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His Mask of Retribution
Margaret McPhee


THE LAST MAN SHE COULD EVER LOVE…Beautiful Marianne Winslow has had her share of suitors – and her share of scandal. Three engagements, no wedding… And the ton are beginning to talk. Smouldering Rafe Knight has lived the last fifteen years of his life with one goal: avenging the death of his parents. His final target? The Earl of Misbourne. The perfect bartering tool? The Earl’s daughter, Marianne…Held at gunpoint on Hounslow Heath, Marianne is taken captive by a mysterious masked highwayman. Her father must pay the price – but Marianne finds more than vengeance in the highwayman’s warm amber eyes…Gentlemen of Disrepute Rebellious rule-breakers, ready to wed!










The highwayman’s eyes were not cruel and pale and blue but a warm honeyed brown, and his gaze was steady and strong and compelling, holding hers so that she could not look away. She felt her heart miss a beat and a shiver shimmy all the way down her spine. She did not know whether it was from shock or relief or fear, or a combination of all three.

‘What the hell do you want?’ her father snarled at him.

The highwayman glanced away, releasing her gaze, and only then did she realise that he had a pistol in each hand and both were aimed at her father’s heart.

‘Stand and deliver.’ The man’s voice was quiet and harsh, as if half whispered.

‘You’ll rue the day you picked me to thieve from, you scoundrel.’

‘I think not.’ He cocked his pistols. ‘I will kill you if you do not give me what I have come for. And once you are dead I will be free to take that which you seek to protect…without reprisal.’

‘Papa, please, if you have any knowledge of what this villain wants, I beg you to deliver it to him. Do not risk your life.’

Both men looked at her. Her father’s face was strained and haunted; he seemed to have aged a hundred years in those few moments. And the highwayman’s eyes held the strangest expression.

‘Run, Marianne,’ her father said, agony in his voice. ‘Run and do not look back.’

And she understood in that moment what it was that the highwayman wanted even before he said the words.

‘For what does a father love best in all the world but his only daughter?’


AUTHOR NOTE

You first met Lady Marianne Winslow and her rather sinister family in UNMASKING THE DUKE’S MISTRESS. Marianne was always going to have her own story, and you, the reader, an explanation for her father and brother’s behaviour in that earlier book. But I needed a very special hero for her. I found him in the tall, dark and handsome highwayman Rafe Knight. If ever two people deserved love and a happy-ever-after…

So here is Marianne and Rafe’s story. I really do hope that you enjoy it.

With very best wishes

Margaret

www.margaretmcphee.co.uk




About the Author


MARGARET MCPHEE loves to use her imagination—an essential requirement for a trained scientist. However, when she realised that her imagination was inspired more by the historical romances she loves to read rather than by her experiments, she decided to put the ideas down on paper. She has since left her scientific life behind, retaining only the romance—her husband, whom she met in a laboratory. In summer, Margaret enjoys cycling along the coastline overlooking the Firth of Clyde in Scotland, where she lives. In winter, tea, cakes and a good book suffice.

Previous novels by the same author:

THE CAPTAIN’S LADY

MISTAKEN MISTRESS THE

WICKED EARL

UNTOUCHED MISTRESS

A SMUGGLER’S TALE

(part of Regency Christmas Weddings)

THE CAPTAIN’S FOBIDDEN MISS

UNLACING THE INNOCENT MISS

(part of Regency Silk & Scandal mini-series)

*UNMASKING THE DUKE’S MISTRESS

*A DARK AND BROODING GENTLEMAN

*Gentlemen of Disrepute

Did you know that some of these novels

are also available as eBooks?

Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

And in Mills & Boon HistoricalUndone!eBooks:

HOW TO TEMPT A VISCOUNT




His Mask of

Retribution

Margaret McPhee







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For E




Chapter One


Hounslow Heath, London—1810

It was the perfect day for a wedding.

The October morning was crisp and filled with sunshine. The sky was a cloudless blue. Hounslow Heath was a rich green, and the surrounding oaks and beeches that peppered the heath had turned the prettiest shades of red and gold. But as the solitary dark liveried coach sped across the heath Lady Marianne Winslow noticed nothing of the beauty.

‘We had better pray that Pickering is still waiting in the church. I would not be surprised if he has suffered a change of heart and gone home. And who could blame him? He has his pride, after all. What on earth were you doing in your bedchamber for so long?’ George Winslow, the Earl of Misbourne, pulled his watch from his pocket and flicked open the gold casing.

Marianne wondered what her father would say if she told him the truth—that she had been staring into the peering glass for the last two hours, wondering how she might bring herself to marry a man she had met only twice, was almost as old as her father and scrutinised her as if she were a prize filly. But her father did not wait for an answer.

‘Forty-five minutes late and we have yet to reach Staines.’ He snapped the watch case shut and returned it to his waistcoat pocket. ‘Good lord, girl! We cannot risk losing Pickering after the fiasco with Arlesford.’

‘Papa…marrying Mr Pickering…I am not at all sure that I can…’

‘Marianne, as your mother has already told you, what you are feeling is nothing more than wedding-morning nerves, which are perfectly normal in any young lady. We have been through all of this before.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘But?’

‘I thought when Mr Pickering and I were first betrothed that I would grow used both to him and to the idea of marriage. But I need more time. It is barely a month since he gave me his ring.’ She glanced down at the heavy signet ring upon her finger.

‘A month is more than adequate for a betrothal, Marianne.’

‘But, Papa, I barely know him.’

‘You will come to know him soon enough and Pickering is not a demanding man. He will be kind to you.’

The gold of Pickering’s ring glinted in the sunlight.

‘I can understand that he may not be the most appealing of bridegrooms,’ said her father, ‘but he is steady and solid and reliable. Not only is Pickering’s fortune vast and he highly esteemed within the ton, but he is a man of influence and power. No one can question the sense of the match.’ He paused. ‘The wedding must go ahead. You will say no more of it and do as you are told, my girl.’

She stared down at the wedding posy clutched in the clamminess of her hand, at the pale pink roses delivered fresh from a hothouse in the country that morning and the tiny white babies’-breath flowers. She knew all of her father’s arguments and knew, too, that they were right. Yet it did not make the prospect of marrying Charles Pickering any more palatable.

The coach took a bend in the road too fast and Marianne reached up for the securing strap to stop herself from sliding across the seat, her posy tumbling to the floor in the process.

‘Papa, please, can we not at least travel a little more slowly?’

‘The time is too short, Marianne. If Pickering walks away from this, there will be the devil to pay.’ He glanced away, a strange expression in his eyes. His mouth tightened as she watched and then he seemed to remember himself and continued. ‘John Coachman is under instruction to make up the time. Besides, Hounslow Heath is hardly a place to be dallying, even in daylight.’ Her father retrieved her posy from where it rolled in the dust and returned it to her.

Marianne gave a little shiver. ‘You cannot think that the highwayman—’

But her father cut her off. ‘Neither sight nor sound has been had of the highwayman for over two months. Now that the Horse Patrol has been put in place to catch him he has likely taken himself elsewhere. And even were he still around, the hour is yet early. He would be lying drunk in some tavern, not waiting upon the heath especially for us. I will not risk losing Pickering.’

‘It always comes down to my marrying,’ said Marianne with a heavy heart and looked away.

‘Marianne.’ Her father gave a sigh and took her hand between his own. ‘You know you mean the world to me, do you not?’

She gave a nod.

‘That I would only ever do what is best for you?’

‘Yes, Papa.’ It was the truth.

‘Then believe me, my dearest, when I tell you that marrying Pickering is for the best.’

She nodded again. She would marry Mr Pickering because her father had arranged it and it was the right thing to do, even though the thought of becoming the man’s wife filled her with dread.

The carriage slowed to a crawl to cross a narrow bridge and the sunlight shone through the window, illuminating her father’s face as he smiled at her. She could see the specks of dust floating in the sunbeams, could see the gentleness of her father’s eyes. His hands were warm around hers. Everything in the world seemed to quieten and calm. The wheels fell silent. Even the birds ceased to sing. It was a moment of pure tranquillity in the golden light.

And then the shot exploded and all hell broke loose.

The grooms were shouting and the coachman yelled a curse before a loud thud sounded. The horses whinnied. The coach lurched, then stopped. Something hard and big hit one panel, making her jump. She stared at the side from which the noise had emanated and, from the corner of her eye, saw the dark shadow move across the window. There was galloping and screaming and running feet. Then silence.

Her father scrabbled for his pistols in the pocket of the door and sat ready, a pistol primed in each hand, his eyes flicking nervously from one door to another, waiting.

She could hear the thud of her own heart and the heaviness of her father’s breathing.

‘The highwayman…’ she whispered. ‘It must be.’

Her father’s jaw was clamped tight. He gave no response.

‘Give me one of the pistols, Papa. Please.’

‘Do not be so foolish, Marianne,’ he snapped and his knuckles were white where he gripped so tight at the pistols’ handles.

They waited, and there was nothing.

They waited, and the seconds dragged; the fear and the dread were almost overwhelming. Her father must have felt it, too, for he muttered beneath his breath, ‘Come, show yourself.’ But whoever, or whatever, was outside did not heed him.

Nothing moved. Not even a flicker. The air was so thick with tension that she felt she might choke with it. Time held its breath as surely as Marianne.

Nothing happened.

She wondered if their assailant had fled, whether they were alone. Her father must have thought the same, for he looked across at her and gave a slight shake of the head, she knew that he meant for her to remain silent and say nothing. She nodded and watched him edge towards the door…just as it swung open.

Her father’s pistol fired, a deafening noise within the confines of the coach, so loud that her ears hurt from it and her eyes watered from the cloud of blue smoke. The stench of it was acrid, filling her nostrils, catching in her throat. She made to move, but her father’s hand caught hard at her wrist, thrusting her back down on to her seat.

‘Stay where you are, Marianne!’

The silence in the aftermath of the pistol shot seemed almost as loud as the shot itself. It hissed in her ears and seemed to vibrate through her very bones. Through the smoke she saw a shadow flit across the open doorway and heard the taunt of a man’s harsh whisper.

Her father fired at the shadow with his second pistol and launched himself out of the open doorway.

There was a thud against the carriage panel at the side of the door and the coach rocked as if something had been thrown against it. She heard a grunt of pain and then an ominous silence that made her stomach drop right down to her shoes.

