Chapter 2
London
St. James’ Park
The Trees, Eleven pm
Some Years Later
Nothing was ever going to go bloody right again. Never. Ever. And Robert was damned well done with it. If he could, he’d take a leaf of his older brother and his father’s book and shuffle off his mortal coil. But dying did not add to the family funds. Oh, no. It decreased it. By leaps. By bounds. And by multitudes of creditors coming along to throw you, your mother, your sister and just about everyone you knew in the Fleet.
Plus there was the charming manner in which the debt collectors stole your chair right out from under you. Literally. He could still see his mother’s face, as Fortnum, Fortnum, and Brown had removed her delicate china chair out from underneath her delicately proportioned bottom.
It had not been a pleasant sight.
Thusly, he had taken it upon himself to get back his mother’s favorite chair, his sister’s hair ribbons and take care of the rather annoying necessity of eating. Which was why he was sitting on an ancient black gelding. In the dark. Just off of St. James’ Park waiting for a plump pigeon of a lord to carelessly wander through on a night home from the gaming houses.
But even as he grasped the worn leather reins of Sir Valiant, a rather inappropriate name for the old glue pot, Robert couldn’t quite fight the damned feeling that he was losing the battle. Worse, he had the sinking feeling he was losing the war.
Highway robbery did not pay quite as well as it should.
Even so, Robert’s ears perked as the golden sound of coach wheels creaked through the night. He blew out a breath and, despite it being the middle of the Season, he saw faint, white wisps in the chill night air.
In the distance, the faint outline of the coach lumbered down the dirt path that carved its way from the southerly areas of London and into the district of wealth. The west.
Hell, even he lived off of St. James’ Park. Though the house was an empty shell now, it was the Blackstone London ducal home and had been since before the glory days of Good Queen Bess. And he was damned well going to keep it even if it meant chipping the gold plate off his next victim’s coach windows.
Robert pulled his rapier from his sheath, finding that the once exciting edge to this nightly raiding had faded much like his mother’s gowns. Once, he’d used his sword to honor his king. Now, he used it to cut the purse strings of wealthy merchants and his own fellow peers. How the mighty fell. His mighty father was no doubt rolling in the family crypt. Then again, it was the old sot’s fault he was here to begin with.
His father had never really been mighty. But he had been a duke and that had been enough to give him an overinflated sense of superiority. And a belief that there would be no consequences for the way he had thrown coin at life as if it would never end. End it had.
At last, the coach rumbled into the open grass field of the park which was surrounded bowl-like by copses of ancient oaks and weeping willows. Silently, he prayed the purse would be large enough to give him a few nights’ respite. After all, he was supposed to take Emmaline to her first court ball this week, something that was rather difficult to do in a mask and cloak.
Her court dress, train, and ostrich feathers had taken three nights work to obtain.
Gently, Robert urged Sir Valiant into a gallop and as the earth raced beneath the horse’s hooves, Robert held his rapier high, threw his reins to the side, and whipped his pistol from his belt. “Stand and deliver!” he shouted as he jumped from his steed’s back.
He hit the ground running and the solid, grass-covered earth sent shockwaves up his thighs. Despite the repetitiveness of this task, he felt his blood warming in anticipation. A robbery was never a sure thing.
The coachman jerked the reins and the great horses whinnied as their heads were pulled back. They quickly stomped to a halt and the driver gaped down at Robert, his pale face papery white in the moonlight. Robert arched a brow at the old man. Good God, the old bugger looked on the verge of a heart attack. He lifted his pistol to his feathered hat in salute. “I’m here for your master’s effects, good man, not for you.”
The old man nodded, his toothless mouth dropping open as Robert strode to the gilded coach door. A coachman’s wages weren’t worth bravado, something Robert had come to rely upon.
He twisted the gold handle then whipped the heavy lacquered door open. Amber lantern light spilled out into the darkness, bathing his black boots and breeches in yellow light.
“Please descend, for I require your presence,” he said grandly. It was best to keep his victims on their feet. In his experience, people actually liked a gentleman robber.
