Winter Wonderland (23 page)

“Sometimes. Mostly we call 'im Coshy.”

“Good. Now, I'm going to help you to the tavern door, which you so carelessly left open, and you're going to call him. Loudly. Coshy, you'll say, there's something out here that you must see.”

Japhet, shaking with fright, did what he was bid. Nervousness affected his voice, so the shout had to be done twice. When it was done, Barnaby pushed him down on the ground again and swiftly tied his mouth with a large handkerchief. Then he placed himself against the wall again, his pistol at the ready.

When Timothy Cosh stepped over the threshold, he didn't see a thing at first. When he saw Japhet trussed up and lying shivering on the ground, he gasped. In three quick steps, he came to his partner and knelt down. “Damn it, Japhet, what—?”

Then he heard the door close behind him and swung around. He found himself facing the barrel of a very deadly-looking pistol. “Oh, hell!” he cursed. “Who—?”

“Don't you remember me?” Barnaby asked. “You once relieved me of my very favorite gold watch.”

Timothy Cosh groaned. “I remember. You was the bloke wi' the 'andy fists.”

“That's right. Raise your hands, if you please. I want to see what you have in your pockets.”

“I don't 'ave me pistol on me.”

This proved to be true. “Now, Coshy, let me tell you what I have in mind. I'm going to allow you to go back inside and upstairs to the place you inhabit. There you will collect everything you stole from the stage that day and bring it all down in a sack. Meanwhile, I'll be holding this pistol against your partner's temple. If you don't come back by the time I count to one hundred, poor Japhet's brains will be spilled out all over the snow.”

Japhet made little mewling sounds in his throat, and he wriggled his body around in hysterical fear.

“Japhet seems to understand me,” Barnaby said to the other man. “Do you?”

“Yes, but I don't 'ave the loot no more. It's all in the 'ands o' me fence.”

“No, it isn't. No fence could have come up from London through all that snow. Not yet.”

“I ain't got nothin' left, I swear!” Coshy insisted. But his confederate on the ground groaned and wriggled with more hysteria than before.

“Of course, I can shoot you both right now—you first, Coshy—and go upstairs and see for myself.”

“A'right, a'right, I'll go,” the tall fellow muttered.

“I knew you would. But before you do, let me point out that if it should occur to you to bring a pistol down with you, or to enlist the assistance of any of your confederates inside, I shall have the pistol cocked. Even if someone shoots me in the back, my finger will be able to squeeze the trigger before I fall. So if you wish to see your friend alive when you return, you will refrain from any activity other than that which I've requested. Remember, you have only to the count of one hundred.”

A most pathetic, pleading whimper issued from Japhet's throat. His partner looked down at him. “Stop whinin', ye numbskull. I ain't never let ye down afore, an' I won't do it now.” With that, he turned and trudged back into the tavern and shut the door.

Barnaby wasted no time. He grasped the fallen Japhet under the arms and dragged him across the small clearing and into the line of trees. There he took a place behind a tree and waited.

He didn't bother to count, but it seemed longer than two minutes before the door opened again. The tall highwayman stood silhouetted in the doorway, carrying a sack. He looked around the deserted clearing, bemused.

“Come out,” Barnaby shouted. “I'm still here.”

Timothy Cosh stepped over the threshold and out into the clearing. “Ye don't 'ave much trust in me, do ye?” he asked.

“Should I? Come into the center of the clearing and toss the sack over this way.”

“Where's Japhet?”

“He's here, safe and well. Toss it!”

Coshy heaved it over, his reluctance apparent in every move he made.

“Good. Now, spread out your arms and lie facedown on the ground.”

“What fer?”

“Do it!”

The footpad got down. Barnaby waited for several minutes. There was no sound but a weak whimpering from Japhet. Finally, with his pistol poised, Barnaby stepped cautiously out from the protection of the trees and crossed the clearing to the prostrate Coshy. He was only a foot away from him when he thought he detected movement at the corner of the building on his right. Quickly he dropped down on his knees, one of them planted right on Coshy's back, and fired at the corner. A groaning cry (telling him he'd made his mark) coincided with a red flash of light, and a bullet whizzed by his ear. “Damn you, Cosh, you can't even be straight with your partner!” Barnaby swore, hastily trying to reload his pistol while keeping all his weight on the footpad's back.