‘Papa?’ She checked the door pockets for a spare pistol, but her father had taken no such precaution, so she hoisted up her skirts and scrambled to the door, trampling on the pink-and-white posy in her desperation to save her father. The smoke was clearing and the scene was quite clear before her as she jumped down from the coach.

The horses had been cut loose. Of the coachman, grooms and footmen there was no sign. Her father was leaning back against the side of the coach, his face powder-white, a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth, staring with angry black eyes filled with the promise of violence. Marianne knew that the highwayman was there, knew that he must be watching her at that very moment, but she could not look. Her heart was thudding hard; the fear was pounding through her blood and she was afraid to look, even though she knew that she must. Taking a deep breath to control her rising panic, she slowly followed her father’s gaze to the tall dark highwayman.

He was dressed in black, wearing a long shabby greatcoat and, beneath it, a pair of buckskin breeches. His boots were scuffed, the leather cracking in places with age and wear. Even his gloves were dark and old, well worn. On his head was an old-fashioned tricorn hat; it too was black to match the rest of his outfit, and under it she could see his unfashionably long hair, the colour of rich dark mahogany. All of this she absorbed in an instant, with barely a glance, for her focus was fixed firmly on the dark kerchief that was tied across his lower face, hiding his identity.

Her stomach was clenched small and tight, and beneath the ivory-and-pink-patterned silk of her skirt her legs were trembling. Her eyes lingered on the piece of cloth for a moment, then she screwed her courage to the mast and, with slow deliberation, she raised them to meet his.

The highwayman’s eyes were not cruel and pale, but a warm honeyed brown, and his gaze was steady and strong and compelling, holding hers so that she could not look away. She felt her heart miss a beat and a shiver shimmy all the way down her spine. She did not know whether it was from shock or relief or fear, or a combination of all three.

‘What the hell do you want?’ her father snarled at him.

The highwayman glanced away, releasing her gaze, and only then did she realise that he had a pistol in each hand and both were aimed at her father’s heart.

She knew that he smiled at the question, even though she could not see his mouth behind the kerchief. He smiled, but there was nothing of mirth in his eyes as he looked at her father.

‘Stand and deliver.’ The man’s voice was quiet and harsh, as if half-whispered.

‘You’ll rue the day you picked me to thieve from, you scoundrel.’

‘I think not.’ He cocked his pistols.

‘My daughter is on her way to be married.’ If her father had thought to reason with the highwayman then he was mistaken, for the man’s eyes did not so much as flicker. His gaze remained hard and relentless.

‘I have a purse of money.’ Her father scrabbled in his pockets, pulling out the small brown-leather pouch. ‘Here.’ He threw it in the direction of the highwayman. ‘Take it and be gone.’ The purse landed on the grass between them.

The highwayman did not even look at the purse, heavy and bulging with coins though it was. ‘I do not want your money,’ he said in his harsh half-whisper, his eyes fixed unblinking on Misbourne’s.

Her father looked at the highwayman for a moment, as if unable to comprehend the man’s answer, before speaking again. ‘There is my diamond cravat pin and my watch; both are gold.’ Her father’s fingers were trembling slightly as he unpinned the diamond and threw it down to lie on the grass by the side of his purse. The stone glinted and sparkled in the sunlight. Then he took the watch from his pocket, unfastened the fob and offered the watch and its dangling chain to the highwayman.

But the villain made no move to take it.

‘Marianne, take off your pearls and throw them down by my purse,’ her father commanded, adding beneath his breath, ‘Pearls before swine.’ But for all his bravado, his brow glistened with sweat as she reached for the clasp.

The highwayman shook his head. ‘Nor your jewellery, Misbourne.’

Her fingers stilled, then dropped away, leaving the pearls intact around her neck.

Her father frowned and she could see the suspicion and fear that flitted across his face. ‘You know my name?’ His voice was sharp.

‘I know a lot more than that.’

The two men watched one another. The silence was heavy, pregnant with foreboding.

‘Then what do you want?’ asked her father at last.

There was a pause before the highwayman spoke. ‘We’ll come to that in time, but for now I’ll take from you the same I took from the others—that which is most precious in the world to you.’

Every last trace of colour washed from her father’s face. His beard and moustache, grizzled and grey, stood stark against the pallor of his skin. Across the heath a blackbird was singing, and in the background was the gentlest whisper of the wind. Nothing else stirred.

Her father forced the semblance of a laugh. ‘You mean to kill me?’

‘No!’ Marianne stepped forwards in alarm. ‘Do not harm him! I beg of you! Please!’

The highwayman’s eyes met hers and they looked almost golden in the morning light. ‘Rest assured, Lady Marianne…’ how shocked she felt to hear her name upon his lips ‘…both your father and I know that it is not his life of which I speak.’ His voice was that same stony half-whisper, devoid of all emotion, but the look in his eyes was cold and hard as the deepest winter and filled with such implacable determination that she shivered to see it. He turned his focus back to her father. ‘Don’t you, Misbourne?’

‘No.’ Her father’s voice was little more than a croak. The denial was weak and something about his expression made her think he knew exactly what was meant.

The highwayman made a small movement with the pistol in his right hand. ‘I will kill you if you do not give me what I have come for. And once you are dead I will be free to take that which you seek to protect…without reprisal.’

‘Papa, please, if you have any knowledge of what this villain wants, I beg you to deliver it to him. Do not risk your life.’

Both men looked at her. Her father’s face was strained and haunted—he seemed to have aged a hundred years in those few moments—and the highwayman’s eyes held the strangest expression.

‘Run, Marianne,’ her father said, and there was agony in his voice. ‘Run, and do not look back.’

She shook her head. ‘I will not abandon you to him.’

‘Do as I say and run, damn you, girl!’

And she understood in that moment what it was that the highwayman wanted even before he said the words.

‘For what does a father love best in all the world, but his only daughter?’

‘You are wrong,’ she said. There was her mother and her brother. But she knew in her heart that he spoke the truth. Her father had always loved her best.

‘You shall not take her from me, you fiend!’ Her father threw himself at the highwayman, but the villain was taller and stronger and younger. In an instant his pistols were uncocked and out of sight. He caught Misbourne’s punch as easily as if it were that of a weakling and, in return, landed a hard fist to his face and then his stomach. When her father gasped and doubled over, clutching at his belly, the highwayman pushed him away and he stumbled back, hitting the side of the coach. He collapsed on to his knees, his right arm still wrapped around his belly. Blood was seeping from a cut on his cheek and his face was already beginning to swell.

‘Papa!’ Marianne made to rush to him, but the highwayman was quicker. He caught her around the waist and hauled her to him. ‘No!’ She kicked and punched and fought for all she was worth, but her captor was too strong. In an instant he had her held in his grip and facing her father.

Misbourne scrabbled to his feet from where he knelt in the dirt, the blood trickling down his poor injured face to darken and matt the grey hair of his beard. She tried to go to him, but the highwayman’s arm was firm around her upper arms and décolletage, restraining her, pulling her back until her spine tingled with the proximity of him, even though their bodies were apart.

‘What will you give for her safe return, Misbourne?’

‘Anything you wish.’

‘Anything?’ The highwayman’s voice was low and grim.

Her father nodded. ‘Money. Gold. Silver. Jewels. Name your price.’

Behind her she felt the highwayman move, although his grip upon her did not slacken. He threw a folded sheet of paper to land on the ground before her father. ‘My price, Misbourne.’

Her father retrieved the paper and opened it, and Marianne watched his expression contort with sudden shock and horror. He made not one move, spoke not one word, just stared at the piece of paper as if he could not believe the words written upon it. His eyeballs rolled up and he swayed before stumbling backwards. Only the panel of the coach door kept him upright—that and his stubborn will-power as he leaned, visibly shaken, against it.

‘Papa!’ She struggled, but the highwayman’s grip did not yield. ‘Papa!’

So much sweat beaded on her father’s forehead that his hair was damp from it. His face was ashen as a corpse. He looked old and weak, all of his usual strength and vitality exposed for the fragile mask it was. Yet the highwayman showed no mercy.

‘The exchange will be today, Misbourne. Be ready.’

Marianne felt his arm drop to her waist and then the world turned upside down as he swung her up and over his shoulder, balancing her there as if she weighed nothing at all. She wriggled and tried to kick, but the blood was rushing to her head and his grip tightened, securing her all the more.

‘No! Do not take her from me! Please!’ her father cried and collapsed to his knees as he tried to stagger towards them. ‘I beg you, sir. I will give you what you want.’ She had never heard her father plead before, never heard his voice so thick with emotion.

But the highwayman was unmoved. ‘Yes, you will,’ he said. ‘Watch for my message.’ Then he whirled around and, in the blink of an eye, was upon his horse, sliding Marianne to sit sideways on the saddle before him. The huge black beast reared, impatient to be off, and she found herself held hard against his chest, gripped so tightly that she could not move.

‘Who sent you? Was it—?’ her father shouted and she could hear the fear and trembling in his voice. But the highwayman cut him off.

‘No one sent me.’

‘Then who the devil are you?’

The highwayman’s arm was anchored around her waist as he stared down at her father. ‘I’m your past come back to haunt you, Misbourne.’ The horse reared again and then they were off and galloping at full tilt across Hounslow Heath, leaving behind her father, white-faced and bleeding, the horseless coach, and the battered remnants of her wedding flowers blowing in the breeze.




Chapter Two


Rafe Knight pushed the horse hard, all the while keeping a careful hold of his most precious cargo. He could smell the sweet scent of violets from the girl’s hair and feel the soft curves of the slender body pressed against his. He regretted that she had to be any part of this, but she was Misbourne’s one weakness: the only hope of finding what he sought.

It would not be long before the coachman, groom and footmen reached the inn and summoned help. He did not have much time. He headed west, as if travelling on towards Staines, until he was out of Misbourne’s sight, then he left the road and doubled back across the wild heath land towards Hounslow and London.

Callerton was waiting exactly as planned, hidden from view within the derelict farm buildings on the outskirts of the town. The doors of the great barn were wide open and Knight rode straight inside, slid Marianne Winslow down to his friend and servant, and dismounted.

