Chapter Twenty-Seven
The road south of Scarcliffe Hall and Loxwell Park was a long-disputed territory. The Hartleys claimed it fell under the jurisdiction of the Balfours, and had maps drawn up to prove it. The Balfours claimed it was not on their land, and had maps of their own.
The end result was that both families had abandoned their duty, and the road was in a state of wildness and near-ruin. It made the yearly visits to the London Season a difficult endeavour, one which each family naturally blamed on the incompetence of the other.
Travelling that road in bright daylight, in all the anticipation of a merry Season, was one thing. Travelling it at night, against one's will, was a bumpy nightmare. The potholes, carriage ruts, and great puddles of mud made it impossible to work up any sort of speed at all.
Robert relaxed against the seat as best he could, despite the bumping, and resigned himself to arriving at Larksley a good day or so later than the distance allowed. If, that is, he was destined to arrive there at all.
He wondered what sort of reception he would receive from his sister, who had recently married under considerably fraught circumstances. Robert felt a guilty pang as he recalled that he had done his best to obstruct his sister's engagement, though it had been a love match. His opinions now were so radically different that he felt like a completely different man to the reckless fellow who had challenged young William Marsden to a duel.
It was all thanks to Cecily. In a short space of time, she had already managed to smooth out the rougher edges of Robert's personality. He found now that his taste for danger had diminished, replaced with a yearning to become – of all things – a good husband. A loving father to their future children. A credit to his family name, not the freewheeling heir.
He could only hope that Hart's plan to spring him from their father's trap would not do too much damage to his newfound sense of responsibility.
Robert was almost thrown from his seat as the carriage juddered to a halt. "Another pothole?" he called to the driver. "Or is it mud this time?"
He shrugged off his jacket and began rolling up his shirt sleeves, preparing to help the men lift the carriage from where it had stuck.
"Don't come out, my lord!" called the driver's desperate voice. "Highwaymen!"
"Highwaymen?" Robert repeated, astonished. He had heard reports of the dangers befalling travellers on the southern road, of course, but he was not the type ever to anticipate difficulties himself. "Hang that!"
He kicked open the carriage door and stuck his head out into the open.
A tall man with his face covered by a handkerchief sat atop a horse in the middle of the road. Robert looked behind him, and found two other men similarly masked trotting up towards the carriage. All three had their guns aimed steadily at his footmen.
How he wished for a pistol! He'd soon show them the error of their ways!
"We are not after your lives or your money," said the first man, his voice oddly muffled. "It is your cargo we seek."
"Cargo?" the driver repeated. "Sirs, we have none!"
"Him," said the highwaymen, jerking his pistol in Robert's direction. "It's him we want. The Earl of Scarcliffe."
Robert narrowed his eyes. The man was speaking in a low growl, but something about his voice was strangely familiar.
"I will die before I let you take his lordship!" cried the driver. The highwayman, unmoved, clicked back the hammer of his pistol.
"This is your first warning."
"Put your guns up!" Robert cried, jumping from the carriage. "I'll come peacefully."
"My lord," gasped a footman, "we cannot allow you –"
"Nonsense, man, nonsense! I will not have you risk your lives for me." Robert walked up to the highwayman, allowing himself a slight swagger for the footmen's benefit. "I'm sure these gentlemen are only after a little ransom, which my father can easily pay. Isn't that right, sir?"
Now that Robert was standing beside his horse's head, the Duke of Beaumont's neat black eyebrows were unmistakable. He raised one in elegant commentary on Robert's display of heroism.
"Precisely so," Beaumont said, his clipped Duke's accent beginning to show through his assumed voice. "Now, up onto my horse with you, and we'll be away."
Robert swung up behind his friend gladly, giving the footmen a wave as Beaumont guided the horse past the carriage to join Hart and Northmere at the back.
"Now then!" Beaumont called out theatrically. "To our secret lair!"
The four men rode off swiftly back in the direction of Loxwell Park and Scarcliffe Hall, as the driver struggled to turn the carriage around behind them.
Once the carriage had been swallowed by darkness, Beaumont tore the handkerchief from his face with a whoop of triumph. "I say! I made a fine rogue, don't you think?"
"You were terrifying," laughed Robert. "Though I wish you'd thought to bring me a horse."
"That would have given the game away entirely," said Hart, waving his own handkerchief in the air as he galloped along beside them. Robert had rarely seen his brother in spirits as high as these. His heart was eased by the sight. "What would a gang of opportunistic bandits be doing with a spare horse? No, we thought everything out exactly. You may congratulate us on our cleverness and daring."