“
Fire
, ye looby,” Cosh shouted to someone at the tavern, “afore he reloads!”

There was another flash, this time from the other side, but the shot was wild. Cosh, no fool, knowing that Barnaby was still trying to reload, took the opportunity to try to wrench himself free. Heaving himself up, he dislodged Barnaby from his back and rolled over, reaching for a gun he'd hidden in his belt. But before he could pull it out, Barnaby, from his prone position, kicked his booted foot into the miscreant's chin and rolled over, swinging the butt of the pistol against Cosh's forehead. The man fell back unconscious.

Another shot rang out, this time from the left side of the tavern. Barnaby, shielding himself with the body of the unconscious highwayman, tried again to reload. But at that moment, he heard a burst of shots behind him, and two horsemen came galloping into the clearing and up to the tavern, shouting and shooting and making enough noise to wake the dead. They frightened every man who still lurked in or around the tavern. As Barnaby watched, three men ran from the place, one pulling a wounded man behind him, and disappeared into the trees. Meanwhile, the two horsemen pulled their horses to, wheeled about and rode toward him. By the time they reached him, Barnaby was on his feet and grinning. “You blasted gudgeons,” he greeted his brothers, “can't you ever keep your noses out of my business?”

“We only came in at the finish,” Harry chortled, leaping from the saddle and clapping Barnaby on the back.

“You seem to have done very well on your own,” Terence grinned, sliding down and shaking his hand.

“Then why did you find it necessary to come after me?” Barnaby demanded.

“To bring you home. You're needed there, and at once,” Terence informed him. “Emergency.”

“Emergency!” Barnaby glared at him. “What rubbish!”

“It's not rubbish,” Harry said. “There
is
an emergency.”

“Truly?” Barnaby's face took on a look of alarm. “Not Jamie. Is he ill?”

“No, no. Nobody's ill. It's nothing like that,” Terence assured him.

“Then what sort of emergency is it?”

“Delia will tell you all about it. So take yourself off, if you please.”

“Dash it, Terence, you can see that I can't go right now. There are details to finish up. First, I must cart this fellow and his cohort, whom I have lying tied up in the woods, to the magistrate in Wymondham. Then, after I remove a certain watch and a cameo from that sack of loot over there, I intend to drop the rest into the nearest church poor box.”

“Very commendable,” Harry said.

“I suppose,” Terence suggested tentatively, “that it would demean your triumph if we offered to assist in the finishing up.”

“Assist?” Barnaby eyed him with suspicion.

“I could deal with the felons for you,” Harry offered.

“And I can find the church poor box,” Terence said. “In that way, Barnaby—with your permission, of course—we could free you to go through the sack for your treasures and take yourself home.”

Barnaby shrugged his agreement, and the three cheerfully set about the “finishing up.” After they'd trussed up the pair of highwaymen and sorted through the loot, they agreed that Harry would transport the footpads in the sleigh, with Terence and Barnaby making their separate ways home on horseback. Barnaby was the first to mount. He looked down from the horse at the two devoted brothers smiling proudly up at him. “Dash it all,” he said with a happy sigh, “it's been a ripping adventure. The first one of this sort you permitted me to execute on my own.”

“You don't have to thank us,” Harry taunted. “We were glad to do it.”

Barnaby shook his head. “Impossible. You're both impossible.” He spurred his horse and started off. “But next time,” he threw back over his shoulder, “if you don't want a pair of bloody noses, you'd better wait for me at home.”

Twenty-seven

Miranda had had a difficult time getting her charges to go to sleep. Rumors that their uncle had ridden off to capture the highwaymen were circulating throughout the house, and the boys had begged to be allowed to stay awake for his return. She'd had to tell them six fairy tales and invent a new, utterly fantastical adventure of Robin Hood before she was able to settle them down for the night.

She, too, would not be able to shut her eyes this night, she realized. The day had been too disturbing, what with Jamie's running away, and her set-to with his uncle. And now this rumor of his going off to find the highwaymen. She wondered how much she was to blame. If she only hadn't mentioned the blasted cameo!