The highwayman’s masked accomplice placed Marianne inside a dark coach that waited within the barn, then assisted the highwayman in harnessing his horse as part of the team. Her throat was so dry that it stuck together, making it difficult to swallow. Within her chest her heart beat in a frenzy and every muscle in her body was racked tight with tension. The fear was so great that her breath shook from it and her palms were clammy. She squeezed her eyes shut and slowed her breaths, counting them to control the panic. When she looked again, the men had a flask and a rag and were washing the distinctive white flare from the horse’s muzzle. They were focused, hurrying, intent on their task. Marianne gathered the remnants of her courage. A deep breath in and out, then she curled her fingers round the door handle.

Her blood was still rushing, her heart beating loud as a big bass drum. The door opened without a sound, letting her slip noiselessly to the ground and edge towards the rear of the coach. Once there she stood, her back pressed against the empty boot, while her eyes scanned desperately for an escape route or hiding place. She held her breath, ragged and loud as it had become, fearing they would hear it, fearing they would notice at any moment that she was gone.

Time seemed to slow and in that tiny moment of waiting every sense seemed sharpened and more intense. She could smell hay and horse sweat and leather tack, and the damp scent of autumn and brambles. She could hear the jangle of the harness and the shuffle of hooves as the horses grew impatient. Against her face the air of the shadowed empty barn was cool. There was nowhere to hide: not one hay bale, not one cart. Her heart sank. She knew that she was going to have to take her chance. Taking a deep breath and lifting her skirt clear of her ankles, she eyed the great, wide, opened barn doors. Outside the sky was blue and clear, the sun lighting the heath land as if in invitation. She hesitated no longer, but ran for her life.

Three paces and there was a yell and a sudden swift movement and Marianne gasped aloud as strong arms enclosed her. Within a second the highwayman had her backed against the coach door, both wrists secured behind her back, as his eyes glowered down into her own.

‘Not a good idea, Lady Marianne,’ he breathed, in that harsh half-whisper of his.

He was so close that with every breath she took she could feel the brush of her bodice against his chest, so close that she could smell the scent of the sandalwood soap he had used to wash with. She had not realised that he was so very tall, or how much he would dwarf her. She felt overwhelmed, by him, by shock, by fear. For a moment she could not speak, could not even breathe as she stared up into his eyes. Her heart was pounding, her mouth dry. She forced herself to think of what he had done to her father, forced her anger to override her fear.

‘Scoundrel!’ she hissed. ‘What did you expect? That I would just sit there waiting for you to come and beat me as you beat my father?’

‘I do not beat women.’ His eyes were hard and angry as they held hers.

‘Only old men who have done you no wrong.’

‘You know nothing of the matter, Lady Marianne.’

‘You did not need to hit him! You did not need to make him bleed!’

‘Misbourne got off lightly.’

‘What has my father ever done to warrant such treatment?’

‘Your father is a thief and a murderer.’

She shook her head in disbelief, stunned by the declaration. ‘And you are a madman, or drunk on wickedness.’

‘I am as sane and sober as you are, my lady.’

His gaze bore down into hers and in the shadowed light of the barn his eyes were the colour of her father’s best tawny port and clear and lucid as he claimed, and when she looked into them she could not prevent the shiver that ran through her. He was still holding her in place against the door, her wrists secured in his grip, his body too close to hers. There was an aura of such danger surrounding them she could scarcely breathe.

‘It is you who is the thief. And, for all I know, a murderer too.’

He stepped closer, his eyes intent on hers, and she saw the flare of fury in them. ‘It is true I have thieved, but as for murder? When your father grovelled in the dirt before me I could have done it, Lady Marianne, so very easily. I confess I was tempted.’ His hushed voice was so harsh and so filled with anger that she caught her breath to hear it. ‘An eye for an eye is what the Bible says. But murder…’ He shook his head. ‘That is your father’s game, not mine. I’ll settle to see him brought to justice in a hangman’s noose.’ The force of his words flayed her. Then, as suddenly as he had captured her, he released her, stepping back to open up a space between them.

‘My quarrel is with your father. You need have no fear. I shall not hurt you.’

She moved away from the coach and rubbed her wrists—not because he had hurt her, but because they still tingled from the feel of his skin against hers. ‘Then what are you going to do to me?’ Her heart was thumping fast and hard. Her lips were stiff with fear but she asked the question even though she was so very afraid to hear the answer. She waited with legs that trembled, but she did not let herself look away from that razing gaze.

The silence seemed to stretch between them and tension knotted her stomach.

‘Keep you until your father gives me what I want. He has something belonging to me. Now I have something belonging to him. It is a fair exchange.’

‘And what is it that you want?’ The words were little more than a whisper. She remembered too clearly her father’s reaction when he had read the highwayman’s demand and the shock and worry she had felt to see it.

‘Too many questions, my lady. We can delay no longer.’ Not once did his gaze shift from hers and she quivered from the intensity of it. She knew what he was and, despite his reassurance, what he could do to her.

‘You shall not get away with this.’

‘Indeed?’ And there was such arrogant certainty in that one word.

‘You are despicable, sir.’

‘I am what your father has made me, Lady Marianne. Pray to God that you never find out the truth of it!’ He opened the door and gestured her into the coach.

Marianne had no option but to hold her head high and climb inside.

She had her father’s eyes. Black as midnight, wary, and watching him with that same contempt Misbourne used on those around him. Little wonder she was the apple of her father’s eye. Little wonder he guarded her as if his pampered daughter were as precious as the crown jewels. In the rest of her face she favoured her mother. Her shapely lips pressed firm and her small nostrils were flared. His gaze swept over the blonde tendrils that framed her face, so soft and pale beside the strong darkness of her eyes. But the eyes, it was said, were windows to the soul. He wondered whether Marianne Winslow’s soul was as black as her father’s. He pulled the curtains closed and the stiffening of the girl’s body, the sudden fear in her face, spurred a twinge of irritation within him. As if he would ravish her, as if he would even touch her. Misbourne was the blackguard in this, not him.

‘I have told you that you have nothing to fear from me,’ he snapped. ‘Given your propensity for escape, you will understand the need for preventative measures.’ He produced a short length of rope.

‘And if I refuse?’ She raised her chin a notch.

‘You have no choice in the matter, my lady.’

She stared at him as if he were the devil incarnate. ‘You are a villain.’ Her voice was high, her face pale.

‘Yes, I am,’ he said. ‘And you had best not forget it, Lady Marianne, especially if you have any idea of resisting me.’

Her eyes widened, but she did not suffer an attack of the vapours or hysteria as he had expected of Misbourne’s coddled daughter. Indeed, she did not cry or plead or scream. Everything about her was contained and careful. She just eyed him with a quiet defiance and more courage than many a man as he bound her wrists behind her back, checking that the rope was not too tight.

He turned his attention away from the woman and slid open the dark wooden panel beneath his seat to remove the small travelling bag from within. He took his time, yet his actions were slick and smooth, well practised. From the bag he took a pair of highly polished riding boots, a new hat and a pair of the finest black-leather gloves. Then he removed the pistols from his pockets, checked they were safe and laid them at the bottom of the bag. He shrugged out of his greatcoat, rolled it into a ball and thrust it on top of the pistols. The tricorn hat, his shabby gloves and the old boots followed, before the bag was stowed out of sight once more. He glanced up to find Marianne watching him. Their eyes met through the dim grey light and that same frisson of awareness rippled through him, just as it had before. And the thought that he could feel any measure of attraction towards Misbourne’s daughter sent anger licking right through him.

She turned her face away, fixing her gaze on the dark curtains drawn across the window.

He kept his eyes on her as he slid his feet into the smart black boots, scraped his hair back into a low tidy queue at the back of his head and tied it in place with a black ribbon from the pocket of his tailcoat. But the woman was not stupid; she did not look at him again. Not once. Not through the little country towns of Brentford or Hammersmith or even the village of Kensington. He slipped his hat and gloves in place and the rest of the journey continued in silence, the tension between them seeming to wind tighter with every mile closer they travelled through London. Eventually, Callerton thumped the carriage body and Knight knew they were nearing St Giles Rookery. He looked at Misbourne’s daughter.

‘Time to move, Lady Marianne.’

She glanced round at him then. A small steady movement as controlled as everything else about her, yet he could sense the sudden escalation of distrust and see the flash of fear in those large dark eyes. He felt his conscience stir at what he was doing, but her gaze flitted momentarily away and when she looked back at him it was as if she had drawn a veil across her eyes and the only expression on her face was one of contempt. She looked so like Misbourne that any doubts he might have harboured vanished instantly.

Knight reached for her arm and moved to execute the next stage of his plan.

In the study of his town house in Leicester Square, the Earl of Misbourne lay on a daybed covered by a cream woollen blanket and listened to the carriage sounds from the street outside.

‘He is gone.’ Francis Winslow—or Viscount Linwood, as he was otherwise known—Misbourne’s son and heir, stood by the window and watched Pickering’s carriage until it turned the corner and headed away from the square. ‘Do you think he believed us?’ Linwood’s eyes were as dark and venomous as his father’s as he came to stand by the daybed.

Misbourne gave a nod.

‘It will be more difficult tomorrow when he returns and wishes to visit his betrothed. Although the story of our “carriage crash” being all over tomorrow’s newspapers should help. I’ve ensured the news is already being whispered in the clubs.’ His son was good at taking care of such details, but Misbourne offered no thanks; his mind was on other matters.

He slipped the crumpled sheet of paper from the pocket of his dressing gown and smoothed it out that he might stare at it again. The hand was bold, the words, few as they were, angular and angry. A place. A year. And the highwayman’s demand.

1795, Hounslow Heath

The document that was taken—in exchange for your daughter.

He was thinking, and thinking hard. There was only one other person that knew of the document and Misbourne had eyes and ears stationed in every main port in the south watching for his return. It was possible that Rotherham had evaded detection, that he was back in England already. Misbourne’s blood ran cold at the thought and he shivered as if someone had walked over his grave.

‘Father?’ Linwood was staring down into his face and he could see the concern and agitation in the eyes that were so like his own.

‘Let me think,’ Misbourne snapped. It made no sense. Whatever else Rotherham was, he was a man of his word and one who liked everything done exactly to the letter. There was still time left before he would come. Time enough for the wedding between Marianne and Pickering.

Misbourne lounged back against the pillows of his bed and read the words again. The criminal fraternity had a way of talking even when they’d been sworn to silence. A boast in the tap room of a public house, a whisper in the ear of the buxom wench beneath them. Thank God for illiteracy. He wondered how much the highwayman could possibly know.

‘You are not well, Father. Let me deal with this in your stead,’ said Linwood.