"Congratulate me," interrupted Northmere. "The first idea was mine."
"The three of you are the finest set of rogues in England," said Robert obligingly. "Though I would be very much obliged to know where it is you are taking me."
"I'm afraid our scheme did not extend so far as to setting up a true secret hideout in the tradition of Robin Hood," said Northmere. "We are taking you to Loxton, where we will put you up in the inn, and there you will stay until the news of your kidnapping has driven your father to see the error of his ways. He will not catch wind of you if you are staying on Loxwell land."
"I will be waiting for quite some time, then," Robert mused. "Steady there, Beaumont. The road is not fit for riding at this speed."
"Ha! My horse can leap any pothole," scoffed Beaumont.
"Even in the dark?"
"Do not think father will happily abandon you," said Hart, drawing closer as the horses slowed. "You are his heir. He will not take the loss of you lightly. He loves you, Robert, though he does not always know how to show it."
"When did you develop such faith?" asked Robert, amazed. "It is not like you."
Hart shrugged. "I find there is little in the world to trust in. I lay my faith where I can. If not in family, where else?"
"Halt!" cried a hoarse voice. Beaumont's horse reared up as a masked man leapt out into the road ahead of it and made a grab for the reins.
More men poured out of the forest. Each of them had blackened their hair and faces with coal, and wore a mask covering his whole face save for the eyes.
"What's this?" asked Robert, struggling to keep his seat atop the frightened horse. "More of your scheming, Beaumont?"
"This is not our doing," said Beaumont.
The first man drew out a pistol and aimed it at Hart's head. "Your money or your life," he said grimly. "And those horses. We'll have those, too."
Robert snatched up the pistol at Beaumont's belt and fired a warning shot into the dust at the highwayman's feet. "Lower your weapon!" he roared. "Or the next one will catch you in the skull." He brandished the gun to show that it was a double-barrelled flintlock, with one shot yet remaining.
"Scarcliffe, don't be a fool," hissed Beaumont. The highwayman backed away cautiously, maintaining his aim at Hart.
"Lower it," Robert gritted out. From the corner of his eye, he saw the other highwaymen produce their own weapons. "And not a move from any one of you! I am Robert Hartley, Earl of Scarcliffe, and I swear on the stones of Scarcliffe Hall that I will put this bullet between your eyes!"
"It is him!" one of the highwaymen muttered. Robert was flattered by the rustle of consternation that went through them. The man aiming at Hart took another step back.
"No harm done, my lord," he said nervously, and pointed his pistol at the sky. "No harm."
"Lower all your weapons," Robert demanded. "Fling them to the ground."
There was a series of satisfying thuds as the guns hit the road.
"Now, into the forest with you," Robert ordered. "Slowly, now. Hands in the air."
The men began to make their retreat. Beaumont had full control of the horse now, and turned it expertly to allow Robert to keep his gun trained on their leader.
The situation looked set to resolve itself as suddenly at it had begun when the leader of the highwaymen, walking slowly backwards, slipped on a twig and fell onto his back with a great cry of shock.
"No!" shouted one of his companions – the youngest and slightest of them all – who ran forwards, took up his pistol, and fired wildly into the air. "I'll kill you if you've hurt him!"
The night descended into a chaos of trampling horses, running men, and gunshots. Robert had Beaumont's quick instincts to thank for the mighty leap their horse took, over the ditch at the side of the road. Robert flung himself quickly into the ditch, Beaumont following.
"Hang it all, Scarcliffe," the Duke complained. "I wish you hadn't taken my only pistol."
"What kind of make-believe highwayman leaves home with only one weapon?" Robert growled, taking aim at one of the men who was wrestling with Hart's horse. Northmere had taken shelter behind a fallen tree on the other side of the road. "Come on, Hart!" Robert called. "Move! Get off the road!"
Hart was keeping his seat with his usual careless slouch. At a time like this, his attitude was more than infuriating. He lurched awkwardly from one side to the other as his horse tried to twist its bridle from the highwayman's grip.
"Hart!" Robert shouted. "This is no time to –"
The motion of the horse turned Hart's body towards Robert just in time to let him see the blood spreading on his shirt as Hart slid bonelessly from his horse's back.
He hit the ground in a splatter of mud and flailing limbs, and lay still.