A black-gloved hand emerged through the coach door. It was delicate, and the pale skin of the wrist was exposed. “I should be glad to descend with your assistance.” The sultry voice rippled out from the coach and Robert fought back a sigh.
God’s teeth. Women were the worst. They had such a sense of drama and their lives were so often boring and repressed that his presence was welcome rather than upsetting. “Certainly, madam, if you can assure me you don’t have a gentleman friend inside waiting to shoot me dead.”
She leaned into the doorway, her painted red lips and coiled, blonde hair striking in the moonlight. But from a single glance, it was clear she was as jaded as he by the vagaries of life, a widow, dressed from head to toe in black, and she was looking for a bit of sport. Something to alleviate her rather dull existence, no doubt.
He couldn’t blame her. Women had few recourses to true entertainment. . . unless they were independently wealthy and willing to not give a fig for the opinions of society.
She arched a delicate brow at him and brought her hand to her ample breasts to emphasize her innocence. “Sir! Do you question my honor?”
Robert holstered his pistol, but kept his grip on his rapier. Honor? He doubted she even recalled the meaning of the word. He held his hand out to her because, despite the obvious desire in the woman’s voice, he, too, felt desire.
Desire for the diamond earbobs dangling from her fetching ears. “Madam, I should never accuse a lady and you are, no doubt, nothing but.”
She bit her lower lip and took his gloved hand, letting him guide her down the coach step and into the field. “It would take the most severe temptation to lead me astray,” she breathed.
Robert fought a snort. Good God. Had she actually uttered such pure drivel? “I would never be so cruel as to tempt you, though you have that which tempts me,” he replied, coolly and just low enough to give her a hint of danger. Which was exactly what she wanted. They both obviously had read too many bad novels.
But really, what matter? If he kept her distracted with such constructed romanticisms, she wouldn’t put up a fuss when he took her jewels.
She drew in a deep breath, which pushed her corseted breasts together. Displaying what she obviously felt to be the source of his temptation. Ah, widows. One couldn’t live with them and one couldn’t live without them. They were the joy of every young buck and his personal problem.
Robert leaned in slowly and she tilted her chin up, obviously expecting him to kiss her.
“Madam you have beauty which maddens my soul,” he whispered, the rehearsed words tripping from his tongue with ease. If it made her happy, where was the harm? There was far too little happiness in this world in his opinion.
He placed his hand gently on her slight shoulder, caressing her skin through the fabric of her black silk gown. “I think I must claim a token from our meeting. Hmm?”
Trailing his leather-gloved fingers up to her neck, he softly caressed the beating pulse beneath her smooth skin then traced his way up to her ear. He caressed the soft lobe and she moaned. Robert looked down into her brown, lusty eyes as he slipped the giant, sparkling earbob free.
“Sir!” She glanced up at him through half-closed lids. “You claim what is not yours.” Belying the outrage of her words, she opened her mouth ever so slightly, clearly inviting his kiss.
He leaned down, till his mouth was a mere inch from hers. Her breath smelled of port and, bizarrely, tobacco. Personally, he loathed the latest import from the colonies, but London seemed to love it. Robert curled his fingers around a few of her soft, blonde tendrils. “Then gift me your treasure and I shall not have to take.” Lord, he could go on like this for hours. He did love deliciously outrageous novels and plays. Life was terribly grey without them.
“No, I shan’t give in,” she breathed, obviously enjoying this outplay of what must have been one of her fantasies.
From what he understood, his highwayman played center to many a ladies’ fantasies given his frequent occurrence in the gossip sheets.
But in no way was he interested in playing her dark knight. “Alas, I must insist, for my presence is needed elsewhere.”
“Indeed?” she murmured as she trailed her hand over his black, breeches-covered hip. “But I need your presence, right here.”
Robert’s eyes flared and he nearly yelped at she reached for his person. Being young and male, his body performed the utmost betrayal, responding to her dramatic but experienced touch. But he had no intention of that infringing on his hasty getaway.