‘Don’t fuss so, boy, I tell you I’m fine.’ An idea was taking shape in Misbourne’s mind.

‘And I disagree,’ said Linwood without a flicker of emotion.

‘You always were a stubborn little sod.’

‘Chip off the old block, so they say.’ Linwood held his gaze.

Misbourne gave a smile and shook his head. ‘And they’re not wrong.’

‘Then let us go to the brotherhood,’ said Linwood without returning the smile, speaking of the secret society of which both he and his father were members. ‘Seek their assistance in this.’

‘No!’

‘It’s different now that Hunter is the Master. He’ll help us and—’

‘I said, no, damn you, boy!’ Misbourne felt a stirring of panic and knew he had to convince his son. ‘We manage this ourselves. This is family business; it does not go out with this room, no matter what else you might think.’

Linwood’s face was angry and defiant.

‘I will not risk Marianne’s reputation. I will not risk your sister’s safety. Do you understand?’

Linwood gave a sullen nod. ‘What is this letter from fifteen years ago that he wants?’ It was the question that Misbourne most dreaded to hear.

‘None of your damned business.’

‘Will you give it to him?’

There was a pause before Misbourne replied, ‘Yes, I’ll give it to him.’ His scowl deepened and he pinched at the bridge of his nose, a sure sign that he was trying to control his temper. ‘The day progresses and still we hear nothing.’

‘We will.’

‘What the hell is taking him so long?’ Misbourne’s upper lip curled in a snarl.

‘He means to make sure we take him seriously—and no doubt he wants to twist the knife a little. Whoever he is, he certainly does not like you.’

‘And, by God, I’ll give him good reason not to! By the time I’ve finished with him he won’t know what he likes and what he doesn’t.’ Misbourne was only slightly mollified by the thought.

A knock sounded at the study door. The butler entered, holding a silver salver with a single letter laid upon it.

‘Just delivered, m’lord, by an urchin.’

‘Does the wretch wait for a reply?’

‘No, m’lord. The boy ran off.’

Misbourne saw the servant’s gaze take in his tender swollen cheekbone and felt a spurt of annoyance. He took the letter and dismissed the man with a flick of his fingers. The seal broke easily, but his hands were trembling with impatience and fear as he unfolded the letter and read its content before passing the note to his son.

‘Aldgate High Street where it meets Fen-church and Leadenhall,’ said Linwood. ‘He’s chosen well. It’s a busy junction at the best of times; it will be pandemonium there at three o’clock. And with its links to so many roads and alleys it will be difficult to cover the whole area.’

‘Difficult, but not impossible,’ said Misbourne. ‘Once Marianne is safe…’

‘Once Marianne is safe, we’ll hunt him down like the villain that he is,’ finished his son.

From the rooms above came the sound of a baby crying and a man and woman arguing, shouting and swearing at full volume. An old man was singing a drunken bawdy song and outside, in the street, a dog was barking. Marianne sat very still on the single wooden chair and waited, just as she had waited through all the previous hours. It was the sole piece of furniture in the room. Her eyes ranged again over the pile of filthy covers in the corner that served as a bed. Mould grew on the walls and the floorboards were bare. Two buckets sat behind the door—one held water, and the other was so stained with filth that she did not want to contemplate its use. There was no coal on the fire, no pots or pans. Not so much as a cup to drink from. The dirt encrusted upon the windows made the light hazy and hid her view of the rookery beyond.

‘Who lives here?’ she asked. The filthy bed of rags in the corner gave lie to her denial that anyone could live in such squalor.

‘A family with five children,’ replied the highwayman’s accomplice from behind his pale mask.

‘All in this one room?’

‘Aye, lass. But he’ll pay them more than they get in a year just for the use of this room for a few hours. He helps where he can.’

‘I did not know such poverty existed.’ She had never seen a place the like of this, with its maze of streets and alleyways crowded with ramshackle houses. ‘The children are so ragged and thin, with eyes that seem too old for their faces, and their mothers…’ She thought of the women with their rotten teeth and low, revealing bodices, and how they had fanned their skirts high when they had seen the highwayman and his accomplice.

‘For some, it is the only way they can feed their bairns.’

She was horrified to learn it.

The light was a dull grey and the air was so ripe with rotting rubbish—and worse—that she wondered if she would ever clear the stench of it from her nose. Something small and brown appeared from beneath the mound of blankets and scuttled across the floor.

‘It’ll not be much longer,’ the accomplice assured her. ‘He’ll be here soon and then we’ll have you back with your pa.’

‘You seem to be a kind man. Why are you helping that villain?’

‘He’s not the villain in any of this, m’lady, for all that you think him. And I’m helping him because he’s a good man and he fought his way across a battlefield to save my life. Don’t judge him so harshly. He’s only doing what he must, to set his demons to rest.’

The words were spoken with such sincerity that she could not doubt that the accomplice believed them. And she thought again of the tall dark masked man with amber eyes that made her shiver. ‘Why does that involve my father?’

But the man shook his head. ‘I’ve already said too much. Pardon me, my lady, but that is not my question to answer.’

When the clock struck three, Knight was nowhere near Aldgate High Street. He was drinking champagne in the bow window of White’s Gentleman’s Club with Bullford, Devlin, Razeby and Fallingham, and making sure the ton of London knew that he was there. He knew the boy he had paid would wait for Misbourne to arrive before passing him the note.

‘What d’you make of the story of Misbourne’s carriage crash?’ Bullford was asking.

‘Maybe Pickering’s getting cold feet,’ said Devlin. ‘After all, she’s hardly good ton at the minute. It will take a while longer before Misbourne lives down the embarrassment over Arlesford. And it’s not as if Pickering needs the money.’

‘Lucky escape for little Lady Marianne, if you ask me.’ Fallingham swigged at his champagne. ‘Pickering’s so old that he’s in danger of dying on the job, if you know what I mean.’

All the men except Knight laughed.

‘What do you think, Knight?’ asked Bullford, draining his glass.

He should not give a damn about Marianne Winslow, but he did not wish to think about her lying beneath Pickering. ‘I think it’s time we opened another bottle of champagne,’ he said. ‘I’ve got better things to do with the rest of my day.’ Callerton should have the girl well in place by now.

‘Would that involve keeping a certain widow satisfied?’ Devlin asked.

Knight smiled, but said nothing.

‘Lucky bugger!’ said Razeby. The rest of the men chortled in appreciation.

‘Maybe you should be laying off the champers in preparation for tomorrow’s four-in-hand race. Do you think you’ll beat Hawick?’ asked Bullford.

‘Why? Are you thinking of wagering against me?’ drawled Knight. His eyes slid across the room to the grandfather clock in the corner.

‘Wouldn’t dream of it, old man,’ said Bullford.

‘We like to make money, not lose it,’ agreed Fallingham.

The champagne arrived. ‘A monkey on it that no one can down the bottle in one,’ said Devlin.

‘Prepare to pay up,’ said Fallingham, lifting the bottle and placing it to his lips. He began to drink while his friends stamped their feet and chanted their support around him.

Knight waited until another two bottles of champagne had been opened before he slipped away.

‘If this is a direction to yet another street…’ warned Misbourne, grabbing the letter from beneath the apple cart in Cutler Street. ‘This is the fourth note. He’s had us on a wild goose chase all over London. The villain’s intent on making fools of us.’

‘He’s intent on making it as hard as possible for us to track him…and Marianne,’ corrected Linwood.

‘Give the document to the boy by the organ grinder. Lady Marianne will be delivered to your home.’ Misbourne read the words aloud. ‘Are the men still following us?’ he added beneath his breath to Linwood, who gave a subtle nod and lifted his wolf’s-head walking cane from where it rested on the ground.

‘Then let us hope the boy leads them straight to the villain’s lair.’

‘You should let me go,’ said Linwood.

‘Having you running through the streets will attract too much attention. No, it is better this way.’ Misbourne slipped a folded and sealed document from his pocket and walked over to the fair-haired boy by the organ grinder. The boy saw him coming and Misbourne understood from the expression on his face that the boy knew what to expect. He took the document without a word and disappeared into the crowded street. And the two men lounging in the mouth of the alleyway behind Misbourne slipped into the crowd after him.

Knight took the document from the boy. ‘You’re sure you lost them?’

‘Easy as pie. I passed it to Jim, who passed it to Dodger, who passed it to me. We led ‘em a merry dance all the way down to the dockland just as you said and left ‘em there.’

‘Good.’ Knight slipped the coins into the boy’s grubby hand.

‘Pleasure doing business with you, gov, as always.’ And the boy disappeared again.

Knight’s heart was thumping hard. The folded paper was fragile and yellowed with age. He could see the shadow of writing shining through its thinness. His mouth dried with anticipation. The question had haunted him every day of the last fifteen years—now he held the answer in his hands. He took a breath and carefully unfolded the document.

His eyes scanned the faded ink. The document was dated for June 1795 and was a letter from a senior government minister of the time to Misbourne. Several sensitive topics were discussed and it was clear, from both the tone and the detail revealed, that the two men were on friendly terms. It was a letter that many might have paid to read, the stuff of petty scandal, but Knight crushed it within his hand as a red mist descended before him.

Marianne heard the footsteps outside in the alleyway before the highwayman’s accomplice did. The highwayman strode into the room wearing the same long dark coat he had worn upon Hounslow Heath, but his hat was the smart beaver she had watched him don in the coach, and beneath the coat she caught a glimpse of the fine white shirt and dark waistcoat. The mask tied around his face had moulded to his features and his boots left a trail of footsteps through the dirt of the floor.

After all these hours of waiting, he had finally come to return her to her father. Her stomach tightened with anticipation. Then she met his eyes, and they were not golden and light but dark and dangerous and filled with such a cold hard rage that she knew, before he even spoke the words to his accomplice, that it had all gone wrong.

‘Misbourne played us false.’

‘He didn’t deliver the document?’ The accomplice sounded as shocked as Marianne felt.

‘Not the right one. Does he think me so much a fool that I would not notice?’

‘You said he was a blackguard but, even so, what manner of man risks his own daughter?’ the accomplice whispered, but she heard him just the same.

‘No!’ Marianne leapt to her feet so suddenly that the chair tipped back and clattered on to the floor. ‘You’re lying! My father must be confused. You cannot have made it clear what you wanted.’

The highwayman walked right up to her and his eyes were dark and deadly. ‘Your father knows exactly what I want, Lady Marianne.’