Then, to add to her distress, she'd heard the rumor concerning the new arrivals, Lady Ponsonby and a redheaded young man. What if the rumors were true that the fellow was Livy's betrothed? What sort of scrape had Livy fallen into? And would Barnaby be badly hurt by it?

There was no point in trying to sleep. She would only lie in bed and toss about, worrying about Barnaby Traherne, although he, on his part, would not be wasting a thought on her. Nevertheless, going to bed would only lead to a wallow in painful and useless self-pity. So, instead of retiring, she decided to go down to the kitchen and make herself a pot of tea. There was nothing like tea to settle one's nerves.

She expected the kitchen to be deserted by this time, for the entire household had retired early, but she found Lady Shallcross's abigail there before her. The girl, in her nightclothes, and with her hair tied all over with rags, was setting a tea tray for her mistress, her pretty, bow-shaped mouth distorted by a sullen frown. “Everythin's at sixes and sevens today,” the girl complained. “Her ladyship's sore distressed—not as I blame her with all that's happenin'—but she waked me from a sound sleep, askin' for some tea. So what am I to do, I ask you, with my hair in rags an' my eyes half shut? Can I bring her tea lookin' like this?”

“I'm still dressed,” Miranda said. “Let me take it to her.”

The girl's surly expression cleared at once. “Oh,
would
ye, Mrs. Velacott? I'd be ever so grateful.”

Miranda, the tea tray in hand, tapped at Honoria's bedroom door. “Come in, come in,” came a querulous voice from within.

She found Honoria lying on her bed with eyes shut, pressing a wet cloth to her forehead. “Lady Shallcross!” she exclaimed. “Are you ill?”

Honoria's eyes flew open. “Mrs. Velacott? Is that you?”

“Yes, ma'am. I've brought you your tea.”

“But my Betty should not have asked you to take on her task,” Honoria said, throwing off the cloth and sitting up. “It's a dreadful imposition.”

“Not at all. I was happy to do it. Will you take your tea in bed, Your Ladyship, or shall I set it up for you here on this little table near the fire?”

Honoria tossed off her covers and climbed down from the bed. “On the table, please, if you will consent to join me. There are some teacups on the mantel.”

Miranda shook her head. “It's not necessary to give me tea, Lady Shallcross. I—”

“Please,” Honoria begged, hastily pulling another chair over to the table. “I have been wishing to speak to you all day.”

Both women, eyeing each other uneasily, took seats across from each other at the little table. No words were exchanged while Miranda poured the tea, but then, with her teacup in hand, Honoria looked across at her visitor and frowned. “I never liked you, you know. Never. Even
before
the Lydell ball.”

Miranda blinked at her, feeling as if she'd been slapped, but she recovered her composure in a moment. “No, of course you didn't,” she said bluntly. “I don't blame you, ma'am, not a bit. I was a dreadful, vain, self-centered, foolish creature.”

“Yes, you were,” Honoria agreed. “My word for you was flibbertigibbet.”

Miranda smiled. “I can think of many worse words for me.” She stirred her tea thoughtfully, her smile fading. “I don't remember much about the Lydell ball,” she admitted, “but I remember enough to realize that what I did was quite unforgivable. In your place, I would not like me, either.”

Honoria was touched by the apology. “Very few things in this life are unforgivable,” she said generously, her eyes searching the younger woman's face. Miranda Pardew was still lovely, she admitted to herself. And her frankness was refreshing. And she was certainly easier to talk to than the tongue-tied Livy Ponsonby. Honoria sighed deeply. “In regard to the Lydell ball,” she confessed, “Delia says I've made much too much of an insignificant incident.”

“Oh, no, I don't agree. If your brother-in-law was greatly affected by it, how can it be insignificant?”

“Yes, that's
just
how I feel! How generous of you to grant that!” She set her cup down on the table and stirred her tea reflectively. “But in a sense, Delia may be right. Perhaps the effect on Barnaby was, in the end, a beneficial one. Everyone seems to be convinced that he's not at all shy any more. And he's turned out to be a fine and successful man, a really
good
man, wouldn't you say so?”