keep
clean shirts? ”

 
“Third drawer down of chest. “He caught her
arm, preventing movement. “Have you wondered how Francois has acquired riches
so quickly?”

 
She met his blue eyes, sense of dread
gripping her. “He did bring jewels and a few silver and gold items with him,
which he sold in London.”

 
“Not enough to rent a substantial house and
land let alone purchase such.”

 
It was the time, the moment to reveal her
thoughts. “I am of mind he’s a highwayman, and I had thought the man shot today
to be him not you. I’ve been frantic all evening fearing the worst, and now
here I am with the stark truth that our local highwayman is indeed yourself.”

 
He let slip her arm, said, “There’s a
highwayman who has robbed numerous coaches betwixt Oxford, London and Newbury.
No one has been murdered, but it is said he has a strange accent.”

 
“Could it be Francois? His accent would be
considered strange.”

 
“I don’t know, Diamonta, but I do know his
visits to London match those of reported robberies, and I know he’s renting a
small gentleman’s residence with paddocks in Faringdon.”

 
Her heart sank as she hurried to retrieve a
clean shirt for Richard. “How do you know he’s renting a house?”

 
“Let’s just say I became suspicious on
rumours heard, and searched his bed chamber here in the house. Given what I
discovered, it all seemed to fit with what I had suspected, that he’s the
highwayman.”

 
“I have feared it, and know not what to do,”
she said holding Richard’s clean shirt open in order to assist slipping his
injured shoulder in with ease. “Can you manage, now, only I think I ought to go
below stairs before we’re missed and mother organises a search party.”

 
“At a fashion,” he replied, emerging through
neck aperture with big grin on his face. “You’re right. Go or Leohne might
think my heart has lain at your feet all these years as she once accused to be
the case.”

 
“That’s silly, we’ve only ever been
friends,” she said, making haste for the bedchamber door.

 
“Not always, Diamonta. I did at one time
hope you might look on me with favour, but alas you never did.”

 
“I’ve always loved you as I love Charles,
nothing will change that, and I’m thrilled you’ve found love with Leohne.”

 
She fled sense of sorrow about her
indifference to Richard in a romantic sense, whilst fearing for Francois’
safety.

~~

Having reached
the top of the gallery leading to the staircase, below in the hall a terrible
disturbance and raised voices could be heard, and then, “Move one step and I
shoot.”

 
Utter hushed silence befell the ground floor
and her heart dived, for it was Francois. Even the music had stopped. She
glanced over the balustrade, and there he was in Richard’s old riding cloak,
hat on head, pistols in hand and slowly backing toward the main entrance door.

 
“I tell you,” said a man. “He’s the one. I
swear, swear I recognise him.”

 
“Who else could he be?” said Lady Fortnum,
her croaky voice unmistakable as she further said, “Somebody,
do
something. Rush the wicked fellow.”

 
“You’re the one with a stick, Madam,” said a
raucous male voice.

 
Her mother stepped forward, her voice cold
as ice. “So. You are Jacques de Boviere’s son, and Le Compte of Saint Mont
Marche”

 
“A count?” yelled Lady Fortnum. “ A count?
What kind of count resorts to highway robbery?”

 
That is correct,” said Francois, lowering
one pistol a little. “I am Le Compte of Saint Mont Marche. You think I need
your jewels when I have my own fortune?”

 
“You are so like Jacques, though a little
taller, methinks.” Was she mistaken or had her mother’s tone mellowed, but no,
it was all a ruse. “Be sensible, Francois. Surrender your pistols. There is no
chance you will escape the hangman, not now we have seen your face and I able
to identify you.”

 
She could hold back no longer, and skirts
raised, she sped down the stairway to Francois side. “He’s not a highwayman. He
has wealth, and a house, and we are to be married very soon.”

 
“
Diamonta
, what nonsense is this?
Come here,” demanded her mother.

 
She would not. She would die beside Francois
rather than lose him.

 
“Do as she says, Diamonta,” he said, nudging
her away. “Never fear, my love, this trouble I am in will be resolved very
soon, and I will return for you anon.”

 
“Resolved, how may I ask is your situation
to be resolved?” demanded her mother, eyes full of malice toward Francois,
though in truth to that of Jaques de Boviere. “Return for my daughter’s hand in
marriage?
Never
. I will see you dead by my own hand before that will
happen.”