‘No,’ she whispered, shaking her head, knowing that what the highwayman was saying could not be true. ‘He would not leave me here with you. He would do everything in his power to save me.’ She knew it with all her heart.

Something of the rage diminished in the highwayman’s eyes and the way he was looking at her made his words ring true more than any angry assertions could have done. ‘I am sorry, Lady Marianne.’

‘There must be some mistake.’

The harshness of his whisper softened. ‘There is no mistake.’

‘You’re lying,’ she said again and her voice was very quiet and controlled, in such contrast to the terrible frenzied thud of her heart. Of course he was lying. He had to be lying.

He said nothing, just stood there and looked at her, and she could not bear to see the pity in his eyes.

‘You’re lying!’ she shouted it this time. ‘You just want more from him!’

‘Lady Marianne.’ Gently he tried to take her arm.

‘No!’ She flinched and pushed him away. ‘Do not touch me!’

‘We have to move,’ she heard his accomplice say in the background. ‘What do we do with the girl?’

The highwayman did not take his gaze from hers as he answered, ‘We take her home with us.’

The accomplice gestured the highwayman aside. They talked in hushed tones, but Marianne could hear some of what they were saying.

‘Maybe we should just let her go. If Misbourne isn’t going to give up the document…’ The accomplice was arguing to release her.

‘We keep her until he does.’ The highwayman was so adamant that she knew his accomplice would not persuade him. He meant to keep her and heaven only knew what he would do to her. He glanced round, saw she was listening and pulled his accomplice further away, turning his back so that she would not hear their words. They were so intent on their conversation that they did not hear the sound of feet and voices, children’s shouts and a man’s growl. The door opened and four children ran in, and behind them, a man and a woman carrying a puppy wrapped in a filthy shawl.

The children did not seem fazed to find the highwayman, his accomplice and Marianne.

‘All right, governor?’ The oldest fair-haired boy sauntered across the room and gave the highwayman a nod.

‘Tom,’ the man snapped at the boy, but the boy was not cowed in the slightest. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir,’ said the man to the highwayman. ‘We thought you would be gone. Excuse us and we’ll leave you to your business.’ And then in roughened tones to the children, ‘Out, the lot of you.’ His head gestured to the still-open door.

One of the boys emitted a harsh hacking cough and the puppy began to whine. The family smelled of dampness and dog and unwashed bodies.

‘Our business is done for today,’ replied the highwayman. ‘Here…’ He slipped his hand into his pocket and she saw the glint of gold. The children gathered around him like flies round a honeypot. Her gaze slid to the open door and the woman standing beside it. All eyes were on the highwayman’s gold. Marianne did not hesitate. She hitched up her skirts and she ran.

‘Stop her!’ She heard the highwayman’s shout. ‘Marianne, no! This place is danger—’ But she slammed the door shut behind her and did not look back.

She hurled herself down the close, through the gaping main door and out into the street. The clatter of her shoes was loud against the stones, seeming to echo against the crowding walls all around. Shabby clothing hung on washing lines strung high between the houses, flapping dark and grey and damp. Marianne dodged beneath them and kept on running, ignoring the sharp press of the cobbles through her thin leather soles. A quick glance behind and she could see his dark figure further down the street, running so fast that the tails of his greatcoat were spread and billowing behind him like great black wings.

‘God help me!’ she whispered and, ignoring the stitch in her side, pushed herself to run faster, knowing that she could not afford to let him catch her. The paving was uneven and covered in filth. A dog snapped at her heels and a woman sitting in a doorway swigging from a bottle shouted something at her and laughed, but she kept on running. She stumbled, almost sprawling her length as she caught her foot in a hole in the road, but righted herself without slowing. Round the corner, she dived up a narrow alleyway to her right and the next one on her left, crisscrossing, desperate to find a way out, but every turn just seemed to take her deeper into the forest of houses.

The streets were growing narrower and darker, the buildings taller and more rickety; the people she passed were more sharp-faced and beady-eyed. Her breathing was so hard she could taste blood at the back of her throat, so loud that it masked the sounds around her. She knew she could not keep going, that she was spent. She dodged into another narrow street on her right and shrank back against the wall, closing her eyes and gasping air into her lungs. Her side ached like the stab of a knife blade with every breath.

There was no sound of the highwayman’s footsteps. No sound of anything except the distant hum of everyday life and her own panting breath. She had lost him. She had escaped. She breathed her relief.

And then the scent of tobacco smoke drifted to her nose and Marianne knew that she was not alone. She opened her eyes and looked around her. A little further up the street, three men lounged completely motionless against the fronts of the houses. Their clothing was all browns and greys, merging with the stonework of the buildings. Two sucked on long thin clay pipes. All three watched her with sharp hungry faces.

And for all that Marianne had sought to escape the highwayman, she knew these men were different. They would give her no assurances. Their fight was not with her father.

Her stomach dipped with dread. She made no sudden movement, even though every muscle was primed and tensed to flee. She glanced to her right towards the mouth of the street. Another two men were taking up the breadth of it, silent in their drab dirty clothes, and blocking her exit. There was a hollow sickness in her stomach and her heart was pounding in the base of her throat. She looked to her left, wondering if she stood a chance of running past the men, but a thin-faced man with a scar down his cheek was watching from the shelter of the close and another man, a great big bear of a man, was sitting on the step. And she was afraid, more desperately afraid than ever. Moving slowly, calmly, as if they were a pack of wolves, she edged away from the wall.

The thin-faced man stepped out of the close into the narrow street and it seemed to be a signal, for the other men moved to gather behind his lead.

She took her chance and whirled, trying to dodge past the two that guarded the exit of the street, but there was no way past them and she was forced back.

‘Don’t be in such a hurry to leave,’ one of them said. ‘There’s plenty of fun to be had for a pretty little thing like you.’ She saw his eyes rake her body before returning to rest upon her face. He licked his lips slowly, meaningfully, with a fur-coated tongue. Marianne glanced behind her at the advancing group of men.

‘No way out, darlin’,’ said the man who had spoken before. ‘Smile at me and I’ll be gentle with you.’ And he laughed.

She knew what they were going to do to her. She knew, and there was nothing that she could do to stop them. Nothing was going to stop them. She opened her mouth to scream—and then she saw the tall dark figure step into the mouth of the street.




Chapter Three


Marianne knew it was the highwayman, but he was alone and there were seven men around her. He walked forwards and the expression of darkness and ferocity on his face made her stomach flip. The ruffians began to close with eagerness upon him, but he did not hesitate, just kept on walking.

One of the villains gave a mocking laugh. ‘You think we’re scared because you’re wearing a bleedin’ mask?’

She did not hear the highwayman’s answer. There was only the sickening sound of bone crunching against bone and the villain laughed no more. A hand closed tight around her upper arm and the thin-faced man looked down into her face.

‘Unhand me!’ She struggled to free herself, but the thin-faced man only smirked at her efforts.

She could not see the highwayman properly, but she could hear every fist that landed, could hear the grunts and the gasps and the curses from the ruffians. There was such menace about him that it made that of the villains pale to insignificance. The men before him seemed to crumple. One was thrown against a wall, slithering down to lie in a limp and bloodied heap. Another turned tail and ran away. She had never seen such power, such strength, such utter ruthlessness. It shook her to the very core. And it shook the thin-faced man too. With a snarl of disgust he gestured the biggest, heaviest-set of his men towards the highwayman. The villain was a giant of a man, his fists huge and scarred, and as Marianne watched he slipped a wicked-looking hunting knife from his pocket.

‘Come on, darlin’, me and you’ve got some business together. Fitz’ll take care of the distraction.’ The thin-faced man manhandled her towards the mouth of the close.

‘No!’ She struggled against him, straining for release, and her eyes met the highwayman’s across the carnage just for a moment. Something passed between them, something she did not understand. He was her enemy and yet he was also her only hope. He was different from the men in the rookery. He was different from any man that she had ever seen. His gaze shifted to focus on the men between them. She watched it harden, and darken, and she shivered just to see it. She stared in awe, wanting both to run to, and away from him. The thin-faced man’s fingers bit all the harder into her arm as he wrenched her so roughly that she lost her footing and went down on her knees. He yanked her up and dragged her towards the building in which she had first seen him. And behind her she could hear the sounds of the fight intensify.

They were just inside the close when the scream pierced the air. A scream of pain and of terror. A scream that made her scalp prickle and her blood run cold. Then there was silence. She strained her neck and saw the big villain lying curled on the ground sobbing like a baby. And the highwayman was still coming: relentless, unstoppable.

Knight saw Marianne Winslow being dragged towards a house by a thin-faced man. Her eyes were fixed on his and in that moment he saw her with all of her armour and pretence stripped away: her soul, bared in such honesty, and vulnerable. She was not Misbourne’s daughter now, but a woman in her own right—one who was in grave danger because of him. He felt the extent of her fear, felt her unspoken plea reach in and touch him in a place he had thought lost long ago. Something inside him seemed to boil up and spill over. There were two men between him and Marianne. Knight knew that time was running out.

‘Come on then, mate,’ taunted the stockier of the two. ‘Show us what you’ve got.’ The black-toothed ruffian moved his fingers in a beckoning gesture. ‘We don’t fight with Queensbury rules he—’

Knight smashed his fist as hard as he could into the ruffian’s nose. The man dropped and did not get up.

The sole remaining villain was backing away with his hands raised in surrender. ‘You can ‘ave ‘er.’ The man’s face was pale beneath the grime. ‘Just don’t hit me, mate.’ A telltale wet patch spread across the fall of the man’s trousers as he spoke. Knight hit him anyway and kept on moving into the close.

From above came the sounds of the struggle. A door slammed, muffling the sounds. He took the stairs two at a time, up to the first floor, hearing the struggle grow louder as he ran. He kicked open the door and saw Marianne backed against the wall watching in terror while, in the middle of the room, the villain unfastened his trousers. Both faces shot round to him.

‘What the hell…?’ The villain scrabbled at the open fall of his trousers, his shifty grey eyes taking in Knight’s highwayman clothes and the kerchief that still masked his face. ‘Piss off and get your own.’

‘She’s mine,’ said Knight.

‘This is my territory—that makes her mine.’ The thin-faced man pulled a razorblade from the pocket of his jacket and brandished it at Knight. ‘Now piss off. Three’s a crowd.’