She smiled, her lips curling in a sultry grin and she traced her hand down towards his southerlies with surprising skill. Leaning in towards him, she whispered, “I must have you.”
Quickly pocketing the one earring, he stepped back. “We must all learn to live with deprivation,” he said as he reached for her other earring.
She let go but purred, “Ah, but surely a soul such as yours longs to give in to pleasure. Surely, this is the treasure you seek.”
Fantastic, he’d found a determined one tonight. Who was doing the pillaging? He wanted to know. He rather admired her boldness. But it wasn’t at all what he required at present. But then, hadn’t he known things were never going to go his way again? Robert took a step back, lifting his hands, feeling a bit like a bear tamer down at the pits.
She reached for the hem of her skirt and Robert rolled his eyes.
“Madam, I must admit that I have seen such treasures befo—” The words died on his lips as a pair of diamond and emerald garters winked in the moonlight. He opened and closed his mouth. “Mine eyes hath seen the glory.”
She arched a blonde brow, daring him.
And he was more than willing for this challenge.
“Ah,” he sighed. “I have never seen such beauties in my life.” The sincerity in his voice surprised even him, and sent a shiver of pleasure through the lusty young widow. But such jewels would buy his sister another new gown for the Season, and it would fend off the creditors a few days. Clearing his throat, he plunged the tip of his rapier into the soft earth and got down on his knees. It was, after all, what she desired. And given what he was about to get, a little indulgence for the wicked widow was not so very appalling.
He cupped her silk-covered calves then slowly, but firmly caressed her, moving upward, brushing the back of her knees, then stopping just beneath the garters. She gasped, her head dropping back. But that was as far as he was willing to go. Even he wasn’t quite willing to swipe a stranger in a field. And the risk wasn’t worth the temporary glory.
Lord alone knew what gifts she might be giving to her lovers, if she was willing to have a go at it in St. James’ Park with a complete stranger.
And he did not wish to add the pox to his delightful mix of troubles. He’d seen the way that went.
He untied each garter, putting them into his pockets then stood. He tugged her skirts back into place then tipped his tri-corn in a small bow. The red and black feathers shook, brushing his jaw.
“But you can’t be leaving,” she declared, her lush lips tightening in petulance.
“I can and I am, fair lady.”
Her eyes flashed with passion and her palm cracked across his cheek. “You insolent blackguard,” she huffed. “To sully a lady’s honor.”
Robert bowed. She certainly had a flair for drama, he’d give her that. He laid his hand against his chest, as if deeply sorrowful for his slight. “Quite, madam. I am a rogue among rogues, etcetera and so on. You have my apologies.”
Robert quickly turned on his booted heel, giving her his back, and strode towards Sir Valiant. Mounting up, he gave the lady one last salute. No doubt, she’d dine on this experience for weeks, trotting out her adventure whenever the conversation dulled.
Much to Robert’s annoyance, instead of angry hauteur, she stood with a dreamy lust tilting her lips and darkening her eyes.
Fantastic. Bloody fantastic. Why had his robberies all begun to unfold like the events in a trying theatrical as of late? Couldn’t the ladies just hand over the jewels without wanting a romp in return? A man could only take so much.
Then Robert blew her a bored kiss before he raced off back into the darkness. What the hell? He had an image to maintain.
Dearest Readers
It is the opinion of this author that if one has to be stopped by a highwayman then the only highwayman to be stopped by is The Gentleman Highwayman. The ladies sing his praises for his gallantry, stature, and turn of leg. The lords say while he is forceful and impudent, he is most respectful of a person’s safety. And it can be reported that said highwayman has once again collected spoils from an unsuspecting victim. The widow, Lady Rebecca Ridley, told her story most passionately to the authorities, what authorities there are, and gave interviews to no fewer than three papers, she was in such a state of distress. I do not think we have seen the last of this fellow. But, dear reader, surely it will all end in the long road up to judgement for this charming rogue