‘I agree.’ But instead of retreating, Knight walked straight for the man. His left hand caught the wrist that swiped the razor at Knight’s neck; his right grabbed the back of the half-mast breeches and, before the villain could react, ran him headlong out of the window.

When he turned back to Marianne she had not moved one inch; just stood there frozen, spine against the wall.

‘You killed him,’ she whispered.

He let the lethality fade from his face. ‘I doubt it. We’re only one floor up. Probably just broke a few bones.’ He paused. ‘Did he hurt you?’

Her gaze clung to his. ‘No.’

Thank God!

Her voice was quiet and calm, but her face was pale as death and he could see the shock and fear that she had not yet masked in her eyes.

Someone outside started to scream.

‘We have to leave here. Now.’ But she still made no move, just stared at him as if she could not believe what was happening.

‘Lady Marianne,’ he pressed, knowing the urgency of their predicament. He took hold of her arm and together they ran from the room.

The kitchen of Knight’s house in Craven Street was warm and empty save for the two men that sat at the table. The stew that Callerton had prepared earlier was still cooking within the range, its aroma rich in the air. There was the steady slow tick from the clock fixed high on the wall between the windows. The daylight was subdued through the fine netting that Callerton had fitted across the window panes, lending the room an air of privacy.

‘You were out of sight by the time I got out of there. And I knew you wouldn’t go back to the room,’ Callerton said. He unstoppered the bottle of brandy sitting on the scrubbed oak of the kitchen table between them and poured some into each of the two glasses.

Knight gave a nod. They both knew the arrangements if something went wrong. ‘How is she?’

‘She’s resting.’

‘You got to her in time?’ Knight gave another nod. ‘Just.’ Marianne Winslow’s virtue had hung by a thread within that rookery. He wondered what he would have done had he not arrived in time. Killed the blackguard in the room with her. Blamed himself for all eternity.

‘Thank God for that.’ Callerton downed his brandy in one. ‘You’ve got to give her back.’

He knew that. He also knew that he had come too far and could not give up Misbourne’s daughter just yet. ‘That’s what Misbourne’s banking on. We keep her…for now.’ In his mind he could still see those dark eyes of hers, holding his with such brutal honesty, and the look in them that would not leave him.

Callerton rubbed at his forehead. His face was creased with concern. ‘The letter he sent is from the right date. And it’s definitely something that Misbourne would not want towncried. You’re sure it’s not the right one?’

‘Positive.’ He did not let himself think of the woman. This was about Misbourne. It had always been about Misbourne.

Callerton grimaced and shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Why give us something we could use against him if it’s the wrong document?’

‘Maybe he’s testing us to see if we know the right document.’

‘And once he knows there’s no hoodwinking us he’ll give us the genuine article.’

‘There’s only one way to find out.’

‘How do we send him the message?’

‘Remember the night before Viemero?’

Callerton raised his brows. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘Never more so.’

‘It’s too risky!’

‘It will show him that we mean business.’

‘Aye, it’ll do that, all right.’ Callerton played with his empty glass. ‘But I wouldn’t want to be in your boots tonight.’

Knight grinned. ‘Liar.’

Callerton laughed.

Within the darkened bedchamber that was her prison Marianne stood by the mantelpiece and stared into the flame of her single candle. The shutters were secured across the windows and despite the chill of the early evening, no fire had been lit upon the hearth.

The thoughts were running through her head, constant and whirring. Of the highwayman in the rookery. Of their journey back to the shuttered room. It seemed like a daze, like something she had dreamt. She knew only that the highwayman’s arm had been strong and protective around her and that the villains lurking in the shadows of the narrow streets had watched him with wary eyes and had not approached. No one had moved except to scuttle out of their way. Her family and her servants had always provided a barrier between her and anyone who did not move in her own small, vetted circle, but this was different. This was like nothing she had ever experienced. Men looked at the highwayman with a curious mix of hostility and deference, women with a specific interest they made no effort to hide. He had intruded into their world, snatched her right from their grasp. They had not liked it, but not one of them had moved to stop him.

He had kept her moving at a steady pace, twisting and turning through the dark maze of narrow lanes until, eventually, the lanes had widened to streets and light had started to penetrate the gloom. The streets had grown busier, but no one had entered the space around Marianne and the highwayman; everywhere they went a path had opened up through the crowd before them. Even in her dazed state she had known the reason: they were afraid of him, every last one of them.

And by his side, Marianne Winslow, who for the past three years had been scared of her own shadow, Marianne Winslow, who had more reason than any to be afraid, had walked through the most dangerous rookery in London, past villains and thieves, unscathed and unafraid. She was still reeling from it, still seeing the different way they looked at her because she was with him. And that sense of freedom, of power almost, obliterated the terror of the rookery.

She should have been shaking. She should have been sobbing and weeping with fear and with shock. She stared at the candle flame without even seeing it, knowing that the calm she felt was natural and not the result of counting her breaths and slowing them, or drinking a preparation of valerian. He was a man more dangerous than any other, yet with him she had felt safe. It made no sense.

The flame began to flicker wildly. Her attention shifted to the tiny stub of candle that remained and she knew it would not last much longer.

She lifted the candlestick and, holding it high, glanced around the bedchamber. It was a woman’s room, but one that was not used, if the quiet, sad atmosphere was anything to judge by. The walls appeared a yellow colour and were hung with a few small paintings. A large still life, depicting an arrangement of exotic flowers, was positioned on the wall above the mantelpiece. She crossed the floor to search the dressing table. There was a vanity set, bottles of perfume, jars of cream and cosmetics, a box of hairpins, a casket of jewellery and two candelabra, both of which were empty. None of the drawers held any candles. She glanced towards the bed—large and four-postered, its covers and pillows a faded pale chintz, the colour of which was indefinable in the candlelight. At one side was a small chest of drawers and on the other a table. Neither held any candles. Nor did the small bookcase. There was nothing behind the gold-chinoiserie dressing screen in the corner. The candle stub guttered, making the flame dance all the wilder and the wick burn all the faster and the first snake of fear slithered into her blood.

Her fingers scrabbled at the shutters closed across the window and found the catch, but no amount of prising would release it. It took her a few minutes to realise that they had been secured with nails.

There were two doors within the bedchamber: one in the wall against which the head of the bed rested, and the other to the left, opposite the window. She hurried to each one in turn, trying the locks, twisting and pulling at the handles. But both were locked, confirming what she feared—that she was trapped in here, with nothing to do save wait for the candle to extinguish. The knowledge made her stomach knot.

She had been safe in the rookery with him, but this was different. Now she was his prisoner. Alone in a bedchamber. And she knew how dangerous he was and how very angry he was with her father for not delivering the mysterious document. But her mind flickered back to what would happen when the candle burned out. He had said she had nothing to fear from him. She glanced again at the candle. It should have been the highwayman that terrified her, but it wasn’t. She closed her eyes and counted her breaths, slowing them as she ever did when she was afraid, making them deeper to allay the mounting panic. And when she had calmed herself, she knew what she was going to have to do.

‘All done.’ Callerton finished brushing the last speck of dust from the shoulder of Knight’s midnight-blue tailcoat.

‘The boy should have delivered the note to Misbourne by now. We’ll—’ The banging started before Knight could finish the words. He raised an eyebrow. ‘What the hell…?’

‘It sounds like she’s using a battering ram against the door,’ said Callerton. ‘Do you want me to tie her up?’

Knight shook his head. ‘I’ll deal with Lady Marianne.’

‘You’re due at Devlin’s for dinner in five minutes.’

‘Then I’ll be late; Devlin will expect nothing else. It pays to cultivate a habit of unreliability. Besides, I’ve no stomach for the after-dinner entertainment.’

‘More lightskirts?’

‘He’s hired Mrs Silver’s girls for the night.’

‘Again?’

‘Again,’ said Knight.

Callerton gave a whistle. ‘You’ll be late back, then.’

Knight scowled at the prospect. ‘I’ll have to make a show of it, but I’ll be back in time.’

‘Most men would love a chance to play the rake. Come to think of it, most men would be living the dream rather than faking it.’

‘I’m not most men.’

‘No, you’re not,’ agreed Callerton more quietly. ‘Most men would have left me to die in Portugal.’

The two men looked at one another, feeling all of the past there in the room with them. The only sound was of something being thudded hard against wood, coming from above.

‘We’ll get him,’ said Callerton.

‘Damn right we’ll get him. And in the meantime I’ll silence his daughter.’ Knight slipped the black silken mask from his pocket, tied it around his face, grabbed a branch of candles and strode up the stairs.

The ivory-and-tortoiseshell hairbrush splintered into three from the force of being hammered against the door. Marianne threw it aside and continued her assault with her fists and her feet, not caring about the pain.

The panic was escalating and she feared that she would not be able to keep a rein on it for much longer if he did not come soon. She banged at the door so hard that her blood pounded through her hands and she could feel bruises starting to form. She glanced round at the mantelpiece and the dying candle upon it. The light was already beginning to ebb. Soon it would be gone. Her stomach turned over at the thought. She bit her lip and banged all the harder.

She did not hear his footsteps amidst the noise. The lock clicked and then he was there in the bedchamber with her.

‘Lady Marianne.’ His half-whisper was harsher than ever. ‘It seems you desire my company.’ He stood there, holding the branched candlestick aloft, and the flickering light from the candles sent shadows darting and scuttling across the walls. His brows were drawn low in a stern frown and the shadows made him seem taller than she remembered, and his shoulders broader. He was dressed in expensive formal evening wear: a dark tailcoat, white shirt, cravat and waistcoat, and dark pantaloons. Beside all of which, the mask that hid his face looked incongruous. No ordinary highwayman.

‘My candle is almost spent.’ Her pride would let her say nothing more. She glanced across to the mantelpiece where the lone candle spluttered.

‘It is.’ He made no move, just looked at her. His gaze dropped to the broken hairbrush that lay on the floor between them. ‘Not very ladylike behaviour.’

‘Highway robbery, assaulting my father and abducting me on the way to my wedding are hardly gentlemanly.’

‘They are not,’ he admitted. ‘But as I told you before, I am what your father made me.’

She stared at him. ‘What has my father ever done to you? What is all of this about?’

He gave a hard laugh and shook his head. ‘Have I not already told you?’

‘Contrary to what you believe, my father is a good man.’

‘No, Lady Marianne, he is not.’ There was such ferocity in his eyes at the mention of her father that she took a step backwards and, as she did, her foot inadvertently kicked a large shard of the handle so that it slid across the floor, coming to a halt just before the toes of his shoes.

She saw him glance at it, before that steady gaze returned to hers once more. ‘My mother’s hairbrush.’

She looked down at the smashed brush, then back up at the highwayman and the fear made her stomach turn somersaults. She swallowed. ‘Does she know that her son is a highwayman who has terrorised and robbed half of London?’

‘The newspapers exaggerate, Lady Marianne. I have terrorised and robbed six people and six people only, your father amongst them.’

Her heart gave a stutter at his admission.

‘And my mother is dead,’ he added.

She glanced away, feeling suddenly wrong-footed, unsure of what to say.

He carried on regardless. ‘Were you trying to beat the door down to escape or merely destroy my possessions?’

‘Neither,’ she said. ‘I wished to…’ she hesitated before forcing herself on ‘…to attract your attention.’

‘You have it now. Complete and undivided.’

She dared a glance at him and saw that his eyes were implacable as ever.

‘What is it that you wish to say?’

The smell of candle smoke hit her nose and she peered round at the mantelpiece to see only darkness where the candle had been. A part of her wanted to beg, to plead, to tell him the truth. But she would almost rather face the terror than that. Almost. She experienced the urge to grab the branch of candles from his hand, but she did not surrender to the panic. Instead, she held her head up and kept her voice calm.

‘All of the candlesticks are empty.’

His gaze did not falter. She thought she saw something flicker in his eyes, but she did not understand what it was. He stepped forwards.

She took a step back.

He looked into her eyes with that too-seeing look that made her feel as if her soul was laid bare to him, as if he could see all of her secrets, maybe even the deepest and darkest one of all. She knew she should look away, but she did not dare, for she knew that all around them was darkness.

The silence hissed between them.

‘I would be obliged if you would fill them. All of them.’ She forced her chin up and pretended to herself that she was speaking to the footman in her father’s house, even though her heart was thudding nineteen to the dozen and her legs were pressed tight together to keep from shaking.

His eyes held a cynical expression. He turned away and headed for the door, taking the branch of candles with him. She heard the darkness whisper behind her.

‘No! Stop!’ She grabbed at his arm with both hands to stop him, making the candles flicker wildly. ‘You cannot…’ She manoeuvred herself between him and the door, trying to block his exit, keeping a tight hold of him all the while.

His gaze dropped to where her fingers clutched so tight to the superfine of his coat sleeve that her knuckles shone white, then back to her face.

She felt her cheeks warm and let her hands fall away. ‘Where are you going, sir?’ She was too embarrassed to meet his gaze. Her heart was racing hard enough to leap from her chest and she felt sick.

He raised his brows. ‘I may be mistaken, but I thought you requested candles. I was going to have my man bring you some.’

Her eyes flickered to the branch of candles in his hand, then to the darkness that enclosed the room beyond. ‘But…’ The words stopped on her lips. She did not want to say them. She could not bear for him to know. Yet the darkness was waiting and she knew what it held. She felt the terror prickle at the nape of her neck and begin to creep across her scalp.

‘Lady Marianne.’

Her gaze came back to his, to those rich warm amber eyes that glowed in the light of his candles. Please, she wanted to say, wanted to beg. Already she could feel the tremor running through her body. But still she did not yield to it, not in front of him. She shook her head.

‘If I were to leave the candles here…’

‘Yes,’ she said, and the relief was so great that she felt like weeping. ‘Yes,’ she repeated and could think of nothing else. The highwayman passed her the branch of candles. Her hand was trembling as she took it; she hated the thought that he might see it, so she turned away. ‘Thank you,’ she added and sank back into the room, clutching the candles tight to ward away the darkness.

There was silence for a moment, then the closing of the door and the sound of his footsteps receding.

She stared at the flicker of the candle flames and thought again that, in truth, he was no ordinary highwayman.

The clock in the corner on the mantelpiece chimed midnight. Misbourne left his son and his wife in the drawing room and made his way to his study. He needed time to think, needed space away from his wife’s incessant weeping, because his heart was filled with dread and his stomach churning with fear over the gamble he had taken.

‘Had he released her she would be here by now,’ Linwood had whispered and Misbourne knew that his son was right. Yet he could not admit it, even to himself. He needed a brandy to calm his nerves. He needed time to gather his strength and hide his fears.

But everything changed when he opened the door to his study. For there, on the desk that he had left clear, lay two pieces of paper like pale islands floating on the vast sea of dark polished mahogany. One was a smooth-cut sheet of writing paper, and the other was a crushed paper ball. His heart faltered before rushing off at a gallop. He hurried across the room to the desk. The writing paper bore his own crest, but it was not his hand that had penned those three bold letters and single word.

IOU Misbourne.

The ink glistened in the candlelight. His hand was shaking as he touched a finger to it and saw its wetness smear. He whirled around, knowing that the words had only just been written. Behind him the curtains swayed. He wrenched them open, but there was no one there. The window was up and the damp scent of night air filled his nose. He leaned his hands on the sill, craning his head out, searching the night for the man who had the audacity to walk right into his home to leave the message. But not a single one of the lamp posts that lined the road had been lit. The street was dark and deserted. Not a figure stirred. Not a dog barked. And of the highwayman there was no sign.

He knew what the crumpled ball of paper was before he opened it. The letter he had sent to the highwayman. A letter that could have been used against Misbourne. A letter that could cost him much in the wrong hands. Crumpled as if it were worthless. The villain knew what the document was. He knew, and there was only one man left alive with that knowledge. Misbourne felt sick at the thought. It was everything he had guarded against. Everything he had prayed so hard to prevent. He shut the window and closed the curtains, knowing it would do little good; the highwayman had been in his home, the one place that should have been safe.

He filled a glass with brandy, sat behind his desk and drank the strong warming liquid down. His eyes never left the words written upon the paper. Misbourne was more afraid than he had ever been, both for himself and for Marianne. He knew there was only one thing to do when the highwayman next made contact. If the highwayman next made contact.




Chapter Four


Marianne sat perched on the edge of the bed. The fire that the highwayman’s accomplice had set last night had long since burned away to nothing and the air was cool. The early morning light seeped through the cracks of the window shutters, filtering into the bedchamber. The bed was only slightly rumpled where she had lain awake all night on top of the covers. She had not climbed within the sheets, nor had she worn the nightclothes that the accomplice had left neatly folded upon the dressing table. She had not even removed her shoes.

It had been the first night in almost three years that Marianne had spent alone. And she had barely slept a wink. All night she had waited. All night she had feared. But the highwayman had not come back to hurt her. Instead, he had filled the room with candles to light the darkness of the night. Eventually, as night had turned to dawn, her fear had diminished and all she could think of was the highwayman in the rookery and the look in his eyes as they had met hers. She thought of the villains quailing before him, of the wary respect in their eyes, of how he had kept her safe.

He was tougher, stronger, more dangerous than any villain. And she remembered how, last night, she had physically accosted him, clutching at him in her panic, even barring the door so that he would not leave. She closed her eyes and cringed at the memory. He knew. She had seen it in his eyes. Yet he had not said one word of her weakness, nor used it against her. She slipped off her shoes and moved to sit on the rug in the bright warmth of the narrow beam of sunshine. And she thought again of the man with the hauntingly beautiful amber eyes and the dark mask that hid his face, and the strange conflict of emotion that was beating in her chest.

When Knight opened the door to the yellow bedchamber his heart skipped a beat. The words he had come to say slipped from his mind. He stared and all else was forgotten in that moment as he watched Marianne hurriedly rising from where she had been sitting upon the floor. The room was dim, but small shafts of sunlight were penetrating through the seams of the closed shutters. She was standing directly in the line of a thin ray of light so that it lit her in a soft white light. There was an ethereal quality to her, so soft and pale with such deep, dark, soulful eyes.

He realised he was staring and pulled himself together, entering the room and setting the breakfast tray that he carried down on the nearby table. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked embarrassed to have been caught sitting in the sunbeam. His eyes dropped down to the stockinged feet that peeped from beneath her skirt, then travelled slowly up the wedding dress, all crumpled and creased from sleep, to the smooth swell of breasts that rose from the tight press of the bodice. Her hair was a tumble of white-blonde waves over her shoulders, so long that it reached almost to her waist. She looked as beautiful and dishevelled as if she had just climbed from a lover’s bed.

His gaze reached her face and he met the darkness of her eyes with all of their secrets and steadfast resilience. And that same ripple of desire he had experienced when he first looked at her whispered again. He closed his ears to it, denied its existence. Her blush intensified beneath his scrutiny and she stepped away, twitching at her rumpled skirts and shifting her feet to try to hide her stockinged toes.

He wanted to ask her why a twenty-year-old woman was so terrified of the dark. It seemed much more than a spoiled girl’s foible. He knew how hard she had fought to hide her fear from him, and were he to ask the question she would, no doubt, deny all and tell him nothing.

‘From Pickering?’ He gestured towards the heavy ornate pearls around her neck.

She nodded. ‘You knew that I was on my way to be married before my father told you, didn’t you?’ Her eyes looked different today. Lighter, a rich brown, and the contempt had gone from them. Something of her armour was back in place, but he had a feeling she had not pulled down her visor. Her manner was still guarded, but less hostile than it had been.

‘It is a society wedding of interest throughout the ton.’ He shrugged as if it were nothing of significance and did not tell her that he had made it his business to know all there was to know of Misbourne, or that he had been waiting and watching these two months past for an opportunity to take her from her father.

‘And yet still you held us up.’ He could sense both her curiosity and her condemnation.

‘You think me ruthless. And when it comes to your father I cannot deny it.’

‘You should not have hurt him,’ she said and he saw her eyes darken with the memory of what had happened upon the heath.

Yet he could not apologise. He could not say he regretted it. Or that he would not have done the same, or more, again. ‘I regret that you had to witness such violence.’

‘But you do not regret what you did.’

He shook his head. ‘Your father deserved much more.’ It was a harsh truth, but he would not lie to her.

She swallowed and something of the defensiveness slotted back across her face. No matter what he knew of Misbourne, he admired her loyalty to her father—the courage with which she stood up to a highwayman to defend the bastard so determinedly. His eye traced the fine line of her cheek, the fullness of her lips. He caught what he was doing and felt the muscle clench in his jaw. With a stab of anger he averted his gaze and began to walk away. She was Misbourne’s daughter, for pity’s sake! He should not have to remind himself.

‘There were seven men in that alleyway,’ she said in a low careful voice, ‘and you are but one man, yet you did not use a pistol.’

Her words stopped him, but he did not look round. ‘A pistol shot would have brought more of the rats from their holes.’

‘Why did you help me?’

The question, so softly uttered, cut through everything else.

He turned then, and looked at her, at the temptation she presented: those eyes, so soft and dark as to beguile a man from all sense.

‘Why would I not?’

‘You hate my father.’

Hate was too mild a word to describe what he felt for Misbourne. He paused before speaking, before looking into the eyes that were so similar and yet so different to her father’s. ‘Regardless of your father, while you are with me I will keep you safe.’

Safe. It had been such a long time since Marianne had felt safe. There had been times that she had thought she would never feel safe again, no matter how well guarded and protected she was by her family. She studied his face. In the shaft of morning light his eyes were golden as a flame. He was a highwayman. He had beaten her father and abducted her. He was holding her prisoner her against her will. She had watched the most brutal of London’s lowlife cower before him. He could be anyone behind that dark silken mask. But whoever he was, he had not used her ill, as he could have. He had brought her candles to light the darkness. And he had saved her. He had saved her—and he had bested seven men to do it.

She met his gaze and held it, looking deep into those amber eyes, trying to glean a measure of the man behind the mask. He was not lying. A man like him had no need to lie.

The expression in his eyes gentled. His hand moved as if he meant to touch her arm, except that he stopped it before it reached her and let it drop away.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

She stared up into his face and could not look away. And the highwayman held her gaze.

‘Yes,’ she said at last and nodded. ‘I am fine.’ She had said those words so many times in the past three years, but only this time, standing there in a shuttered bedchamber with a masked man who had abducted her, was she close to telling the truth. ‘The letter that you think my father holds.’

He gave no response.

‘I know you believe he understands…’ She saw the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes, but it did not stop her. ‘Will you ask him again and tell him exactly what it is that you seek?’

‘I have already done so.’

She gave a nod and relaxed at his words. ‘I heard you and your accomplice talking about a document…He will give it to you this time.’ Her father would give whatever it took to redeem her. ‘I will stake my life upon it.’

The highwayman said nothing. He just looked at her for a moment longer and then walked away, leaving her locked alone in the bedchamber.

Five minutes later Marianne heard the thud of the front door closing and the clatter of a horse’s hooves trotting away from the house. She knew that it was the highwayman leaving. The accomplice’s footsteps sounded on the stairs; she heard him come along the passageway and go into a nearby room. There was the noise of cupboards and drawers being opened and closed, then the accomplice unlocked her door, knocking before entering.

‘If you will come this way, my lady, I am under instruction to show you to another room in which you might spend the day. One in which the shutters are not closed.’

He took her to the bedchamber on the opposite side of the passageway. The daylight was light and bright and wonderful after the dimness of the yellow chamber. She blinked, her eyes taking an age to adjust. The walls were a cool blue, the bedding dark as midnight and the furniture mahogany and distinctly masculine in style. Over by the basin she could see a shaving brush, soap and razor blade, all set before a mirror, and she knew whose bedchamber this was without having to be told. Her heart began to pound and butterflies flocked in her stomach. She hesitated where she was, suddenly suspicious.

Something of the apprehension must have shown in her face for all she tried to hide it, for the accomplice smiled gently, reassuringly.

‘He thought you would prefer the daylight. The sun hits the back of the house in the afternoon.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You need not have a fear, lass. I am to take you back to the yellow chamber before he returns.’

She looked round at the accomplice and the grey mask loosely tied to obscure his face. ‘Could you not simply have removed the nails from the shutters?’

‘No, Lady Marianne.’ The accomplice glanced away uneasily.

‘Because it is at the front of the house,’ she guessed, ‘and you fear that I would attract attention?’

‘It is rather more complicated than that. The shutters must remain closed. Those in the master bedchamber too.’

‘The yellow bedchamber…’ She hesitated and thought of the hairbrush. ‘It was his mother’s room, was it not?’

The accomplice gave a hesitant nod.

‘And this is his house.’

He looked uncomfortable but did not deny it. ‘I must go,’ he said and started to move away.

‘You said he was a good man.’

The accomplice halted by the door. ‘He is.’

‘What he did to my father on Hounslow Heath was not the action of a good man.’

‘Believe me, Lady Marianne, were he a lesser man, your father would be dead. Were I in his shoes, I don’t know that I could have walked away and left Misbourne alive.’ He turned away, then glanced back again to where she stood, slack-jawed and gaping in shock. ‘For your own sake, please be discreet around the window. Being seen in a gentleman’s bedchamber, whatever the circumstances, would not be in any young unmarried lady’s favour.’

He gave a nod of his head and walked away, locking the door behind him.

What had her father ever done to deserve the hatred of these men? Her legs felt wobbly at the thought of such vehemence. She needed to sit down. She eyed the four-poster bed with its dark hangings and covers—the highwayman’s bed—and a shiver rippled down her spine, spreading out to tingle across the whole of her skin. She stepped away, choosing the high-backed easy chair by the side of the fireplace, and perching upon the edge of its seat.

Marianne glanced at the window behind her and the brightness of the daylight. The accomplice was right. Especially given it had been little more than a year since the Duke of Arlesford had broken their betrothal. The scandal surrounding it still had not completely died away. One word of her abduction, one word that she had spent the night in a bachelor’s house without a chaperon—no matter that she was being held alone in a locked room—and her reputation would be ruined to such an extent that none of her father’s influences could repair it. The irony almost made her laugh. Especially when she contemplated the darkness of the truth. Even so, she rose to her feet and walked to the window.

The view was the same as that of a hundred other houses in London—long, neatly kept back gardens separated by high stone walls, backing on to more gardens and the distant rear aspect of yet more town houses, all beneath the grey-white of an English autumn sky. There were no landmarks that she recognised. The catch moved easily enough, but the window was stiff and heavy and noisy to open. She did not slide it up far. There was little point, for there was no hope of escape through it. The drop below was sheer and at least twenty-five feet. She closed the window as quietly as she could and turned to survey the room around her.

It was much smaller than the yellow bedchamber and almost Spartan in its feel. Aside from the bed there was a bedside cabinet upon which was placed a candle in its holder. Against the other walls stood a dark mahogany wardrobe, a wash-stand and a chest of drawers with a small peering glass and shaving accoutrements sitting neatly on top. A dark Turkey rug covered the floor, but there were no pictures on the wall, no bolsters or cushions upon the bed. There was no lace, no frills, nothing pretty or pale. It was the very opposite of Marianne’s bedchamber at home. It was dark and serious and exuded an air of strength and utter masculinity, just like the man who owned it.

His presence seemed strong in the room, so strong that it almost felt like he was here. And she had the strangest sensation of feeling both unsettled and safe at once. Her blood was flowing a little bit too fast. She needed to search the bedchamber, to discover any clue to the highwayman’s identity that she might tell her father when she got home. So she turned the key within the tall polished wardrobe and the door swung open. Sandalwood touched to her nose, a faint scent but instantly recognisable as the highwayman. Goosebumps prickled her skin and a shiver passed all the way through her body. There was something attractive, something almost stimulating about his scent. The rails were heavy with expensive tailored coats and breeches, undoubtedly the clothing of a gentleman, and a wealthy one at that if the cut and quality of material were anything to judge by. It did not surprise her for, despite his disguise, she had known almost from the first that he was no ruffian.

Check the pockets, she heard the voice of common sense whisper in her ear. She reached out her hand, then hesitated, holding her breath, suddenly very aware of where she was and what she was doing. Slowly she touched her fingers to the shoulder of the nearest tailcoat.

The midnight-blue wool felt as smooth and expensive as it looked. Her eyes scanned the breadth of the shoulders. She let her fingers trace all the way down one lapel and it felt as daring as if she were stroking a tiger, as daring as if the highwayman was still wearing the coat. That thought made her heart skip a beat. She slid her hands within, checking the inside for hidden pockets, skimming down the tail to the pocket that was there, but nothing was to be found in any of them. She checked each coat in turn; the feel of his clothing beneath her fingers and the scent of him in her nose made her heart thud all the harder and her blood rush all the faster as she remembered the strength and hardness of the arm she had gripped so frantically last night and the weight of his hand around her arm in the rookery. And she wondered if this was what it would feel like to lay her hand against his shoulder, his lapel, his chest…

She gave a shaky laugh at the absurdity of her own thoughts. She did not like men, especially those who were dangerous. She closed the wardrobe door and, quietly and systematically, began to search the rest of the room.

The soap in the dish held the scent of sandalwood. She touched his badger-hair shaving brush and the handle of his razorblade, wondering that he had left such a weapon at her disposal. But then she remembered him in the rookery and knew that he had nothing to be afraid of. And another shiver rippled all the way from the top of her head down to the tips of her toes.

Everything was neat and tidy, everything in its place. Waistcoats, shirts, a pile of pressed linen cravats…and a black-silk kerchief. She hesitated, feeling strange to see it folded and pressed so neatly within the drawer. It seemed so harmless, so inconsequential, unlike the man who wore it.

There were two pairs of riding boots and three pairs of black slippers—all large. She did not look through his unmentionables, only closed the drawer so quickly that she wondered if his accomplice had heard the noise. Then she sat herself down in the easy chair by the fireplace, properly this time, and considered what she had gleaned of the highwayman from his room and possessions.

He was a gentleman, tall and broad-shouldered and strong. A man who wore a black-silk kerchief across his face. A man from whom one glance made her shiver, and of whom his scent alone made her heart beat too fast. A man for whom she felt both wariness and fascination. Nothing in the room had told her anything more than she already knew.

Knight did not return to his town house until dinnertime that night.

‘Did you win?’ Callerton asked, serving up the stew he had prepared.

‘Your money’s safe,’ replied Knight.

‘Nice to know I made a bob or two without leaving the house.’ Callerton grinned. ‘Shouldn’t Rafe Knight, gentleman and rake, be out celebrating his victory?’

‘They have arranged an outing to a gaming hell tonight.’

Callerton screwed his face up. ‘If I don’t go there’ll be questions. And we don’t want questions.’

Callerton shook his head. ‘Especially not this night.’

‘Is Lady Marianne in the yellow bedchamber?’




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